tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-192482902024-03-07T22:37:01.261-05:00Linguini on the CeilingSisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.comBlogger664125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-68262012031326189052022-12-30T11:32:00.000-05:002022-12-30T11:32:29.032-05:00Everything Old is ... still old<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I used to
love going to antique malls.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I still
go, but I used to enjoy it a lot more than I do now. I love the feeling of
being surrounded by old timey things my mother or grandmother used to use. They
bring up memories of my childhood, all warm, fuzzy, and campy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There is
nothing like a huge dose of nostalgia to make you shell out 20 bucks for a tiny
bowl because your grandmother used to serve you pudding in it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I chuckle
when I see some cheap old toy I’d bought for myself at the dime store back in
1965, now priced in the double digits.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“And my
mother said I wasted my allowance on a piece of crap,” I scoff. “Look at the
cash I’d have made if it hadn’t gotten thrown out.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Your
average antique mall hits the sweet spot between the delicate fine art pieces
at Christie’s Auction and the calcified florist vases at Goodwill. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Need to replace
the Barbie head that your brother popped off and stuck in the oven? Somewhere
in the antique mall is a booth displaying an array of disembodied Barbie doll
heads and no one is creeped out by it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Back in
the day, antique malls played music from the 30s and 40s as I rifled through
lace dresser scarves and orange reamers. Did I want to relive imprinting
homemade gnocchi on a version of my Aunt Marie’s milk glass vase or did I want
to serve martinis from a gilt-edged cocktail set at my next dinner party…which
would also be my first dinner party?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Antique malls
gave me the ability to visit that sanitized, glorified, fictionalized version
of the past that makes people binge the Turner Classic Movie channel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But something
must have happened during the pandemic. When did MY stuff become the antiques?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And why
are they playing Kenny Loggins? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How am I
supposed to feel a sense of nostalgia when there are entire booths of what I
already have in my kitchen? Corning Ware is not an antique; it’s what I make
baked ziti in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All the
useless junk I passed up at those home parties where you’re supposed to prove
your friendship to the host by purchasing wall sconces or an apple peeler –
they’re all there. In this I feel somewhat affirmed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There was
an entire booth dedicated to kitchen décor, specifically farm animals and green
checks. That was a thing for about five years when my kids were little. Someone
would have green-checked goose cannisters, someone else, green-checked chicken
cannisters.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was
feeling superior, having not succumbed to trendy fashion. I put it all in
plastic and that never goes out of…<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">…then I
found the Tupperware booth. Honestly – if you ever want to know how long a
couple has been married, check out the color of their Tupperware.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My last
refuge was textiles. I love to rifle through old clothing, even though I’ve
never gotten up the nerve to wear any of it in public. It takes a certain
amount of chutzpah to pull off a vintage look.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Look, Diane.
Remember wearing these!” one lady exclaimed, pulling an item off the rack.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oh my
god, yes,” her friend answered. “Can you believe we went out in public wearing
that?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They
screamed with laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I hurried
to the door. Thank goodness I was wearing a coat.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-69038025790935279962021-07-31T18:23:00.004-04:002021-07-31T18:24:47.441-04:00A Linguistic Rant<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQoDEh3_qx9uE96uwxtjc8M60MaUVatMZwogDMrXWwKTPqGHmW5Yh9u7mVcrToBxdU8lEep-bJxf01xPv5Qaauhg7_T-86HgNTYVP2OEUJdP4jdO048qjhyOfd39p_61KYPzn/s1000/Anyways+%25281%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQoDEh3_qx9uE96uwxtjc8M60MaUVatMZwogDMrXWwKTPqGHmW5Yh9u7mVcrToBxdU8lEep-bJxf01xPv5Qaauhg7_T-86HgNTYVP2OEUJdP4jdO048qjhyOfd39p_61KYPzn/s320/Anyways+%25281%2529.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">You know those grammatical errors that are like chalk on a black board?</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Having typed that sentence, I realize that people younger than me don't know about chalk on a black board. Even</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">I don't technically know about black boards, because in my day, chalk boards were green. But they still made the same screeching, teeth gritting sound if you rubbed the chalk on them just the wrong way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As out-dated as that previous paragraph may be, I'm told that common grammatical errors, particularly those made while speaking, are now accepted as part of the lexicon. So, risking being called "outdated" (I'm 64 -- that ship has sailed), I insist on being the gatekeeper of the lexicon in certain circumstances.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Honestly, in normal conversation, I might use the occasional "ain't" when phrasing something colloquially. And goodness knows, the one contribution for which I thank the south is the phrase "y'all." Growing up in New Jersey, we had "yous" or "you(s) guys," but that just advanced the assumption that everyone in New Jersey is in the mafia.*</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Breaking it down to "you all" sounds stuffy; but "y'all" -- perfect. Unless you go too far and insist on "All ya all" -- that's just over playing the down-homey trope.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So you see, I'm not a grammar purist.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">However, if you are presenting yourself as a professional, at least acknowledge that the words with which you insist on assaulting my brain are <strike>wrong</strike> slang.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Keeping all the above in mind, I'm asking everyone to Stop. Using. The. Word. ANYWAYS.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Stop it. Now. There is no such word.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's "anyway." Anyway. Why is this so hard?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'll concede this: I listen to a lot of podcasts. You don't exactly have to be vetted in professional broadcasting to do a podcast. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Doesn't matter. "Anyways" has infiltrated the slickest podcasts; it comes out of the mouth of people who should know better. You may as well utter the phrase, "I seen..." (I almost didn't refer to that most horrible of phrases. I know how hard it is to control the gag reflex when you hear it.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There is even a larger problem here, though; and I shudder to mention it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As alarming as it is to hear the word "anyways" used by a proficient announcer, there is this even more alarming evidence of the destruction of lingual integrity: an editor allowed the word in a book.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Before you defend this atrocity, I'm well aware that prose written from the viewpoint of a certain character will be written in said character's voice.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That wasn't the case. This was third person omniscient -- meaning, told by THE GUY WHO SHOULD KNOW THERE IS NO SUCH WORD AS "ANYWAYS."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm not going to reveal the book because, other than this abomination, it's a wonderful book. In the moment I viewed That Word, however, the book made a flying trip several feet across my bed, upsetting dog and cats and causing a brief "hmph" from Chuck (the same reaction he'd elicit were I being knifed to death two feet away).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, stand with me, America! Let's not allow "anyways" to become an accepted part of our language! They've apparently dispensed with the whole "never end a sentence with a preposition" rule. I have seen sentences -- nay -- <i>paragraphs</i> -- beginning with "because" or "but" in respected publications.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Do not allow this word "anyways" to further erode the integrity of our linguistic foundation! Hold your fellow humans accountable for the utterance of this outrage! Stand with me and refuse to acknowledge the acceptance of this degradation of grammatically correct usage</span><span style="font-size: large;">!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I feel so much better -- I know this is something that will unite us all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Today, "anyways;" tomorrow, vaccinations!"</span></p><p>*This is not true, by the way. Very few New Jersey Italians are or were in the Mafia. Most of us are just working slobs like everyone else, only we cook better. That being said, after a lifetime of she and my father constantly plucking us out of the brink of poverty, my mother quipped that she should have caved to the stereotype by "just signing up" with the Mafia -- as though she was going to join the fire department's ladies auxiliary. </p><p><br /></p>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-81625250340107603452021-07-22T17:13:00.002-04:002021-07-22T17:16:08.855-04:00A Post for Readers Only<p><span style="font-size: medium;">This is a post about books. More specifically, this is a post about reading. The two do not necessarily go together.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, if you just like books, but don't like to read: Come back another time; I often make literary references and like movies too, so that may appeal to your particular aesthetic.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If you like neither books nor reading, you fall into one of two categories: You are my brother Art and someone in the family guilted you into reading this; Or you felt, since you made it out of high school, there was no need to read anything further than video game reviews; in which case...what are you even doing here?</span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyELwwuwBO8QTecBCdCsApY4uZ0W4iSYj3UxQDA7foqKHHfZxfiSbXD4AwPD5-AmObS6fPUvbpAYbAcy7cz5lbZQL3nxHTVakpPq5jSh_CDk2L9_fN5ZpIftDRVN10BzNWuOLA/s640/IMG_3389.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyELwwuwBO8QTecBCdCsApY4uZ0W4iSYj3UxQDA7foqKHHfZxfiSbXD4AwPD5-AmObS6fPUvbpAYbAcy7cz5lbZQL3nxHTVakpPq5jSh_CDk2L9_fN5ZpIftDRVN10BzNWuOLA/w320-h214/IMG_3389.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Even Gulliver has his doubts</span></i></b></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm told everyone has their version of a literary Waterloo -- the book everyone -- <i>everyone</i> -- loved, said was brilliant, won awards, etc. -- that you could not get through*.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My literary Waterloo is <i>100 Years of Solitude</i>.</span></p><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;">This book is also a landmark in my life. Prior to attempting to get through it, I was adamant about reading one book at a time. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Many people have several books percolating at one time, but not me. I gave each book the respect of my full attention. I'd finish it -- pause at least an hour to mull its impact -- and then.,.only then...begin my new <strike>relationship</strike> reading matter.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And then I encountered<i><br /><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_Hundred_Years_of_Solitude">100 Years of Solitude</a></i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The fact that the first page of the book is a genealogy chart should have prepared me. All the names were similar. I might insert here that I later found out that this WAS DELIBERATE.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_VBDwvmb_8YbOJzm9Paren0xd5OG0cV6yxZrgfrQiYxtbnf0GOxyZ2bRn4h2j5uZtrEQhsY5EV6ceL7lqQ_-zdFIh2ILFVrlfk0D9s5GeLfGZo9ms3oU_bO_jWFd8Wdalxc6j/s640/IMG_3391.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_VBDwvmb_8YbOJzm9Paren0xd5OG0cV6yxZrgfrQiYxtbnf0GOxyZ2bRn4h2j5uZtrEQhsY5EV6ceL7lqQ_-zdFIh2ILFVrlfk0D9s5GeLfGZo9ms3oU_bO_jWFd8Wdalxc6j/s320/IMG_3391.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What kind of psychopath author tells you on the first page, "This is going to get really confusing and I did that on purpose...<i>because I hate you?</i>" This was an abusive relationship, plain and simple.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Okay. Perhaps I'm projecting a bit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The fact is, I began <i>100 Years of Solitude </i>with the idea that I wouldn't begin another book until I finished it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Months went by as I hacked my way through the South American jungle; at least I think I did. I say it took me months, but actual reading time was minimal. I'd look at the book, consider the book, contemplate what I'd read of the book, realize I was going to have to reread what I'd already read of the book because I'd fallen asleep, and then turn on the TV.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, other enticing books crossed my path, but I had to wave them along. After all, I'd read that everyone else loved it and it won a Pulitzer, for god's sake. Oprah loved it, so surely the problem was with me. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I fought on, during which the only thing I remember, having completed over half the book, was an unnaturally-old man chained to a tree in a yard.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I know, I know: Blah, blah, blah, <a href="https://bookriot.com/recent-magical-realism-novels/?fbclid=IwAR199X4FkVfWQoXilIFm_5NfO4GtRsMQxWWWtG195moyxbhnu252xmFkq0c" target="_blank">magical realism</a>*, blah, blah, blah, hyperbole, blah, blah, blah, metaphor. <i>Like Water for Chocolate</i> didn't torture me like this.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I got all that literary jargon. It's just that...I had to admit: it made me hate reading. And, to me, reading is like breathing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So I shelved it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That's right. For the past five years, I've been cheating on <i>100 Years of Solitude.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Only now I no longer practice literary monogomy. Oh no --I've opened my reading experience to include multiple relationships all at once. There is my nighttime while-the-lights-are-on book; my Kindle book for when I'm awake in the middle of the night; my audiobook for the commute to work; my audiobook for my commute from work; my weekend binge book; and my non-fiction required reading over breakfast book.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This is what <i>100 Years of Solitude </i>has done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It reminds me of the first time I read William Faulkner. It was incomprehensible to me, but for whatever reason I kept at it. I hated it and loved it at the same time. I fought with it and called myself stupid. I almost gave up and, in fact, stopped reading completely for awhile, figuring my future was in something like banking or dog grooming instead of anything requiring words.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And then, Benjy Compson started calling, "Caddy! Caddy!" in my head and I had to go back. And Benjy led me to the maze and beauty of the rest of the prose. Faulkner is never going to be an "easy read;" but eventually, the words begin to take on a rhythm. I found myself talking to myself in Faulknerian. It was worth every backtrack and rereading it took to complete <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sound_and_the_Fury">The Sound and the Fury</a>.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So I joined the ranks of the few who absolutely love William Faulkner's work. And that's how my youngest son wound up with a middle name he hates.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I've been in a between-World-Wars books kind of mood lately, but suddenly that old man chained to the tree started calling me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Quitter!" he taunts; and then the <i>coup de gras</i>: "Lazy reader!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ouch.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And so I'm heading back to South America, armed only with a printout of the genealogy chart.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But, just between you and me, I'm seeing <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stella_Gibbons">Stella Gibbons</a> on the side.</span></p><p>*James Joyce's <i>Ulysses</i> is not in this category because no human being enjoys reading it. There are entities who claim to adore it, form clubs around it, quote it excessively, and extol its brilliance to whomever will listen. But these are not humans. They are aliens, as is Joyce. Jung diagnosed Joyce as being a schizophrenic only because the idea of an alien was...ahem...alien to him. Ahem. </p><p><br /></p></div>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-48113643288808615182021-07-20T21:40:00.008-04:002021-07-20T21:56:05.899-04:00They Said, "Yes!"<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm not the sentimental type. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">To me The Hallmark Channel is just lazy storytelling set to forgettable music with wardrobe out of Coldwater Creek or L.L. Bean, depending on the time of year.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">You will not find a single romance novel on my shelves or in my Kindle; in fact, if the phrase "smile that made his eyes crinkle" shows up within the first 15 pages, I will physically throw the book away. EYES DON'T FREAKIN' CRINKLE, BRENDA! If they're crinkling, you need to get the dude to an ER, not "feel my heart skip a beat."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The fact is, I've grown into a rather cynical old broad and, quite frankly, after a year of being an "essential employee" (not essential like healthcare professionals, but essential like the pizza delivery guy -- both essential, but one gets praised in Facebook memes and the other gets coughed on by anti-vaxers), I've become downright bitter.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I think the pandemic took the perkiness out of the sunniest dispositions. But, honestly, you only have to spend a few minutes scrolling social media to know the world is filled with discontentment and skepticism.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then this weekend, this happened:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAhfdRIPnsHJFnxqKrlah_E6HAQm2uRZe0s22jcKGyoVPSzAGdoJPOumbnj6IMoXKtK1FR_LU8C_msbpGOM1ainPx67_vSbaEvUQaaacqNLc2XmPljgCcjCBfA_aHjL_V7-aBk/s360/215655287_1158152381627205_5738451389853703597_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAhfdRIPnsHJFnxqKrlah_E6HAQm2uRZe0s22jcKGyoVPSzAGdoJPOumbnj6IMoXKtK1FR_LU8C_msbpGOM1ainPx67_vSbaEvUQaaacqNLc2XmPljgCcjCBfA_aHjL_V7-aBk/s320/215655287_1158152381627205_5738451389853703597_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That's my son Charley getting down on one knee and proposing marriage to Sarah at <a href="https://longwoodgardens.org/">Longwood Gardens</a>.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I might add that I was not there. I did know he'd planned it, but I didn't know when.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSApjRTPXzhQuY-63VEclx9qBkNer6kw9a99NbEmuGIM3JgJSCYvkRaQFZ6p2klX8z38PUggdiAFOH8yTL8duzdjautaNI6t6tkVeOGPrz0Nq8x5dkiRh6Eqpq4qIp1353bGpc/s640/IMG_3366.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSApjRTPXzhQuY-63VEclx9qBkNer6kw9a99NbEmuGIM3JgJSCYvkRaQFZ6p2klX8z38PUggdiAFOH8yTL8duzdjautaNI6t6tkVeOGPrz0Nq8x5dkiRh6Eqpq4qIp1353bGpc/w200-h200/IMG_3366.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">John and me (ca. 1972)<br /><br /></span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">When he told me his plans, I was nostalgically touched; for generations Longwood Gardens has been our place to visit, no matter where we lived. There are photos of my family at the garden dating back over half a century. If there is anything such as "ancestral lands" for my family, Longwood would be it. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was envious. When I was 12, I decided I was going to own Longwood Gardens. Not only was I going to own Longwood Gardens, but there was going to be a guy who was damn well going to propose to me there and I was going to make sure he knew where it should happen and how I wanted it done.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Turns out Longwood wasn't for sale so there went that plan.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9CeLPSTTP954zWJbOQ68hVXT0kvJHgH_wn4FUq-7VNN-yaMcjIaSONKTXq9JtM_XmZcgUfot_bR753iVTtkhX5TzpVZPgmEOBrUPLh2dRVdEMc5a5Pc3PSlFZ5RauOEGq3Ey/s2048/The+Gazebo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1463" data-original-width="2048" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9CeLPSTTP954zWJbOQ68hVXT0kvJHgH_wn4FUq-7VNN-yaMcjIaSONKTXq9JtM_XmZcgUfot_bR753iVTtkhX5TzpVZPgmEOBrUPLh2dRVdEMc5a5Pc3PSlFZ5RauOEGq3Ey/w200-h143/The+Gazebo.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Gazebo where -- admit it<br /> -- if you went to Longwood,<br />you were adamant <a href="https://www.chicagonow.com/go-do-good/2020/05/why-rolf-in-the-sound-of-music-made-such-an-impression/">that jerk Rolf</a><br />was going to dance with you in.</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have to admit, I shuddered for Charley when he told me his plans. Longwood is so crowded in the summer. I envisioned him trying to get the proposal out as a six-year-old streaks by and some old lady wanders cluelessly between them. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I also know that, while this seemed like the biggest event now, there are so many landmark moments before him, a bungled proposal would become no more than an amusing anecdote around the after dinner table for the two of them. But, still -- a mother worries.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Charley called me the Sunday evening after he proposed and said he was sending pictures.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I asked if he had thought to bring a friend along to document the moment.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"This proposal is well documented," he assured me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The photo above -- taken by a bystander. The documentation Charley spoke of was all from complete strangers.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Wait.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That's right. Complete strangers stopped to watch and document an occasion that occurs every day, millions of times, over and over, since forever. These angry, divided, disheartened humans stopped their personal experience of the day to watch two people they didn't even know, decide to commit to each other.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Seriously -- was no one going to shout out, "Just trying to pay less taxes by filing jointly" or "Marriage is a device of the patriarchy?"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nope.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For a moment...for just that moment...life was the simplest thing in the world: two people in love taking their first scary, shaky steps together into their future.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And for a moment...for just that moment...an entire conservatory full of disparate individuals came together, dropped their jaundiced view of the world, and recognized the purity and poignancy of the moment.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A couple couldn't ask for a greater mitzvah, if I may respectfully borrow a term.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That was enough to make this bitter old lady do something she's never done in her entire life -- I happy cried.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And I couldn't stop. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I see the photos and I start right back up again. Especially when I remember that the guy in this photo:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfnQJNxuVvfCXxV2hexULioFu5cDotxKnjDIOPvkAqIvbGqh3or4dGwRAqnorKuFRr9i_g2t1sJNFzl-fb0tYa3ReBgWBWZPZmtNbkzlA-udQGxHq9KZM-y9GcwY94fIhLy89F/s2048/217806563_252982829651886_1329698633770661457_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfnQJNxuVvfCXxV2hexULioFu5cDotxKnjDIOPvkAqIvbGqh3or4dGwRAqnorKuFRr9i_g2t1sJNFzl-fb0tYa3ReBgWBWZPZmtNbkzlA-udQGxHq9KZM-y9GcwY94fIhLy89F/s320/217806563_252982829651886_1329698633770661457_n.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Is the same boy in this photo:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJncQ1XWhaIUdrcL0GpDTyKdYQ4FsEUZboxL2Mo0F-EDLTo22CTZkZJEIYeh1-JWGK6tKP3Y9OlNowGLNn9Ksn83mkBhyphenhyphenfXWhFTIlVI7dgoU16olgtSsIwoivvxgpmA5jlQmPd/s888/Char+Phoebe+Bridgett+ca+2000.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="548" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJncQ1XWhaIUdrcL0GpDTyKdYQ4FsEUZboxL2Mo0F-EDLTo22CTZkZJEIYeh1-JWGK6tKP3Y9OlNowGLNn9Ksn83mkBhyphenhyphenfXWhFTIlVI7dgoU16olgtSsIwoivvxgpmA5jlQmPd/s320/Char+Phoebe+Bridgett+ca+2000.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">BUT I AM IN NO WAY SENTIMENTAL, do you hear me!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-72323440444659520252021-07-18T11:15:00.001-04:002021-07-18T11:16:46.735-04:00Floating in a tin can<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Why does Richard Branson taking a rocket jaunt into the fringes of space bug me?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s not like the millions spent for Branson’s 90-minute joyride was </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ever</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> going to be spent on anything but the billionaire version of a road trip. It was never going to heal the planet or save an African village from contaminated water.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, no -- I’m not disappointed that his money and the money burned away by the rest of “The Club” isn’t going toward more altruistic endeavors.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It certainly bothers me that it is possible for there to even <u>be</u> billionaires on this planet that is suffering on so many levels. But that’s not Branson’s or Gates’s or Bezos’s or Buffet’s problem; they just did whatever the<br /> system allowed. And, if they lobbied to have the ladder pulled up after them, it’s only with our blessing they did it.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I recognize that telling people what to do with their money is not only an infringement of their rights, but is downright rude. I can’t very well scold Charley on his collection of totally useless replicas of medieval armory; he’d only point to my growing collection of gnomes, blocks of clay, piles of fabric, containers of crystals...at which point I would remind him of the 124 hours of pain I endured giving him life and to just shut up about all that.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzFAdoLmx7pDVgzzSxRj2Tk5n9SSUPYznwAKcBwZIYGgzzOYIS65Kqfx6iZQuEJKjnKfcuHZ59HJxL5fkuYP3Ph_MZGFYfS1sKederjizqeENQfJCTyPuQFY0kqyyC2zAEm2G/s2048/070109+013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzFAdoLmx7pDVgzzSxRj2Tk5n9SSUPYznwAKcBwZIYGgzzOYIS65Kqfx6iZQuEJKjnKfcuHZ59HJxL5fkuYP3Ph_MZGFYfS1sKederjizqeENQfJCTyPuQFY0kqyyC2zAEm2G/s320/070109+013.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Meaning -- it’s a slippery slope to start inflicting guilt on people who are spending money they are convinced they worked for on something you aren’t personally interested in.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I can’t gig Bezos on planning to spend billions on his own joyride, using funds he chose to pocket instead of paying his employees a living wage or at least letting them go to the bathroom with dignity; when I, in fact, spent $58 at <a href="https://www.thredup.com/?link_name=TopNav_thredUP&utm_source=responsys&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=OB-TestTrack2-ContextualizedPromoReveal&t=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJ1c2VyX2lkIjo1MDEzMDYzMywiZXhwIjoxNjI4NDQ5NDAwfQ.B33R_Zz24YNcBGaxor9q8wpf-oRIG9h9b6ItNijTP0M" target="_blank">ThredUp</a> for two Talbot’s blazers*, using funds from my paycheck which, I have to admit, I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for my invaluable assistant Tina and my volunteers, who never get paid but are permitted unlimited use of the bathroom.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One man’s space flight is another woman’s wardrobe score. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, no -- I don’t think my annoyance has anything to do with the money spent on Branson’s flight.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s the reaction to his little stunt that annoys me most of all. The media fawning is starting to tick me off. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s not like this guy achieved something that hasn’t been achieved before; he only figured out a way to make it pay. The most obvious thing observers of his landing noticed was the great big Virgin Galactic logo emblazoned on the bottom of the ship.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Let’s not imbue this joyride with any noble purpose; it was a commercial, plain and simple.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So this whole adulation of a foray into space (more like the edge of space, but they got to experience weightlessness, so...weeeeeeee!) is hardly justified. This was an ad to mine the cash from other bored millionaires for whom nothing is enough anymore.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Branson’s crewmate and Virgin Galactic employee Sirisha Bandlha insisted that the trip was an advance for science: </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #555555; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><blockquote>"So on this last flight, if you look at some of the footage you see me messing with this tube, I'm actually performing a science experiment in space."</blockquote><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Messing with this tube.”</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This was a baffling new scientific term.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So -- I actually found the “science experiment” Bandlha referred to. It was NASA-funded and had to do with horticulture. Oh -- and NASA had already performed it before. They just wanted to know if a regular schmo could manage to...ahem...mess with a tube.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh. Okay. I get it. I’ve had to write grant proposals. (I’ll just leave this here for now.)</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So no one, not even NASA, calls this stunt the commercial that it was. The focus continues to be either on the waste of money or on the major strides humanity had taken. Either way, it worked to Branson’s ultimate purpose of exposure of his brand.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It reminds me of a bit comedian Robert Klein used to do shortly after the first moon walk.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He pointed out that Neil Armstrong could have been an instant millionaire if instead of the famous words he uttered, he just shouted “Coca Cola!”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> *Yes! Two Talbots blazers for less than 60 bucks -- and they fit great even though I’m shaped like an Oompah Loompah! No affiliation, by the way; I was just so tickled to be able to afford investment pieces on my budget. <br /></span></p>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-86446284107319985282021-07-11T07:41:00.001-04:002021-07-11T07:43:11.115-04:00The Inevitability of Dogs<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wSDXfRsi5uqZf-gl-ML3e4OlS5IfM6JjKY-viA4gMk0J9akAl17YMmvv41P75xIKQOAK4W_rVBgUaGmuO_oiQaWtoxvoGs-imIvjVrQ82GfUT_aptu8GEU50neOIivn_cv6a/s604/1936024_1147901505212_3914780_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="573" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wSDXfRsi5uqZf-gl-ML3e4OlS5IfM6JjKY-viA4gMk0J9akAl17YMmvv41P75xIKQOAK4W_rVBgUaGmuO_oiQaWtoxvoGs-imIvjVrQ82GfUT_aptu8GEU50neOIivn_cv6a/w304-h320/1936024_1147901505212_3914780_n.jpg" width="304" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Goodness knows I've tried.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I've been writing about food and clay and, of course...me. But long-time Linguini readers know that, sooner or later, a dog was going to come bounding into the blog and take over. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I've had my share of doggie characters, well documented throughout this blog. There was bossy Zsa Zsa and her miraculous healing gifts, neurotic Topper, eager-to-please Hokie, hyper Gaspode, and Salt -- the canine philosopher and guerrilla pooper. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">That's five dogs -- five bundles of memories of puppyhood and training and quirkiness and love.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But also five incidents of heartache when the time came to say goodbye. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">After we lost Hokie to cancer, we were not in a position to be able to support a pet. Besides, we were caught in a whirlwind of bad luck and there was no point in dragging another innocent life in on our chaos.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Plus there was the financial consideration. Even if you can afford the cost of purchasing a dog plus the food and vet bills when they're healthy, one complicated illness could break you. They offer insurance for that sort of thing these days. At the time, ironically, we couldn't afford our own healthcare, let alone supporting a dog.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">My youngest son and his fiance have sworn off dogs completely. Joe and Caisee have discovered that, in the absence of dogs, you can go anywhere at any time. There is nothing to "let out" at night or feed in the morning. They are content with their low-maintenance cats.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I tried to embrace what Joe claimed were the perks of being canine-less. The entire side of my bed was mine to stretch out in and, when the UPS guy showed up, I could open the door like a normal person to sign for my package rather than squeezing past a flailing pack of barking maniacs.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEicrOk_TrpqvyB4EIUgBdlvDy57x_mDhyphenhyphenk1fAKLkDVZddUDv-SRbEhgGLWp80x2vLx-AgpJaBt99kq1sm-Z8VGldLVvvJMlLb8lrvDmyhquZ2AY-OzSOrQRmm7eod9387hlD5/s640/69248200_10214407519369299_2397817148287221760_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEicrOk_TrpqvyB4EIUgBdlvDy57x_mDhyphenhyphenk1fAKLkDVZddUDv-SRbEhgGLWp80x2vLx-AgpJaBt99kq1sm-Z8VGldLVvvJMlLb8lrvDmyhquZ2AY-OzSOrQRmm7eod9387hlD5/s320/69248200_10214407519369299_2397817148287221760_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But it was no use. You don't think you'll miss having to step over reclining canines while you're trying to cook Thanksgiving dinner for 10 -- but you do. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Gulliver was my gift to myself when I went from two jobs and no health insurance to one full time job with benefits.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">"A redhead with green eyes -- you're in trouble," <a href="https://aussiesbyvancamp.com/">his breeder </a>quipped when I insisted Gulliver was the one.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The operative word here is "one." In a perfect world, I'd be surrounded by dogs. Right now being single-canine parents is preferable. While my husband works primarily out of the house, I'm out all day. To have more than one dog wouldn't be fair to Chuck or the <strike>kids</strike> dogs.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">With only one, there is no worry over whether the love is being doled out evenly or whether one needed more discipline and wouldn't that one notice the other one wasn't getting the same sort of discipline as the other or that one got a video game for Christmas that the other might want...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Oh. Right. Dogs.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">What I wasn't prepared for, though, was how naturally Gulliver trained, without a whole lot of fuss and bother. Aside from peeing on Charley's girlfriend's foot the first time we all met (he'd only been with us a week at the time), he quickly got with the whole potty training thing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I recommend this as a litmus test for anyone considering accepting a new member into your family. Sarah was gracious about the whole incident and now she is a treasured member of the Linguini inner circle. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Like most late-in-life <strike>children</strike> dogs, I'm much more relaxed about raising Gulliver than I was back in the day. I think that's why Gulliver is the perfect example of carefree dogdom.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6ndZ4s3jYdVrikedA544OMP_vKxt-Par5B8oRA8HTV-CfjCHYvrmQOHejafnURdegbPE1ly_oqKeLecWaMTL4UqCA5v8Q1NFAsytRcYWoLCiozgBaoSDh1v3OhGWdhovQ_Yf/s640/IMG_2491.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6ndZ4s3jYdVrikedA544OMP_vKxt-Par5B8oRA8HTV-CfjCHYvrmQOHejafnURdegbPE1ly_oqKeLecWaMTL4UqCA5v8Q1NFAsytRcYWoLCiozgBaoSDh1v3OhGWdhovQ_Yf/w200-h150/IMG_2491.JPG" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I considered hauling him into obedience classes like I did with all his predecessors. But, frankly -- look at him. I can't see Gulliver doing perfect sit/stays for rally competitions or standing calmly for conformation judging.</span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Besides, I'm no longer a part of that world, mostly because it was no fun for either me or my dog. Every time we'd compete it was like taking one of my kids to be "evaluated" -- there was always the chance that Joe might break into his <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__FpbqRnbio">Harpo Marx impression</a>, causing us both to laugh inappropriately and be emitted in disgrace.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">This NEVER HAPPENED in my edited version of my history of being the perfect mother.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I might add that the one thing that has consistently drawn me to adopt Australian Shepherds is that, while they are loving, smart, obedient, and hard-working, they are wary of strangers. You don't normally see an Australian Shepherd* bounding up to people with gregarious enthusiasm; they're more the watch and appraise type.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ILNzHZwf__IZwd_nmxs8OR77kwcW3-PIPJ99LaW3JNAJiHxIVfQ0Emsr_O1KPKifXu5oSIyvmyGWvcimCUtYMrUtLHp_lL4qwCmQaD4nWd3V89Aa1RUte4UDgo50fkn52C0e/s640/IMG_3356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="391" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ILNzHZwf__IZwd_nmxs8OR77kwcW3-PIPJ99LaW3JNAJiHxIVfQ0Emsr_O1KPKifXu5oSIyvmyGWvcimCUtYMrUtLHp_lL4qwCmQaD4nWd3V89Aa1RUte4UDgo50fkn52C0e/s320/IMG_3356.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I connect with this philosophy. Hold back. Who knows what they're up to. According to my plan, Gulliver and I would navigate the world, appraising those we encountered as to whether they can be trusted, knowing full well that we were better off on our own.</span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But remember -- I'm not the only one around here. There is Chuck.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Chuck loves being around people and his job fulfills that need. So, while I slaved away at work, Chuck turned Gulliver sociable.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">No. That's an understatement. Gulliver approaches everyone with the attitude that they love him. He doesn't even consider they might not be a dog person or they might mean him harm or -- worst of all -- they might want to engage in a lengthy conversation.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">And, of course -- he's quite sure everyone thinks throwing the orange ball for him <i>is the funnest game <u>ever</u></i>!</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxe0dA2CvUqqbgEBFmsjvN7oBIf-kc_25nJizqVJc_sgM8ZVGOMXeaPlqWIUlfAhaNuwUPYcNVhWEEr7nhA5pZAugzVYHgU-wqkh2FcLP5dLDH3f_8sBTqT8v0qgecHkJ17Tx4/s2048/20210614_142334.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1710" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxe0dA2CvUqqbgEBFmsjvN7oBIf-kc_25nJizqVJc_sgM8ZVGOMXeaPlqWIUlfAhaNuwUPYcNVhWEEr7nhA5pZAugzVYHgU-wqkh2FcLP5dLDH3f_8sBTqT8v0qgecHkJ17Tx4/s320/20210614_142334.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div>*Many people shorten the Australian Shepherd name to "Aussies." I don't do that because "Aussie" is the shortened name for the Australian Cattle Dog -- which are actually Australian. Australian Shepherds are not. Now you know.<br /><p><br /></p></div>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-39040556238340982862021-07-05T17:36:00.002-04:002021-07-05T17:36:56.562-04:00In which I cite Greek myth, George Bernard Shaw and pretend I'm artistic<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBe_CsFVA8M9ZSqNpWbXO_X8HHpNJnX6zQAzkiwmbpdnFkZaHglpx4I9hiDq0d-elT26HjRRRFhvaKv4WzlQP3WHK1xvJOcMz7vSV57b9LeeERJKcU2Z4JuVS9Kkab7N6j42M/s640/Beads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBe_CsFVA8M9ZSqNpWbXO_X8HHpNJnX6zQAzkiwmbpdnFkZaHglpx4I9hiDq0d-elT26HjRRRFhvaKv4WzlQP3WHK1xvJOcMz7vSV57b9LeeERJKcU2Z4JuVS9Kkab7N6j42M/s320/Beads.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Pygmalion was a Greek king who was also a sculptor. He fell in love with one of his sculptures, causing George Bernard Shaw to write a play about this dysfunctional relationship.<p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pretty soon Lerner and Lowe thought it a rather musical subject and further decided the two people on the planet that looked most like a Greek king and a marble statue were Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">This made money on a small scale, but not yet enough. So it was decided that, while Julie was perfect musically, she was way too governess-ish for a statue and would be better suited working in that genre instead. The role of the statue was recast with Audrey Hepburn who, while definitely statuesque, was a total fail in the musical area, but made up for it with enthusiastic emanations.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">But back to Pygmalion. He had a definite opinion of his creation, creepy as it may be.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">So here is my dilemma and clumsy segue.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">My current project is a wall hanging made up of polymer clay tiles augmented with stuff. When I say “stuff,” this whole project was inspired by the grab bags offered by <a href="https://www.firemountaingems.com/?gclid=Cj0KCQjw24qHBhCnARIsAPbdtlIhgw8qYTZjUo9QFUb3uEApfsiR8W3LdLcG2DjGbzb4L0F6lGm_XnwaAt5qEALw_wcB" target="_blank">Fire Mountain Gems and Beads </a>-- all shapes and types of beads to play with.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I might add that what I lack in artistic competence I make up for in enthusiastic emanations. I like shiny things and bold colors, so minimalists, move along; nothing to see here.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">But back to Pygmalion. I have a definite opinion of one of my creations.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">He’s a jerk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t know how it happened.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The color pallet for this square is one of my favorite color combinations: teal and gold. Don’t ask me why I decided a gold head on a teal background, other than I kind of like the poking and smoothing involved in sculpting a face. There are molds for this sort of thing, but I didn’t want my faces to look like everyone else’s faces.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I just didn’t prepare myself for this particular face to be that of a jerk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6qviIXtYjvHDsJVxcFqdcKas6c0HXnyt53WJO2a3SEiIQeum_NjCO0EX2tdVjngunarx6xuxOc-8OcihrIQVrgAhImh3LVIZJofMdkC-qSUiBGxrWGytYtmVCrLsiaKVs3sc/s313/Jerk+face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6qviIXtYjvHDsJVxcFqdcKas6c0HXnyt53WJO2a3SEiIQeum_NjCO0EX2tdVjngunarx6xuxOc-8OcihrIQVrgAhImh3LVIZJofMdkC-qSUiBGxrWGytYtmVCrLsiaKVs3sc/s0/Jerk+face.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t know what it is about this guy that convinces me he’s a jerk, but look at him. I’ve done everything I can think of to make him anything else -- made him smile, made him angry -- but even settling for a benign stare -- you can still tell he’s a jerk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">But he’s a jerk that I brought into being. I can’t just squish him into oblivion. If I’ve determined he is a jerk -- I’ve determined he...<u>is</u>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I do have some creative influence. He deserves a pink bow tie. I know he thinks this make him look intelligent, but it actually makes him look like more of jerk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_APE-c5BHpJj5nl1F3SLA54STADfxcct9XwzrdqbL-Wf-g6NSiaPTt1RmXgY9FJK8OEv1_8RUp5Udd0zKIKPZLMKnI0VRzowN6VBXpljCXKBY8tEipAEekz1gbSUADFm2DwBu/s466/Bowtie+jerk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="409" data-original-width="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_APE-c5BHpJj5nl1F3SLA54STADfxcct9XwzrdqbL-Wf-g6NSiaPTt1RmXgY9FJK8OEv1_8RUp5Udd0zKIKPZLMKnI0VRzowN6VBXpljCXKBY8tEipAEekz1gbSUADFm2DwBu/s320/Bowtie+jerk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I know what you’re thinking: who does he remind you of in your past that was a jerk?<p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I admit I’ve wracked my brain to think of who it might be that has me disliking this creation so much. Obviously, I’m projecting...but to whom?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Who do I know who is an absolute jerk...an a**hole....................................................</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">…………………………………………..</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh! How did I miss this?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The ultimate a**hole:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7iX98-KE5ULXzU_sugn2bgr8QZ4IJNOtyMuoPGzFGKcXhyphenhyphenzGDdsgWrlkps0bhsIw0_tXzY6e8_URrq8zKk08zRH4dANI8P2xiEu6aRL7NKZd-jGXEk6LlCpbounda23PwZE-/s2048/Asshole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2038" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7iX98-KE5ULXzU_sugn2bgr8QZ4IJNOtyMuoPGzFGKcXhyphenhyphenzGDdsgWrlkps0bhsIw0_tXzY6e8_URrq8zKk08zRH4dANI8P2xiEu6aRL7NKZd-jGXEk6LlCpbounda23PwZE-/s320/Asshole.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Egbert the a**hole</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-24488175768521580102021-07-01T17:48:00.001-04:002021-07-01T17:48:26.415-04:00In Which I Learn to Speak French...sort of<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAG0kZ35X1FZXX6dudAYwXa8NKSOGFP7d6Q6RWTW_YlvCipbxCoBGpfEy2E1uv2e0pirOZ5_PTwpjIBnLAtIYDy_MAeri5PgJ9-gPwkLAlJvzEXuJM_FaVzLbEpO6LqNg3yh0q/s551/LOTC+Eggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="551" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAG0kZ35X1FZXX6dudAYwXa8NKSOGFP7d6Q6RWTW_YlvCipbxCoBGpfEy2E1uv2e0pirOZ5_PTwpjIBnLAtIYDy_MAeri5PgJ9-gPwkLAlJvzEXuJM_FaVzLbEpO6LqNg3yh0q/w311-h300/LOTC+Eggs.jpg" width="311" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Oeufs en cocotte </i>is just baked eggs</span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p> <span style="font-size: medium;">When I was a precocious 20-something, I took out a loan and bought a <i>Bon Appetit</i> magazine.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I thought that was the height of culinary mastery. This was before the internet or Food Network; even before Emeril. I couldn't even make most of the recipes in the publication because they called for exotic ingredients like capers and quail and I was more on a budget of peanut butter and chicken livers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There was only one dish I could make in the <i>Bon Appetit </i>magazine and that was <i>oeufs en cocotte</i>. Just eggs, cream, and butter -- that's it...only in French. It was in French and I could afford it, so saved the recipe.</span></p></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">This was when, in order to save a recipe, you cut it out, printed it or copied it by hand.</span><br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Then you put it into a recipe box. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">For any non-boomers reading this, a recipe box was an actual, physical box. Theoretically, the recipes were neatly glued to or written on 3x5 index cards and categorized by meal type.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In terms of judging other cooks, size mattered. If you had a tidy 4x4x6 recipe box with clean cards covered in glistening plastic holders, you were obviously a “throw a can of soup on it” type of cook.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Real cooks had huge, sticky monstrosities with ripped magazine pages crammed in between the category markers and pieces of paper with cryptic instructions like “bang it against the counter until soft then boil for 15 minutes in the pot with the loose handle,” with no indication as to what was being prepared.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Every female Boomer had (or has) one of these, no matter what they tell you. Most of them still have the ones that belonged to their mothers. <a href="https://www.aaaa.org/timeline-event/virginia-slims-cashes-womens-lib-declaring-youve-come-long-way-baby/?cn-reloaded=1" target="_blank">We’ve come a long way, Baby</a> -- but ya gotta eat.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And that is where the recipe for <i>oeufs en cocotte</i> has stayed for the last 40 years. It would surface now and then and I’d consider taking a stab at it. But, honestly – have you <i>met</i> my family? I’d just have to say the name of the recipe and everyone would start doing bad Maurice Chevalier and Julia Child impressions.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">No -- sunny-side up was good enough for the likes of the Jacksons.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I haven’t delved into my recipe box in years. My old standby recipes by this time are etched into my brain; and between the internet, cookbooks and YouTube, I’m never without a source for new stuff.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In fact, it was while I was on Pinterest (my Happy Place) that <i>oeufs en cocotte</i> popped up again, only in the guise of “baked eggs.” <i>Oeufs en cocotte</i> are presumptuous; baked eggs are the eggs of the people.</span></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFii8mzZCLVyi1YWDbXYIg0EAcW7FYTE7dTIH_cOvcs_rzJXYwtqkkKUhy0HBE-ntyl5TlKwriwjvpXLyYRusD0pqr9jegS4aEo9tRthk0Uq2M0cZc9yw92No3q40gvfG2wG_/s640/LOTC+Eggs+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFii8mzZCLVyi1YWDbXYIg0EAcW7FYTE7dTIH_cOvcs_rzJXYwtqkkKUhy0HBE-ntyl5TlKwriwjvpXLyYRusD0pqr9jegS4aEo9tRthk0Uq2M0cZc9yw92No3q40gvfG2wG_/s320/LOTC+Eggs+2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I got creative and added spring onions and spinach</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">An egg’s an egg, right? Oh! No, no………<i>non</i>! Baked eggs are creamy and satiny; they are eggs for the discerning egg lover*. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I could have been enjoying baked eggs for the past 40 years!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So now I’m thinking about all the other things I’ve avoided for equally stupid reasons. Shall I tackle Proust? Start listening to K-Pop? Join the Society for Creative Anachronism?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I suppose I should, perhaps, learn French.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">*</span><i><span style="font-size: medium;">There is no other term for an “egg lover.” I spent way too much time finding this out.</span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvu3LsRZecpR687JB62Y5PKcHbmo57uen8OUt9CtzTC3RWb8VrFu02WcleS1sEBAuYKBOybDldl3jq7HZ3Z83n9PRzo1bgVuSYfE_v1aVwzpanwZxHy-qfBjK45nni3jDWcE7U/s629/Linguini+Photos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="609" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvu3LsRZecpR687JB62Y5PKcHbmo57uen8OUt9CtzTC3RWb8VrFu02WcleS1sEBAuYKBOybDldl3jq7HZ3Z83n9PRzo1bgVuSYfE_v1aVwzpanwZxHy-qfBjK45nni3jDWcE7U/s320/Linguini+Photos.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">With baguettes from Madison Farmers' Market<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></i></p>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-6807381695513262702021-06-26T16:35:00.001-04:002021-06-26T16:38:23.884-04:00So who asked you?<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5YULMawuiFl6p0Bwah8aIdrU45rb24yqtUtp5t5cB-VcUPEj813uXg-mR3D2-pR2OvDgzjKJfiyxiBsPHCZYXb-Z97CgY6FFnQ1YDdwKhh6tOmEnvWO3TyiaoT7rYk1MJNr2z/s1703/Jeanne+at+track+meet+2+ca+2005.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1703" data-original-width="1516" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5YULMawuiFl6p0Bwah8aIdrU45rb24yqtUtp5t5cB-VcUPEj813uXg-mR3D2-pR2OvDgzjKJfiyxiBsPHCZYXb-Z97CgY6FFnQ1YDdwKhh6tOmEnvWO3TyiaoT7rYk1MJNr2z/w178-h200/Jeanne+at+track+meet+2+ca+2005.JPG" width="178" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sixteen Years Ago</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">You don't have to read this -- but anyone can. Sixteen years ago, I started this blog. I was 48 and had spent a lifetime writing things no one ever saw. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh, I'd spent over a decade working for newspapers -- dry, local politics where molehills turn into mountains and parking locations foster speeches quoting things like the Magna Carta and very specific translations of the Bible. I hated it because all my eye-rolling gave me a headache.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">These days, no one is reading lengthy prose, so it's safe to come out of my writing cave.* But I'm just not cut out for Twitter -- too many people thinking they're delivering mike-drop jewels of glibness. It may be narcissistic to share this to Facebook, but I don't flatter myself that complex issues can be solved in a few sentences -- not that I'll attack complex issues. There's enough of that static cluttering the internet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">No. I write because of that static that has everyone believing the lie that we have more dividing us than we have in common. But I'll stick to my old format, thankyouverymuch.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now, take a moment and observe that photo up there. While I admit I used it to lead this column because I'm pretty sure it's the last surviving photo of me as a vegetarian -- meaning I was probably as cute as I was ever going to get. (I also want you to notice the added drama of the fencing, which I thought gave me a sort of tough urban edge when actually it was taken by my husband at our son's little league game.) </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I found this while looking through our photo archives and considered using it to lead all my social media. Then everyone would say, "Wow! She looks pretty good for 64!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I notice this is a trend among book authors and it annoys me. So, in the spirit of total honesty, I will stick with my usual photo.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">True disclosure: this photo is about a year old, but it's the most recent one without a mask. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipKh4iYXJgR5pFOuB_L2Z0l2M-l9O1KvtNGMzVp4JM5JB0NB64spIO85RP5g-sGW_KgvvoKC0lDUcuLLQrJgr7Ckr3anNHP68RCMJpFfPxHYZEtYxJhjPoAFAy6OkdehTRqlsi/s640/IMG_2169.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipKh4iYXJgR5pFOuB_L2Z0l2M-l9O1KvtNGMzVp4JM5JB0NB64spIO85RP5g-sGW_KgvvoKC0lDUcuLLQrJgr7Ckr3anNHP68RCMJpFfPxHYZEtYxJhjPoAFAy6OkdehTRqlsi/w150-h200/IMG_2169.jpg" width="150" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Take a selfie, you say.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I don't take selfies. I don't have anything against them (unless the only thing on your Facebook page is one selfie after another, in which case, find a hobby), it's just that my arms are too short and I end up looking like a Shar Pei.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Really -- there are no serious photos of me because it's just my husband and me around here these days and he only takes photos when I look ridiculous. So you get the above and this.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVEws8qg2Hrpf2F5hFhRxP1GGQxS7DLoEJ225sfVTbAXUuQhOflUqnuLov68o3mtXQHq4LBtWixU0M1dkvQojNfFIVSIbJrwpAgG3oQvppqP7c1KYYzQ35D-beqnX3NYJd-xI/s640/Jeanne+mask.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="481" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVEws8qg2Hrpf2F5hFhRxP1GGQxS7DLoEJ225sfVTbAXUuQhOflUqnuLov68o3mtXQHq4LBtWixU0M1dkvQojNfFIVSIbJrwpAgG3oQvppqP7c1KYYzQ35D-beqnX3NYJd-xI/w150-h200/Jeanne+mask.jpg" width="150" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVEws8qg2Hrpf2F5hFhRxP1GGQxS7DLoEJ225sfVTbAXUuQhOflUqnuLov68o3mtXQHq4LBtWixU0M1dkvQojNfFIVSIbJrwpAgG3oQvppqP7c1KYYzQ35D-beqnX3NYJd-xI/s640/Jeanne+mask.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I suppose this is by way of re-introducing myself to what used to be called "the blogosphere," where crickets are chirping and me and my kind can roam free -- free of the nastiness of other social media forms.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...at least I don't have an aol e-mail address...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p>*Anyone wishing to cause mischief here has probably given up by now because this is way down at the end. If you haven't given up -- I've gone through bankruptcy, foreclosure, joblessness, poverty, and two heart attacks. You can't scare me. </p>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-4945380643755887552018-10-29T19:56:00.000-04:002018-10-30T07:36:39.133-04:00Toy Cars<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">File this
under the category of Phrases that Make Me Cringe:</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Under a photo of a car or truck: “Here’s my
new toy!” </span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Now, I get
that when Baby Boomers began to realize that they were aging, it suddenly
became A Thing to be perceived as a Child at Heart. Subsequent generations have
followed suit and now we have a culture that really could benefit from the
direction of a straight-laced nanny. There is a lot to be said for using your “indoor
voice,” particularly when in public on your cell phone discussing your
digestion problems with your healthcare provider. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">However, I
have come to accept that in order to convince ourselves we’re never going to
die (I’M certainly NOT), we must do whatever it takes to deny the aging process.
(Though, I must pass on to my fellow Women of a Certain Age – no one is fooled
by those SnapChat filters. The Good Ship Ingénue has sailed and good riddance!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">So,
honestly, I have no problem if adults spend their spare time playing with doll
houses, racing remote control cars or running their model trains on a tighter
schedule than a subway in Tokyo while wearing a railroad engineer’s hat and
blowing a wooden whistle (you know who you are). I, personally, have my gnomes and talking dogs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">If you
want to embrace your inner eight-year-old, have at it. But here’s the thing –
eight-year-olds <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">break toys</i>. They ram
them into walls, leave them on stairways, or throw their sister’s Ken doll out
a second storey window dressed in Barbie’s tutu. No big deal <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because they’re toys</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Two-and-a-half
tons of steel and flammable liquid: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not a
toy</i>. Not even remotely a toy. Leave your heart of an
eight-year-old…12-year-old…hell – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">teenager</i>…home.
(It is my opinion that teenagers should only be able to drive 20-year-old
Cavaliers with a blown-out transmission and a cassette player that doesn’t work*.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">When I
encounter a 6,000 lb. Silverado on the Beltway, I want to know it’s being
driven by a 40-something with a kid still in college, a mortgage and a sense of
his or her own mortality. (It would also be nice if you could be driving a 3-ton
truck because you actually need one, what with it being almost November and I’m
still sleeping with the windows open and the fan running – but that’s another
issue.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I commute
10 hours a week at a minimum and I am constantly dodging drivers who grew up
watching everything from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smokey and the
Bandit</i> to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Fast and the Furious</i>,
all – I assume – at a time in their young lives where they were unable to
separate fact from fiction. Because it’s really not speed that is the issue;
believe me, in that respect my driving habits would probably surprise…well, no,
they probably wouldn’t surprise anyone who’s had to commute. Honestly, on a two
mile-long straightaway on Va-231, when I’m late for work and no one is in front
of me…I WOULD TOTALLY OBEY THE 55 MPH SPEED LIMIT, OFFICER.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Take that
same straightaway, place in it a loaded 18-wheeler followed by a leaf-peeper in
absolutely no hurry, a farm-use truck whose tailpipe emits noxious fumes every
time he hits 40, a priest, a minister, and a rabbi…and me – and in my rear-view
mirror I see a black Escalade, closing in fast. In the opposite lane are
oncoming headlights. The Escalade pulls out and passes us all in one go and
only makes it because the rest of us immediately brake. Though this would
be an ideal opportunity to protect the gene pool in one fiery crash, no one
wants <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HONT41B5KLk" target="_blank">Finster Baby</a> to take the poor guy in the opposite lane with him. Besides,
an accident would make us late.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">But even
Finster Baby showed good judgement when compared to the perfect storm of idiocy
I witnessed last week. In a construction zone in the pouring rain, with two
lanes merging into one, I could see an ambulance was trying to make its way
through traffic behind me. Most of us pulled over onto the shoulder, except for
a farm tractor traveling 15 mph and a huge black truck that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> behind me, but passed me when I
pulled over to make way for the emergency vehicle. The ambulance was forced to
pull into the opposite lane, where those kind souls actually were on the
shoulder. Behind me, an SUV pulled out of the line of those who pulled over and
passed everyone, only to encounter the black truck, which was now stuck behind
the farm vehicle, still putt-putting away like he was in the middle of a barren
hay field. With a screech, the SUV pulled over the double line in the wake of
the ambulance, passed the black truck (who was now honking his horn at
everything) and the farm vehicle. Not to be outdone, the black truck gunned
into the oncoming lane, missing by inches the oncoming cars pulling back onto
the road. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">To what
can we attribute such a perfect storm of assholery in one place? Immaturity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Eight-year-olds
live in their own world and everything that goes on around them is seen through
the lens of their ego. It is age-appropriate and precisely the mindset you need
when you’re very small, vulnerable and totally ignorant of the ways of the
world. When it seeps into adulthood, the results are thinking that everything,
including who get through traffic first, is a competition you need to win to
feed that ego, now grown huge and hungry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">So, no,
you do not have a “toy.” You don’t take out loans to buy PlayDough. No one is
making a living fixing Cabbage Patch Dolls. When a piece of Monopoly is
missing, you just need a dime or a thumbtack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">And when a
pedal car tips over, no one gets hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Unless, of
course, it meets up with a black Escalade. In his world, we’re all just pedal
cars on the VA-231 of life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">*</span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4R26bS2zHR4wheSQxZktvOQKv5-NX2qICp1pRQiUu7R-yqOpl_JySjoOpIRvQX7i2FCKi3akqitcC3F_8BwYjGavWARlw51RX6HG9NWZ2XvkVXKYAsgVj2bk0fQx95mlFy6LM/s200/firstschool.jpg" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, he
still has this car. Good luck in December, Heir 2!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-71529924215598268172018-09-15T15:57:00.001-04:002018-09-15T16:02:38.973-04:00In Which I Slink Back From OblivionHave I ever stayed away from Linguini this long?<br />
<br />
Blogs became passe' as Twitter snipped away at readers' tolerance for lengthy prose. It's safe to come back and write as I write. No one is reading it; certainly no one who would care what I think.<br />
<br />
In a way, I'm rather happy my erratic posting schedule chased away the few regular readers I had. How bogged down in correctness and apologies I had become! Going back through some of my scant postings, I can barely get through all the switch-backs and detours of my own writing. But I leave it here because it's real. This is what happens when you start thinking more of the reader's reactions than the truth of what you are saying.<br />
<br />
I continue Linguini, partly from tradition and partly for that occasional visitor that may stumble in, read that top post and have some sort of reaction, good or bad. But the main reason I continue is the same reason I began this blog almost 13 years ago:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman";">
Even before there was such as thing as a “blog,” this stream-of-consciousness-Andy-Rooney-esque commentary on life would be continually running through my brain, getting in the way of other, more fruitful thoughts. Only I’d edit my rambling, stopping myself just short of – dare I say – enlightenment to study the grammar of the sentence with which I was involved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman";">
This is the only purpose I can see for this thing called “blogging.” It might shut up the never-ending flow of commentary long enough for me to balance my checkbook in peace.</div>
</blockquote>
I was 48. I was incredibly stupid.Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-32784012408447080772017-09-03T11:07:00.002-04:002017-09-03T19:09:34.449-04:00Cauliflower RiceOrWhy I Hate Eating Out<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANj_Ky8YiEYedPPQLQ7s1sAR8yrWo4HvWfzee7t7rNnch0vecnHhSn4lhahmGKfvq_BETnOnOaFCpzIM82B2A8LF-NkVHud9MPCD6kBzD3U3s07QoO5ceCPFQWIFMYrgRpaEV/s1600/cauliflower+rice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANj_Ky8YiEYedPPQLQ7s1sAR8yrWo4HvWfzee7t7rNnch0vecnHhSn4lhahmGKfvq_BETnOnOaFCpzIM82B2A8LF-NkVHud9MPCD6kBzD3U3s07QoO5ceCPFQWIFMYrgRpaEV/s400/cauliflower+rice.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Every now and then, I
happen upon food in a restaurant so absolutely wonderful I have to either
figure out how to recreate the recipe in my own kitchen or be forced to visit
the restaurant again, requiring yet another meal <i>out</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Eating out demands a
whole social system I’m usually just too exhausted to deal with. Other diners,
the host person and waitstaff all require my interaction. Most of them – well
intentioned, I’m sure – want to chat using that hideous manifestation of extroversion
connection: Small Talk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Server: How are you
today? (<i>Translation: Are you going to be low-maintenance, or…gluten free?</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Me: Fine. (<i>Translation:
Please don’t tell me your name…</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Server: My name is
Ashley/Bradley/Brooke/Chandler and I’ll be your server. (<i>Translation: You’re
going to complain about the air conditioner hitting you in that seat. I know
it.</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Me: Hi. (<i>Translation:
Oh my God! Now I have to remember his/her name. I’ve already forgotten it! What
ever happened to people named John and Mary? What do kids with weird names do
when they want pre-printed stickers to put on their notebooks and they can’t
find a sticker with the name “Tracey” spelled “T-R-A-Y-S-E-E?” They would have
to special order…</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Server: Ma’me? Ma’me? (<i>Translation:
Are you having a stroke?</i> <i>You didn’t hear me ask what you wanted to
drink and you’re tipping the chair over and dropping the cutlery all over
the place</i>.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">However, Dirtman
requires I go to restaurants on occasion and going with him doesn’t make
matters any better. Dirtman doesn’t go to restaurants so much to eat, as to
socialize. (Yeah, I know – how have we stayed married 30 years?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">First Dirtman scopes out
the room, looking for someone he knows… or someone he <i>might</i> know…
or someone wearing a Virginia Tech t-shirt… or someone wearing <i>anything</i>.
He chooses his victim, wolfs down his food, excuses himself to go to the
bathroom, never to be heard from again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">This leaves me at the
table alone and at the mercy of a server who, now feels sorry for me and wants
to ramp up the conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Server: Are you enjoying
your meal? (<i>Translation: Jeese, even her husband doesn’t want to eat with
her</i>.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Me: … (<i>Translation:
My mouth is full of food. Is it more rude to answer with a mouthful or try to
swallow first and risk that, since this is small talk, she/he doesn’t really
care and will move on before I get a chance to answer, in which case she/he’ll
think I’m rude…</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Server: I’ll just take
some of these dishes away. (<i>Translation: Maybe I should go get her husband
who is sitting at that table chatting with that group of bewildered Buddhist
monks</i>.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">I carry my Kindle with
me always for just such occasions. I act like I’m reading something requiring
full concentration. (<i>Translation: I am deep and too focused on my reading to
discuss whether it’s hot enough for me.</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">During one of these
meals I was introduced to a magical manifestation: Cauliflower Rice;
specifically, cauliflower rice from <a href="https://zoeskitchen.com/" target="_blank">Zoe’s Kitchen</a>. Zoe’s is fast food (ish),
without the health risk – and they make an incredible hibiscus green iced tea.
And cauliflower rice answers the prayers of a 60-year-old woman who has finally admitted her carb-loaded days have passed (begrudgingly -- I still sneak in a pasta day. I'm not a psychopath).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Zoe’s Cauliflower Rice, infused with wonderful fresh flavors, forced me to spend half the time I
should have been focused on the <a href="https://www.charlottesvilleopera.org/" target="_blank">Charlottesville Opera’s </a>performance of <i>Oklahoma!</i> instead
trying to figure the interesting seasoning mixture that made the dish so
captivating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">My first attempt
contains the obvious flavors of lemon and dill and is very good. But it lacks
the one very important spice that gives Zoe’s version its unique flavor.
Cardamom was acceptable, but I have to own up to a miss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">You know what this
means. It means another visit to Zoe’s Kitchen. Otherwise I’ll never be able to
eat Cauliflower Rice without pants.*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">*For those that know me
– sorry for that visual flashing in your brain.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-41655577558505924072017-08-26T18:17:00.001-04:002017-08-26T18:17:53.808-04:00Thank you, Middle Eastern cuisine, for baba ganoush<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBqgjCnXV_J8ilbOweWjKhAnne6KEVux3jrcTzZWmBQJXE3UXpvH_ndkY_Wx849V6JIOcx1fLRopPyLoL7wR16YZNbCQicLbHyt8c1oTB5dqCZYq4N_PYK2Jkmr0jqb2oHek1I/s1600/baba+ganoush+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBqgjCnXV_J8ilbOweWjKhAnne6KEVux3jrcTzZWmBQJXE3UXpvH_ndkY_Wx849V6JIOcx1fLRopPyLoL7wR16YZNbCQicLbHyt8c1oTB5dqCZYq4N_PYK2Jkmr0jqb2oHek1I/s320/baba+ganoush+1.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's the thing about eggplant: I love eggplant. So, on a Saturday when I do my
bi-weekly shopping, I buy an eggplant.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m going to make eggplant parmesan or
eggplant melanzane (which is like saying “eggplant eggplant,” but in Sicilian
it’s pronounced “moo-lin-yan’” and that’s what my grandmother called a casserole
with just marinara, eggplant and romano cheese).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">On Saturday I have great plans
for that eggplant…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">…which
don’t take place that night because – </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">duh</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
– I’m tired out from shopping and doing all the stuff that doesn’t get done
during the week. Fire up the grill and let Dirtman do the cooking. Men like
that, right?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So,
Sunday…we take a drive on Sunday, just anywhere. We try to get lost.We come
home late. Too late for eggplant anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Monday…I
work at the DM V. And it’s a Monday. Need I say more? Leftovers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tuesday…Again,
DMV. Cheese quesadillas. Again. If it’s Tuesday it must be quesadillas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wednesday,
Thursday and Friday are days I work at a food pantry. By the time I get home,
playing with food is the last thing on my mind. I ditch my weekly pledge to cut
down on carbs and boil up the pasta – a little olive oil, a little parsley,
some garlic and a lot of cheese, done. Or eggs. (<i>Yawn</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back
to Saturday and there is my lovely eggplant – only now it’s blotchy and sad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another
eggplant destined for the trash…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">…until
I discovered baba ganoush*.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s
simple, really. Cut the eggplant in half lengthwise, poke a few holes in the
skin, brush the cut side with olive oils and bake, cut side down, for 35-40
minutes at 400 degrees. As it cools, finely mince a clove or two of garlic.
Scrape out and mash up the meat of the eggplant, add the garlic, two or three
tablespoons of tahini, the juice of a lemon, a teaspoon of cumin, ¼ teaspoon
cayenne (this makes it pretty hot) and salt to
taste. Use it as a dip for pita wedges, cucumber slices, celery – whatever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Disclaimer: Dirtman hates baba ganoush. But, then, Dirtman is compelled to dump cream sauce on fresh, tender asparagus and was raised on Miracle Whip. So, basically, he's brain damaged.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The
wonderful thing about baba ganoush, in addition to its snappy taste, is that it
only uses the interior of the eggplant. So when I have a week like the one I
just mentioned – which is, like, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">always</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
– that sad, blotchy eggplant can still be a perfect starter with a smooth goat cheese... and a martini as
dry as a Stephen Fry quip.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*I’ve
seen this spelled so many different ways, I opted for the one that was
phonetic. I’m sure it’s not authentic.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-56880030489315996262017-06-19T19:47:00.000-04:002017-06-19T20:12:10.989-04:00A Somewhat Delayed Fathers' Day Post*<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/find-a-grave-prod/photos/2014/295/55992120_1414112961.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="PVT John Theodore Eckerson" border="0" src="https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/find-a-grave-prod/photos/2014/295/55992120_1414112961.jpg" /></a>Genealogy research is one of those activities, like bird
watching, you don’t come to until you are older.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I don’t know why this is, because it’s rather counter-productive. By the time you’re interested, most of the people who could have provided the information you desperately need are dead or mentally incapacitated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never knew my paternal grandfather, who died in the
trenches of World War I. I’ve been gazing at his picture from a newspaper
article written about him in the early years of the war, when he voluntarily signed up to serve -- in spite of
his military exemption because he had several children (my infant father) and one on the way -- because, as he is quoted as saying, “there are plenty of
slackers.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to slap him, knowing as I do the hardship his death
caused my widowed grandmother, who was forced to dole her children out to
boarding houses to raise themselves. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I signed into an ancestry research site. A search reveals his name on the draft registration roster
and in two clicks I'm looking at my grandfather’s signature on his
registration form. Suddenly he is a person – <i>my</i> person. My <i>grandfather</i>.
For a moment I’m stunned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This man whose name, when spoken, resulted in an eye-roll from both my father and my aunt, was suddenly real to me. Would he have asked me to pull his finger? Would he have swiped in front of my face, bent his thumb toward his palm and claim possession of my nose? Would he <i>like </i>me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And why, for God's sake, do I care?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At one point, the family tree splits, with each branch
settling in two different counties in New Jersey, and two entirely different
economic and social classes. I don’t think I need to mention which branch I’m
descended from.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are no Elizabeth Bennetts or Mr. Darcys lurking in my
family tree; not even a Jane Eyre or Jo March. My people were servants to those
characters, nameless, faceless workers who supported the romance that is
presented as the Regency and Victorian eras.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it some sort of inherited memory that I never had the
same romantic vision of the 19<sup>th</sup> century as the media presents? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deep down I’m always aware that while a small population was
fluttering about in hoop skirts and covering their noses with lace hankies,
even more people were breaking their backs carrying the water to keep them in
their dainty finery. That's my people.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look back at my grandfather’s picture. Though he gazes
back at me with my father’s eyes, I still feel anger at this arrogant truck
driver who stumbled into the line of fire. Had he not been who he was, had he
not died, growing up I might have actually had a grandfather.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, had he lived, my father might never have been
forced to leave college to get a job as a jewelry salesman to support his
mother. It was there he met my mother. Where it not for that arrogant truck
driver (or as Pa used to say, “I think my father was sort of a jerk.”), my
parents would have never met.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you, dear reader, instead of reading this, would be
scrolling through Facebook posts on “Look at These 70s Celebs All Grown Up!” And
Dirtman would be roaming freely about the world, trying to engage anyone and
everyone into conversations about the weather. (On behalf of my family tree,
you’re welcome.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Physicists say that it is humans who impose a linear quality
to the concept of time; some claim that events just happen without regard to
past, present or future.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My existence has depended on the trajectory of a bullet shot
in 1918 by a soldier whose name I’ll never know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This amazes and humbles me.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i>*Portions of this post were originally published in (an old, old) column of <a href="https://www.spoton.com/" target="_blank">Spot-On</a>.</i></div>
Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-39651483205030613202017-01-01T12:44:00.000-05:002017-01-01T12:45:54.797-05:00A New Year's Post In Which I Manage to Not Invoke the Name of the President-Elect*<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear
2017,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR5Vk52Y0FKIejHJT1qgVgnT-2T0PHB1ttbkoZBKuN6rUWEZsdJ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="Image result for Baby New Year" border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR5Vk52Y0FKIejHJT1qgVgnT-2T0PHB1ttbkoZBKuN6rUWEZsdJ" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s
been a long time since I’ve felt the need to address the New Year. Things
seemed to be progressing at a pretty normal pace. It seemed my input wasn’t
necessary like it was for your siblings <a href="http://linguiniontheceiling.blogspot.com/2011/12/dear-2012-happy-birthday.html" target="_blank">2012</a> and <a href="http://linguiniontheceiling.blogspot.com/2014/01/dear-new-year.html" target="_blank">2014</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">And then
there was your sibling 2016 – the Hannibal Lechter of years. I realize now
that, as New Years go, these little discussions are mandatory since evidently
subjective and arbitrary timeframes have no respect for decency.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">In the
past, I’ll admit I’ve judged you and your siblings on the crap you flung at me,
personally. It never occurred to me that, lacking my direction, you’d expand
your systematic destruction to the world at large.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">So…2017…we
need to talk. Because evidently, like a pre-teen, you seem to think that if I
don’t <i>specifically</i> tell you not to do
something, it automatically means it’s okay to do. For instance – I never said
to my kids, “don’t play Jousting Tournament on your bicycles.” I went for the
simple “don’t be a moron,” assuming that would prevent them from careening at
each other with the gas grill rotisserie shafts. I was wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Indeed,
I never <i>specifically</i> told your
sibling, 2016, to not bring our entire civilization to its knees. At this time
last year, such as statement was sort of like telling someone “don’t take any
wooden nickels.” Such a phrase was outdated because any idiot would know the
difference between a sanctioned, intricately-minted coin and a piece of
worthless junk carved to look like something of value that can slip through a dysfunctional
mechanism.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">And so
2016 was the year that was so horrible, a bevy of celebrities opted to jump
ship rather than endure even one more week of it. It was the year so horrible
that even the people who got their way still seemed to be really mad at the
people who didn’t. It was the year no one was happy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">What has
made it even worse is that 2016 packed up and disappeared, but didn’t take its
garbage with it. So here we are, drowning in the detritus of your sibling and
you show up expecting some sort of celebration.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Well 2017,
you’re going to have to prove yourself. Frankly, you don’t have a whole lot to
work with and Kardashian mutations are still infesting every aspect of our
culture (deep down I suspect this is the root of all the world’s problems).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">So for
now I’ll wait…and watch…and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_Enough_at_Last" target="_blank">find a nice, safe place for my spare pair of glasses</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Warily,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Sisiggy</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*Sort of.</div>
Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-10100606855704177502015-11-23T09:50:00.000-05:002015-11-23T09:53:24.699-05:0010 Things That Really Bug Me A Lot More Than They Probably Should1. People who talk about their sports team in terms of "we;" as in "WE really tore them up this week;" as if the speaker him- or her-self had been out on the field instead of parked on the sofa eating tortilla chips.
<br />
<br />
<div>
2. Using Facebook to say "Happy Birthday, "Happy Anniversary," "I love you," etc. to someone you live with...<i><u><b>to someone you live with</b></u></i>. For pete's sake, turn your head! There he or she is! Now speak the words. That's how we used to do it in the olden days.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78T_69B6f58nR2kwPduqT_YZmtOmhRRagkE4gU3mfMl_plKbamxydcetfhT9_-e_8I-0mbpKdBI4NsWhsI5Pt7_7zH51SfC3O_6AdnviGKRRKbU02pMiyyNBL8sROd0Cmtc-U/s1600/Tippi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>
3. (while we're on the subject of Facebook) Postings threatening me that if I don't "share" them, I don't love the poster, I don't love 'Murica, I don't respect veterans, I want people to die of cancer, will have something horrible happen to me.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78T_69B6f58nR2kwPduqT_YZmtOmhRRagkE4gU3mfMl_plKbamxydcetfhT9_-e_8I-0mbpKdBI4NsWhsI5Pt7_7zH51SfC3O_6AdnviGKRRKbU02pMiyyNBL8sROd0Cmtc-U/s1600/Tippi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78T_69B6f58nR2kwPduqT_YZmtOmhRRagkE4gU3mfMl_plKbamxydcetfhT9_-e_8I-0mbpKdBI4NsWhsI5Pt7_7zH51SfC3O_6AdnviGKRRKbU02pMiyyNBL8sROd0Cmtc-U/s200/Tippi.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
4. Not just stinkbugs, but <i>dive-bombing</i> stinkbugs; dive-bombing stinkbugs IN THE DARK. They turn me into Tippi Hedren in <i>The Birds</i> when she for some inexplicable reason goes to the upstairs room, opens the door, sees big honkin' birds all over the place and then enters the room anyway.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
5. When people write "Walla!" instead of "Voila!"<br />
<br />
6. Owen Wilson. I don't know why -- might be his lips. He has Donald Trump lips (and I DO know why HE bugs me).<br />
<br />
7. The fact that, in 28 years of marriage, Dirtman has not finished a single container of anything. He leaves approximately a tablespoon of product in any container -- whether it's shampoo, a box of cereal only he eats, or milk -- <i>and then opens a new container</i>. I guarantee, if I go into the kitchen right now, there is a bag of wheat squares on top of the fridge with precisely two squares in it. And, actually -- I think this bugs me precisely as much as it should.<br />
<br />
...and yes, I've told him. I've gone on 10-minute rants about finding <i>one freakin' cracker</i> wrapped up in a big saltine box in a cabinet already crammed with a jar of Jif with a teaspoon of peanut butter and a bottle of Log Cabin with a tiny pool of syrup at the bottom, along with almost-full opened versions of each product. I mean, how is that <i>one freakin' cracker <u>too much</u></i>?<br />
<br />
8. That there are people who will think I am overreacting to #7.<br />
<br />
9. When my computer refuses to download something with the phrase "You are not connected." I take this personally and get really sad.<br />
<br />
10. That every article you read these days is in the form of lists. It's a cheap trick to get people to read something absolutely inane.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-27515035722462336102015-10-12T12:41:00.000-04:002015-10-12T12:42:04.427-04:00Boneless Pork FrankenloinorHow to make so many substitutions to a recipe it no longer resembles the recipe you started with<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7kWmA4GUUlmi9y9FJ3cqHUcljIyhuuXAalbPLU8_EyJgDA1_mCJiTDBXkYSJVnfGwY083zoTVeq2Q0iDpcN1-zFY-0GaLPGOd9tVk_spT94K_HMAA8dYtLJo-8tgvJhoU0N5/s1600/pork+loin+roasted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7kWmA4GUUlmi9y9FJ3cqHUcljIyhuuXAalbPLU8_EyJgDA1_mCJiTDBXkYSJVnfGwY083zoTVeq2Q0iDpcN1-zFY-0GaLPGOd9tVk_spT94K_HMAA8dYtLJo-8tgvJhoU0N5/s320/pork+loin+roasted.jpg" width="320" /></a>So I had this portion of a pork loin sitting in my freezer; this hunk of meat that I had to commit ahead of time to make because one doesn't defrost a loin of pork and then put off roasting it because one got home late and only had the energy to make a martini OR make dinner and, the way things have been going lately, the martini always wins so long as the Tanqueray holds out.<br />
<br />
This particular pork loin was a cute little end piece I surreptitiously snipped off the end of a larger roast I'd made earlier this summer for the family at large. It was the perfect size for two people to have dinner and a few pork sandwiches.<b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">1</span></b><br />
<br />
A boneless pork loin is basically a big hunk of solid meat, a sort of blank canvas for flavor and, paired with a morning spent watching Food Network, it was destined for a more creative treatment than my usual rub-n-roast.<br />
<br />
At first I thought I'd cut it into individual boneless chops, butterfly the chops and stuff them. But, in seeking inspiration from the internet, I happened upon a video of stuffing a pork loin roast.<br />
<br />
Now here's the thing about recipes off the internet: they're written by people who actually make meal plans; people who go grocery shopping on a regular basis -- people who <i>have money</i> to go grocery shopping on a regular basis. Here in Linguiniland, grocery shopping is done as a last resort -- when even the ramen is gone and you can see straight through the top shelf to the bottom of the crisper drawer.<br />
<br />
The guy on the video had thought out his meal so far ahead that he had figs on hand for the stuffing and time to hunt down something with the unfortunate name of "fat caul.<span style="font-size: xx-small;">2</span>" He was so organized, he had butcher's twine and so wealthy, he had a Le Creuset roaster.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZEhYTW3zLXGO1Hr2uQSGtdYf6uKvrQKschKaeYfpnKL7I3yYaH6z1kaECbovK8VPQnIIZHmJzKwigrWHj4xSTpL_YjN7Q_6579nPUS2vRbxhwDFW1VJ0o0EWm-pXnACA7k9H/s1600/Pork+loin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZEhYTW3zLXGO1Hr2uQSGtdYf6uKvrQKschKaeYfpnKL7I3yYaH6z1kaECbovK8VPQnIIZHmJzKwigrWHj4xSTpL_YjN7Q_6579nPUS2vRbxhwDFW1VJ0o0EWm-pXnACA7k9H/s200/Pork+loin.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
So, basically, this is the same recipe, in so much as there is a pork loin that it's stuffed, but all similarities end there. My stuffing is significantly more humble: the only bread on hand was stale hot dog buns in the freezer and from that I just threw together the standard stuffing I use at Thanksgiving in a much smaller quantity.<br />
<br />
I substituted the "fat caul" with bacon because I figure you can substitute just about anything with bacon. (Couldn't they come up with a better name than "fat caul?")<br />
<br />
My butcher's twine is the end of a skein of cotton yarn I used to knit dishcloths. Just call me the MacGyver of the kitchen.<br />
<br />
I did have to learn to butterfly a pork loin, not easy when it's a teeny tiny pork loin end. But, just as you can use bacon as a substitute for everything, you can also use bacon to camouflage ugly knife skills. And it doesn't have a depressing name like "smoked pig stomach lining."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxfvZS_ziS8WIHbWfBORDpAedEDyuJgLgNlfM6l0aR2aprcrn6EUWyYtL3JMvXQcCdrBe6U0GkDSRlsyPms19tQfDxJuUOm5aZ8WZhmOp4rdEquL7jZADuYtAVW7TVr7RFgnd/s1600/Pork+loin+gravy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxfvZS_ziS8WIHbWfBORDpAedEDyuJgLgNlfM6l0aR2aprcrn6EUWyYtL3JMvXQcCdrBe6U0GkDSRlsyPms19tQfDxJuUOm5aZ8WZhmOp4rdEquL7jZADuYtAVW7TVr7RFgnd/s200/Pork+loin+gravy.jpg" width="200" /></a>I roasted the whole thing on a bed of onions and made a sort of <i>jus</i>/gravy (I like <i>jus</i>, Dirtman likes to drown things in gravy -- so I compromise).<br />
<br />
The recipe was a success, but will work infinitely better with a full roast. Next time, I'll plan ahead and put apples and pecans in the stuffing.<br />
<br />
The bacon could barely contain the stuffing in my tiny butterflied roast and I doubt that...Thing That Shall Not Be Named... would do much better. I'm sticking with the bacon anyway; the flavor was out of this world! I doubt anything called "caul" could do much better.<br />
<br />
...And then I don't have to explain to anyone that I wrapped their dinner in a caul.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI03lYo7ZdnE8v15efrzuLFN6-YITuqMpkUhaV2Gw2hTTz70jhkQ0zNIdSknYV7LrjKOuHtR9ig0PIzA06SjrLm3OT7b7SMhLwO66krtK0UenomrTi2OVcEl42oxwMA5HgdPRC/s1600/Pork+loin+sliced.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI03lYo7ZdnE8v15efrzuLFN6-YITuqMpkUhaV2Gw2hTTz70jhkQ0zNIdSknYV7LrjKOuHtR9ig0PIzA06SjrLm3OT7b7SMhLwO66krtK0UenomrTi2OVcEl42oxwMA5HgdPRC/s320/Pork+loin+sliced.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">1. The perfect size for a couple <i>that never hears from their sons for whom they sacrificed and slaved, obtaining gray hair and probably an ulcer, yet are never bitter or expectant of any gratitude for the 70 hours of labor she put into bringing said sons to life or the ENDLESS MONTHS OF HOMESCHOOLING SHE SPENT EXPLAINING THE DIFFERENCE AMONG "TO, TOO AND TWO" AND "THERE, THEIR AND THEY'RE;" </i>but a couple that does not want to confine their pork loin consumption to times when said ingrates deign to drop by expecting to be fed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">2. The only other reference I can think of to a "caul" is in the book David Copperfield -- apparently David is born with a "caul," which is eventually sold because people were evidently less squeamish and more superstitious. Since a "caul" is, basically, the afterbirth over the head of a baby that hadn't been pierced in the birth process, it hardly conjures culinary visions in my brain but, instead, sort makes me throw up a little in my mouth.</span>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-76530330617097385772015-09-19T18:34:00.000-04:002015-09-19T18:35:23.482-04:00The (not anything like Campbell's) Cream of Tomato Soup recipe<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2495" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Let's face it. I could write prose until I'm blue in the face and most people who know me would just say, "Knock it off and cook something."</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2495" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2495" style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">While writing is an aspiration, cooking I do okay -- save for a few pathetic stabs at vegetarianism in the 90s and some extremely frugal recipes requiring the addition of something called "texturized vegetable protein."*</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> It was a sad, sad time in Linguiniland.</span></span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2495" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2495" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And so...the Tomato Soup recipe. This is the one I made for the cafe. Notes follow.</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2495" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2495" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">7 cups crushed tomatoes</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2497" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1 cup shredded carrots</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2499" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">3/4 cup finely chopped onions</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2501" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1 (13.7-oz.) can chicken broth</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2503" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1 T. sugar</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2505" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">2 tsp. salt</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2507" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">3 T butter</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2509" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">3 T. flour</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" dir="ltr" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2511" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1 cup heavy cream (have used half-n-half successfully)</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2513" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">2 tsp. dry basil or 2 T. chopped fresh basil</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2515" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1/2 tsp. celery salt</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2517" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1/2 tsp. pepper]</span></div>
<div id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2486" style="font-size: 12px;">
</div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" dir="ltr" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2519" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1/4 tsp. garlic powder</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" dir="ltr" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2519" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2611" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sweat carrots and onions in olive oil. Add tomatoes, chicken broth, sugar and salt. Simmer for 30 minutes.</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2613" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2615" style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Cream mixture with immersible blender (or food processor or regular blender</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">1</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">).</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Add cream.</span></span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2617" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2619" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In a separate pot, melt butter and blend in flour. Add to soup and stir until thickened.</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2625" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2565" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" dir="ltr" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2627" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Add herbs and spices and simmer 1 hour. Taste to adjust seasonings.</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" dir="ltr" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2627" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" dir="ltr" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2627" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<u><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Just a few caveats:</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Since canned tomatoes differ so much between brands and I can't afford to choose one over the other, I don't always use the flour and butter to thicken the soup. If the tomatoes are thick enough, I just splash in the cream (you can use half-n-half too -- which I usually do, since that's what I have around).</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" dir="ltr" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2627" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" dir="ltr" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2627" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Also, the basil is going to vary widely, especially if it's fresh. The 2 T. is based on basil I grew. This last time I used fresh basil from the store and it took the whole package to get it to where I was happy. Just remember that, if you add more, let it simmer at least 10 minutes before tasting again.</span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" dir="ltr" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2627" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="yiv5936379934" dir="ltr" id="yiv5936379934yui_3_16_0_1_1442318546558_2627" style="margin: 0in;">
<div style="font-size: 11pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So there it is. Too much trouble for soup? After a while it become second nature and goes very quickly. Especially if you do it twice a week for a year or so...at 8 o'clock in the morning before the double shot espresso kicks in. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">*Back in the day, Texturized Vegetable Protein (TVP) was a staple in Linguiniland. TVP could replace meat in a myriad of re.cipes, but we only used it to reduce our meat bill as much as possible. By pairing TVP with deer meat( given to us by a member of our church who loved to hunt but whose wife could not bring herself to "eat Bambi"), I was able to slash our food bill to next to nothing ($75 a month for a family of 4). However, the TVP experience is a frequent subject of many nostalgic conversations between the Heirs, usually involving the frequency of bathroom use or as a gauge of how nauseous something made them; as in, "the food poisoning made me run for the bathroom more than TVP;" or "the flu made me throw up more than TVP." Through it all, I insist, <i>I was a good mother.</i></span></div>
Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-79440839487732691292015-08-23T13:31:00.000-04:002015-08-23T17:24:04.888-04:00On Being an Introvert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I am so glad that being an introvert has become fashionable. At least, I assume it has -- one can never tell whether what you are interested in has become popular, or if it's just showing up a lot on your Facebook feed because of your interest. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
At any rate, it turns out that being an introvert is okay now. </div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS_QXsQ8cX9bCgjltyOC98o6SBFEt6LXBQghn5T7hNubR0yk89Z1w" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for introvert people" border="0" height="217" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS_QXsQ8cX9bCgjltyOC98o6SBFEt6LXBQghn5T7hNubR0yk89Z1w" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
"But, Sisiggy," you say, "Here you are blathering on about being an introvert -- but you are blathering in a very public place -- the internet."<br />
<br />
Yes, but my original blather is as I sit at my computer alone (but for Topper-get-down on the bed spewing noxious fumes and Dirtman a few yards off muttering sport statistics that have no basis in my reality).<br />
<br />
This isn't about the obvious attributes of introversion, but the most common is that introverts find large gatherings draining -- which sounds to me like I'm being accused of snobbishness ("I find these people so <i>tedious</i>, Dah-ling!"). It is actually the opposite of that. I think, when faced with a large gathering, we introverts become extrovert-wanna-bes.<br />
<br />
What? You think we <i>want </i>to huddle in the back, pretending to be talking on our cell phones? (Prior to cell phones, the most we could do is dive into the bathroom.)<br />
<br />
I manage a teeny, tiny remote portion of a very large non-profit and, therefore, have to attend meetings where I know, if I'm lucky, only one or two people out of hundreds. I am there with my boss's directive to "network."<br />
<br />
Networking -- the person who invented this activity should have a flat tire on I-395 outside of Arlington at 5:30 p.m. on a Tuesday; they should encounter a locked bathroom a half hour after having consumed bad guacamole; they should get in a checkout line at the grocery store behind someone with a fistful of coupons, only some of which have not expired, requiring further examination on behalf of the clerk and the supervisor, called to pass judgement on the wording on several of the coupons.<br />
<br />
My boss is a networking superstar. She works a room like Auntie Mame and makes small talk sound like the Gettysburg Address. I am in awe of her as I follow her around, smiling politely as she introduces me, while the entire time I'm just thinking up an excuse to go home or, perhaps, go help out the caterers (thereby at least accomplishing something).<br />
<br />
This actually came in handy recently. I escaped during a break in a meeting where we were told to "introduce ourselves" to at least one other person from outside our department (since I'm a department of one, this meant everybody). I would argue, as an introvert, that this was not actually, then, a break, but a continuance of the tortuous interactive meeting. So I headed to my car with my phone plastered to my ear. Blessed silence! To fill out the time, I decide to clean out my glove compartment and noticed that I needed to print out a new insurance card.<br />
<br />
See? Introversion has it's purpose.<br />
<br />
Usually, though, when faced with such a meeting, I scan the room for someone like me -- usually sitting at the back row or table, pretending to be texting someone. This is where I will sit. We introverts have an understanding with each other. We will exchange names and, if asked, we will both have someone to refer to as "a connection" we made. Then we sit in silence and pray for the event to be over.<br />
<br />
Later, though, I always <i>swear</i> that next time I will enter the room with a, "Hello everybody!" And everyone will give an exclamation of delight as I enter the room, my arms outstretched to encompass all these people I consider friends -- because what extrovert doesn't consider as a friend every person with whom they've made eye contact?<br />
<br />
I will not have to introduce myself to anyone because everyone will be coming up to <i>me</i>, unable to resist the gravitational pull of my charm and folksy eloquence.<br />
<br />
And there I'll be, in the center of all those people...those people whose names I, of course, remember*...who expect me to...what? What do they expect of me? Read their expressions, right? That 's how you tell what they want from you. But they're all <i>smiling</i>. That's it. Smiling. And talking about...what? I can't understand what they are saying, they're all talking at once...saying things and <i>smiling</i>...<br />
<br />
It requires focus and listening. But it's always someone who talks too quietly and you lean in and still can't hear and ask, "What?" and still can't hear, then give up and just smile and nod until you notice a look of horror on their face and you realize that they've just related to you about their recently-deceased grandmother who raised them.<br />
<br />
Or they ask <i>me </i>a question. Oh no!<br />
<br />
I make a noise, nothing like speech. Like any good Italian, my mouth doesn't work without the aid of my hands. And I'm off, babbling and gesticulating like an idiot, running out of air at the end of sentences and laughing at my own stupid jokes. I go on and on because I don't know how to end it, so I say (and I'm not exaggerating; this is honestly how I've ended some of my more inane diatribes), "I'm done now."<br />
<br />
Then I chuckle, pretend to suddenly notice the refreshment table and say, "Oh! Water!" and hurry away.<br />
<br />
And speaking of the refreshment table, what demon of Satan's thought up the idea of having to eat, drink, stand up and talk, all at the same time? (I suspect it's the same person who came up with sing-alongs, high school gym class and those silly games they make you play at Tupperware parties -- all, ironically, activities at which extroverts excel.)<br />
<br />
So, you see, in a way, it's a blessing I'm an introvert. No one, not even the most annoying extrovert, should have to witness that embarrassment.<br />
<br />
So, Extroverts of the World, I have a deal for you: If you will just leave me alone when you see me sitting placidly off to the side at some event, next time I'm completing some mundane transaction like gassing up my car or buying a pizza, I won't punch you in the head when you command me to, "Smile!"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*I have, under pressure of speaking to someone I didn't know, forgotten the name of my husband. Recently. We've been married 27 years. And the question, "Is it 'Jean' or 'Jeanne'?" confused me because I didn't know who they were talking about.</span>Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-28427470420493839522015-08-10T14:35:00.001-04:002015-08-10T16:01:58.130-04:00Return of the NativeLet's face it -- I wasn't ready to return to New Jersey.<br />
<br />
I've known this for a long time and, out of respect for the citizens of that state, I've kept my distance. They don't need me timidly attempting to pull out onto freeway or holding up the line at the coffee kiosk asking the lady how she was today.<br />
<br />
But there comes a time where the longing to see loved ones trumps courtesy and, in this case, the gathering was a wedding.<br />
<br />
John Boy did all the driving, thus preventing traffic snarls as I white-knuckle my way in front of an 18-wheeler. And my early morning exuberance at the coffee counter resulted in a confused stare on the face of the barista. I realized I had this simpering smile on my face that is the requisite "you must like me" prelude to any public discourse in the south. But to her, I probably looked like I'd already downed way too many venti lattes along with half a bottle of Dexedrine.<br />
<br />
In spite of my insistence that I would <b><i>never</i></b> be assimilated by southern customs, I've slowed down considerably over the past 34 years. I've lost my edge.<br />
<br />
After walking the halls of my hotel looking for the ice machine, I finally gave up and called down to the front desk. The clerk gave me directions, yet I still could not find the machine, in spite of checking all three floors. So I called again and got a different clerk who told me they'd taken out the one ice machine in my area of the hotel to have it repaired. <i>Oops</i>! She forgot to tell the other clerk, she said anxiously, anticipating the anger that was sure to be coming her way.<br />
<br />
I apologized and thanked her. Even as I said it, I hated myself -- that cloying, "<i>thaaank youuuuuu!</i>" that ends every southern conversation ensuring that, had there been any misunderstanding during the previous discussion, it was unintentional and that all is well between the participants. It's a good way to keep the atmosphere laid back and friendly.<br />
<br />
But it doesn't get you ice at 10 o'clock at night in Morristown, NJ.<br />
<br />
Then there was the matter of my wardrobe. I'm afraid I've gotten a little behind in the wardrobe area. And I share the late Gilda Radner's idea of clothing: "I base my fashion taste on what doesn't itch." This has so far served me well because of my rural Virginia surroundings and complete lack of a social life.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0KO25_izJyWULqBnTFOnxUAJQQh6vWvN-SnPRsxjsB1FMsANyg70TKXIcuBO7e9vwYZNYYJfQ2nOl_ANzRUY2V3tOjjBe8Aq5crsSD-todvEf-R_MWwyvQiCTDZyzaD-5muEH/s1600/Gladys-Ormphby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0KO25_izJyWULqBnTFOnxUAJQQh6vWvN-SnPRsxjsB1FMsANyg70TKXIcuBO7e9vwYZNYYJfQ2nOl_ANzRUY2V3tOjjBe8Aq5crsSD-todvEf-R_MWwyvQiCTDZyzaD-5muEH/s200/Gladys-Ormphby.jpg" width="131" /></a></div>
<br />
Now, though, I was facing a weekend in New Jersey. There was talk of dinner at a real restaurant where people come to your table and serve you. Plus we would be seeing my Aunt Marie, who at 94 makes my wardrobe resemble that of Gladys Ormphby.<br />
<br />
...and a wedding.<br />
<br />
A wedding.<br />
<br />
I could pull together something for most of the weekend, but a wedding requires grown up clothing. A wedding was going to require...<br />
<br />
A Dress.<br />
<br />
One of those dresses that require panty hose and nice shoes and nice shoes means...<br />
<br />
Heels. <a href="http://www.linguiniontheceiling.blogspot.com/2006/02/well-heeled.html" target="_blank">Remember Heels?</a><br />
<br />
I have not worn any of those for over a decade. I used to brag about that fact and now it was biting me in the butt. Normal, responsible grownup women have at least one dress. They have dress shoes and do not groan at a 1-inch heel.<br />
<br />
Now here's the thing about buying a dress at my age and figure: you balance a very, very, very...I cannot exaggerate how very...fine line between going too far and not going far enough. Let me illustrate.<br />
<br />
Too far:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgr5GcKsHYLQ7VHNwhYD6hpyUIULkYr9NlQAKZbaYRxPZwt3tAjXmH5dDfNbRTGYNueswCZadhE8B5rU55NmWnA7DIMPnOgWdzstuZdd7QRINPp4KWCIyWynhy7ZFh0sJunON/s1600/Dame+Edna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgr5GcKsHYLQ7VHNwhYD6hpyUIULkYr9NlQAKZbaYRxPZwt3tAjXmH5dDfNbRTGYNueswCZadhE8B5rU55NmWnA7DIMPnOgWdzstuZdd7QRINPp4KWCIyWynhy7ZFh0sJunON/s1600/Dame+Edna.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Not far enough:</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4KCWHXURNI4KTkikQVcft9ZkTrEIa3lecKp7f-PdxhRp9KlCAEkreqdNwznj5vGLVnXt3_63T-QaGR1blM7TTrmZ_HekOJ6H4Rm-iQI-DQs89pRF-Dx08cyyc6OWzr9d_Wtl/s1600/old+lady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4KCWHXURNI4KTkikQVcft9ZkTrEIa3lecKp7f-PdxhRp9KlCAEkreqdNwznj5vGLVnXt3_63T-QaGR1blM7TTrmZ_HekOJ6H4Rm-iQI-DQs89pRF-Dx08cyyc6OWzr9d_Wtl/s1600/old+lady.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Because either extreme is rather disrespectful to the bride. Too loud and it's like you're trying to draw attention to yourself (I emphasize the word "trying," because nobody can really do that; but we pathological people-pleasers are very focused on making sure no one thinks we think that we think we can). Too low-key and it's as if you just didn't care or, worse, have gone into mourning for the event.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
At this point, I can tell you, I know what you are thinking. How? Because it was at this point in my thought process, which manifests itself in my stalking about and muttering to myself, that Dirtman summed it all up with the phrase, "You may be over-thinking this."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And so I bought a dress that wasn't black and didn't itch.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And I brought along a back up pair of flat sandals to slip on at the reception. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And my Aunt Marie and I were too happy to see each other to even consider anybody's apparel.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And I was too busy stuffing my face with really, really, really...I cannot exaggerate how really...good Indian food and enjoying my cousins' and brother's company to even think about my ensemble.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And the second morning when I visited the coffee kiosk, the same barista greeted me with a big smile and said, "How are <b><i>you</i></b> this morning?"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Never did fill the ice bucket, though.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And I'm <b><i>still </i></b>not ready to return to New Jersey. And I won't be ready when I go back.</div>
Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-16267369275546807332015-01-12T12:36:00.000-05:002015-01-12T16:50:59.976-05:00"Got Your Glasses? Got Your Teeth"orWhat Goes Around Comes AroundI heard it whenever my mother or my aunts went anywhere with my grandmother. We'd all be ready to head out the door and, just before we stepped outside one of them would ask her, "You got your glasses? You got your teeth?"<br />
<br />
It was as common a phrase to me as "see ya later" or "drive carefully" and part of the ritual of traveling with Gramma. She would put on her black and white tweed coat then drop a clean handkerchief into her purse, which would snap shut with a waft of violet (the only gum she ever chewed) while one of her daughters would wait patiently by the door. And then, <i>"Got your glasses? Got your teeth?"</i><br />
<br />
It's not like Gramma needed either one of those all the time. The glasses were reading glasses and the teeth were only a bridge that fit way in the back of her mouth that no one could readily tell whether it was in there or not.<br />
<br />
When I was very small I wondered what cataclysm had occurred that this was the ultimate question prior to leaving. Not, "Got your driver's license?" "Got enough money to get where you are going and back?" What horrible thing happened in the past that remembering glasses and teeth prevented?<br />
<br />
When I got older, though, I was embarrassed for my grandmother. It wasn't like she was senile or even forgetful. She was sharp as a tack and quite feisty. In fact, I can't figure out why she allowed the indignity of the questions in the first place. Usually anyone questioning her got a, "don't tell <i>me...</i>"<i> </i>Think: an Italian Miss Daisy.<br />
<br />
So, to this day, I really don't get what started the two questions and why they were allowed to become part of our lexicon.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to present day.<br />
<br />
Personally, all my teeth are my own and, unless I'm sleeping, my glasses are always on my face. For the record.<br />
<br />
Dirtman, however, has a cap on one of his front teeth and recently that cap has succumbed to a particularly nasty habit he has of chewing tobacco. He will argue this point and say the cap coming off has nothing to do with the Skoal but, let's face it -- it can't help. And I will use any excuse to scold him for this particular habit. The fact is, the cap fell out and we don't have dental insurance or the money to fix it. So he uses denture fixative to keep the tooth in (and prevent us from making fun of him).<br />
<br />
On top of this, since only one of the lenses in Dirtman's glasses is of any use (he is blind in one eye), he has taken to not wearing his glasses a whole lot when he is working at home. Since I do most of our driving (you're welcome), he can go days without having to put his glasses on.<br />
<br />
And so it happened. The Heirs came for a visit and, since I had some free coupons, we decided to go to one of our local vineyards and do a wine tasting.<br />
<br />
I must admit, my goal whenever I leave the house is only that I'm somewhat tidy and don't smell. But when we visit places like a winery, I do tend to succumb to cultural pressures and try to look a little less like a homeless person and more like a middle class person who can actually afford a bottle of the wines she is tasting -- in other words, I put a scarf around my neck because that seems to be the thing.<br />
<br />
Dirtman has no such aspirations. In fact, Dirtman enjoys testing the limits of what society will allow. He is true counterculuralist -- an individual; a nonconformist. He would never be caught dead wearing a scarf around his neck. Or combing his hair. Or...<br />
<br />
Okay, I'll say it: we have to check on Dirtman before he walks out the door. As a public service.<br />
<br />
And that is why, as Heir 1 turned the knob to leave for the winery I said to Dirtman, "Got your glasses? Got your teeth?"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYKKFow8wRNWkCg0QDMZICdIeL9ZzSH1nhYpfuVqeOPCc-JMXzOAscthvEmoW1tSiuEBm9ICKbLzr8WfxtKa3ZVTIQZzWMJOPEOXCA-tuJMPSwjxGukLI4IPBkikGswQZr-xO/s1600/DSC_0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYKKFow8wRNWkCg0QDMZICdIeL9ZzSH1nhYpfuVqeOPCc-JMXzOAscthvEmoW1tSiuEBm9ICKbLzr8WfxtKa3ZVTIQZzWMJOPEOXCA-tuJMPSwjxGukLI4IPBkikGswQZr-xO/s1600/DSC_0011.JPG" height="320" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Glasses AND Teeth</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Heirs looked at me as I must have looked at my mother and my aunts.<br />
<br />
I almost wish it was still the custom to bury people in family crypts. Because that is what I would have carved in the lintel over the door.Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-43042259985842994202014-10-10T16:41:00.000-04:002014-10-10T16:41:56.374-04:00On 27 Years of Marriage<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaxuHU5Boqmlph4qKWbdX9mWZjKVGs0im9cm-_nzooTi6a8aBm5kDC1rqZXpa27vVldkkKR9mM6ZlFGxatDcqTW43qOLxVIIz5JKVivPO0Yfq1KIh8O_JaGIZemyK8T1U-0wAB/s1600/Wedding+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: x-small; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaxuHU5Boqmlph4qKWbdX9mWZjKVGs0im9cm-_nzooTi6a8aBm5kDC1rqZXpa27vVldkkKR9mM6ZlFGxatDcqTW43qOLxVIIz5JKVivPO0Yfq1KIh8O_JaGIZemyK8T1U-0wAB/s1600/Wedding+003.jpg" height="289" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Thinner, more attractive...and very, very stupid</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anniversaries tend to uncork all sorts of sloppy sentimentality that almost loses its meaning in triteness. And, yes, I know how cynical that sounds.<br />
<br />
Let's just say I don't do goo and treacle and I really don't want to be trite. As of 1 p.m. today, I've been married 27 years and, quite frankly, it hasn't been all <i>Ozzie and Harriet</i> and <i>The Cosbys</i> around here. To cheapen the journey by saying "It's been a wild ride" -- or something equally dismissive -- seems disingenuous.<br />
<br />
I'll admit that I married for the romance. It really <i>was </i>going to be "a wild ride." I wasn't going to let life turn me and my husband into just an old married couple marking time until death. We were going to be foxtrotting into our elder years without ever resorting to polyester clothing or early bird specials. I would be his obsession and he would be my rock. We would have explosively spectacular fights and monumental reconciliations.We would be F. Scott and Zelda (before the insanity); Tracey and Hepburn (without the adultery); Bogart and Bacall (without the spousal abuse).<br />
<br />
Then we grew up and life happened. I found out that when life kicks you in the gut, you don't have time to look like Lauren Bacall or Katherine Hepburn or have the words to express what you are feeling like F. Scott Fitzgerald. This is when it stops being a "wild ride" and starts being dragged down a gravel road hooked to a speeding car.<br />
<br />
When life kicks you in the gut you look like hell and you sound like an insane maniac, and sometimes you say and do things you never thought you would say or do, let alone to someone you love. I know, in the teeth of the storm, I retreat into myself; the shades get drawn and my "pithy sarcasm" turns nasty and bitter. Chuck, meanwhile, lives in a happy state of denial and watches a lot of "Restaurant Impossible."<br />
<br />
Every couple has their process.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
And you love each other through it all, at the base of it all, even when you wouldn't call it love. It's when you have to <i>remember </i>to love; when, for me, I resort to my faith (Matthew 18:21-22) and my belief in the institution of marriage as something that you commit to not only for "worse," but even the worst of the worse*.<br />
<br />
Perhaps there are couples who will attest to having the type of relationship I aspired to 27 year ago. If you do, God bless -- I pray you are never tested. I don't say that to be condescending. I say it because I doubt there is any couple that has a marriage that has never been challenged by something. And I say it because I am a better person and we are a stronger couple for the testing.<br />
<br />
So if you were expecting some sentimental goo about 27 years of marriage, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I'll keep my sentimentality between me and Chuck -- because he won't tell anyone that I'm not the erudite pragmatist I pretend to be.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*...okay, of course abuse would be an exception; but not even a flicker of consideration in my</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">case because, frankly, I can take him.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div>
Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-79127444650020652202014-08-31T14:22:00.000-04:002014-08-31T14:22:32.894-04:00Back-to-school Shoes<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiypILjG2IEj4a7F1GzUQNHgqXzoy49H6q-Y6IMJ0m7aB79Fgp0yXhGHQMywnUbrQ4ykiyasqNzmqC-ZofpaeF9es7h40m5rNG0n8W9u2Dr1ob0TmAmQSR5bn0YA7TZgs2Z9xss/s1600/lutherville+64+03+jeanne+reduced+res.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiypILjG2IEj4a7F1GzUQNHgqXzoy49H6q-Y6IMJ0m7aB79Fgp0yXhGHQMywnUbrQ4ykiyasqNzmqC-ZofpaeF9es7h40m5rNG0n8W9u2Dr1ob0TmAmQSR5bn0YA7TZgs2Z9xss/s1600/lutherville+64+03+jeanne+reduced+res.jpg" height="266" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Note: Ugly back-to-school shoes</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Why haven't I bought my back-to-school shoes?<br />
<br />
Why, at 57 years old, do I still at this time of year look forward to buying what were usually the ugliest shoes ever to come out of the mind of humans? Because, back when I got "back-to-school shoes," they had to be sturdy and functional; patent leather mary janes were for church and Keds (and PF Flyers) were for gym class. But school shoes were dark, leather and ugly and I got a new pair every fall.<br />
<br />
And so, every Labor Day weekend in those moments just before dropping off to sleep or just waking up, my mind prepares itself for the first day of school. You know, back when the school supply list consisted of: a cigar box (seriously -- in first grade we asked the druggist for actual cigar boxes, which he nicely saved up throughout the year; in later years, you could get cigarbox-shaped boxes that were sold with school supplies), a pack of six crayons, a jar of paste and No. 2 pencils. In fourth grade I was excited that "ball point pens" were added to the list.<br />
<br />
Was I the only one who insisted on wearing my new back-to-school clothes on the first day of school...and then sweated through the day because that's what you do when it's 89 degrees out and you're wearing corduroy and a sweater?<br />
<br />
When I see kids board the bus these days, it seems so odd to me that there was a time where girls couldn't wear pants to school and boys couldn't wear jeans. No one was allowed to wear sneakers anywhere but in the gym. If you lived within a half mile of the school, you walked or rode your bike. If you rode a bus, you walked a block or so to the bus stop. Do they even have bike racks at schools anymore?<br />
<br />
Side Note: <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/features/archive/2014/03/hey-parents-leave-those-kids-alone/358631/" target="_blank">This article</a> from <i>The Atlantic</i> should be a must-read for all parents. I'm not saying we should allow our kids to ride their bikes behind the mosquito-spray truck (Umm...explains a lot, huh?) -- but playground equipment these days looks about a much fun as a handicap ramp at your grandmother's internist's office and, for God's sake, when did the school bus start this door-to-door service?<br />
<br />
Autumn is bearing down on us and, while others are thinking in terms of apple-picking, raking leaves and pumpkins, I just remember the stress of that first day with all its dread and optimism, its jockeying for position in the classroom and its forming of hierarchies in the playground. And I remember getting home and feeling like I'd gotten something over with and now I could go back to my carefree summer life, only to realize I had to get up and do it all again the next day. And the day after that.<br />
<br />
Mostly, though, I think of the new shoes...the ugly new shoes, glowing with cleanliness and not yet broken in, molding my feet to it's structure and eating away at my old worn socks.Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-66812110608563370342014-08-28T12:22:00.000-04:002014-08-28T12:32:13.334-04:00The ALS Bucket Challenge and Snarky Memes<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqn0hKOLCUnBu_3a97Xl0PU-tcgAKSlKiZi_jy0FljOXrmf1i91wM04FxFwCjGBOXId6e56FVonKwhaYfozJRSsGJPMtNfEO46HOJQMiUUPliZoT2E9kE3K7RaCMxNb0TB8Fkh/s1600/Ice-Bucket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqn0hKOLCUnBu_3a97Xl0PU-tcgAKSlKiZi_jy0FljOXrmf1i91wM04FxFwCjGBOXId6e56FVonKwhaYfozJRSsGJPMtNfEO46HOJQMiUUPliZoT2E9kE3K7RaCMxNb0TB8Fkh/s1600/Ice-Bucket.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a><b><u><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Lifespan of a Trend</span></u></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">First there are the accolades: "What a great idea! Hope it catches on!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then there is the excitement: "Let's all do it!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then there is the peak: "We're all doing it!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The tapering off: "We're <i>all </i>doing it."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The trickling off: "Sorry I'm late with this, but now I (your grandmother) will now do this."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To ambivalence: "Are we <i>still </i>doing this?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Denial: "<i><u>I</u></i> never felt the need to do this."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And, finally, the hate: "What sort of idiot does this?"</span><br />
<br />
If you don't want to do the ALS Bucket Challenge, don't. If you don't want to give to ALS research, then don't.<br />
<br />
Nobody cared about the California drought before this, including the many golf courses and green lawns found throughout that state. The ALS Bucket Challenge is not causing the California drought or threatening the water supply in Africa.<br />
<br />
You can't deny, though, that this "stunt" raised plenty of money to combat a horrible disease. That is a good thing -- get it? Disease: Bad. Curing bad disease: Good.<br />
<br />
Do you have some problem you want eradicated for which you need to raise money? Try just asking people. I guarantee you won't get far.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Involve </i>them in the effort and you'd be surprised.<br />
<br />
That's why people run 5Ks or walk around a track all night long for cancer research. That's why people walk 20 miles around their own town for environmental causes.<br />
<br />
So, please, enough with the snarky memes on YouTube and Facebook. Certainly there are more constructive things to be angry at than caring citizens who are just having a little fun while doing a little good.<br />
<br />
Besides, if I thought it would raise enough money for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/CornucopiaVolunteerFarmFoundation?ref=bookmarks" target="_blank">the farm</a>, I'd be <i>happy </i>to dump a bucket of ice water over Dirtman's head!Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19248290.post-52176166912676428352014-08-24T13:38:00.000-04:002014-08-24T13:38:18.723-04:00Lost Shih Tzus<i>ALERT: The following blatherings contain spoilers of all six seasons of the TV show <u>Lost</u>. That's right -- four years after the series ended, I've finally gotten around to watching and commenting on it. So goes my life: four years late with something no one cares about anymore.</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh, <u>Lost</u>! You left me unfulfilled. But you didn't kill the dog.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was quite adament about not watching <u>Lost </u>when it first came out. Back then, in 2004, I was fighting a losing battle with media in general and network TV was my last stand. I began hearing all kinds of buzz about the show but, by the time it became evident that it was not just the usual media hype, too many seasons had passed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So much has been said about the series, I almost decided not to write about it at all. After all, there was so much speculation while the series was on and, from what I've managed to glean on line, plenty of kvetching when it ended. What could struggling writer from Virginia have to add to the dialogue.<br />
<br />
I happened to bring up the fact that I was watching <u>Lost </u>during dinner with my extended family. I had only two episodes to go at the time and, while everyone politely asked me how I was enjoying the show, they refused to discuss it any further until I finished watching the last two episodes.<br />
<br />
"Just tell me one thing -- yes or no," I said. "Do the Shih Tzus mean anything?"<br />
<br />
<i>(Crickets chirping)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
No one had noticed the Shih Tzus. I went on line and Googled "TV Show Lost and Shih Tzus" and nothing came up other than the image of Hurley wearing the "I (heart) my Shih Tzu" t-shirt from season 5.<br />
<br />
So there it is. I can comment on the Shih Tzus. First, the "I (heart) my Shih Tzu" iron-on transfer is seen on a piece of cloth in the wreckage of the airplane in Season 1. Then the t-shirt Hurley purchases and wears (that can now be purchased and worn, but only ironically) and then there is the Shih Tzu painting that is dragged out of Jacob's cabin in, I think, Season 6.<br />
<br />
My brother John Boy pointed out that I am, perhaps, the only one who would have noticed that. And, granted, I am more predisposed than most to noticing dog-related themes. I spent all six seasons worried that they might kill off Vincent the dog, only to be ticked off in the end because he didn't get to be dead with the rest of them. I guess he's back on the island...or maybe in some metaphysical way, he's wherever Walt went.<br />
<br />
But back to the Shih Tzus. The reason I was so fixated on the Shih Tzus was that I had begun to notice a whole lot of little themes, most pretty heavy-handed (like those chocolate bars), some more subtle (<i>two </i>Mama Cass songs? Bet the ASCAP guys were scrambling for the last one.), and some that hinted at a complexity heretofore unheard of on network television (The Geronimo Jackson album that shows up several times, hinting that the Dharma people tried to replicate moder culture, but didn't quite get it right). Then there were the people showing up on the island <i>and </i>in the survivors' backstories. There were hints that the airplane passengers had been connected even <i>before </i>the crash.<br />
<br />
I can't tell you how anxious I was for the last episode when I would <i>finally</i> find out about the Shih Tzus...and also about what, precisely, was so special about Walt that <i>they spent the entire season building up to</i> and where a loser like John Locke learned all his survival skills like knife-throwing and tracking.<br />
<br />
So I sat through the endless treks through the forest, countless women in labor (am I the only one who could only say, "oh,no..." whenever they saw someone in the show was pregnant?), that whole Jack-Kate-Sawyer soap opera, the inexplicable arguments everytime they needed a medical supply that was in Sawyer's tent (45 people couldn't gang up on the guy? They couldn't storm the tent when he went off to pee?), and the never-ending fist fights where men were punched in the face, but noses and jaws were never broken.<br />
<br />
I figured the last episode would blow me away because that storyline about Desmond and time and Daniel Faraday the physicist with his all-knowing mother was potentially brilliant! <i>Brilliant</i>, I tell you! Here were all these bits and bobs of pseudo-scientific gobble-dee-gook swirling around that would all fit into the gigantic puzzle!<br />
<br />
And in the center of that puzzle would be the Shih Tzus.<br />
<br />
And so I sat in that stupid temple with the dirty water unnecessarily long and waited. I waited through a slapped-together ancient backstory with YET ANOTHER WOMAN IN LABOR.<br />
<br />
Then, The Last Episode. I waited through gauzy, over-processed sappy love connections (did the writers think all the viewers were sixteen-year-old girls?). I waited while people were picked up and dropped off in a storyline about as interesting as a AAA Triptik.<br />
<br />
Finally, everyone assembled in the church. Bright lights. The End.<br />
<br />
Wait!<br />
<br />
What about Michael?<br />
<br />
Why do only couples go to heaven? (except Boone, but he had that creepy sister thing going on, so maybe that was his...ahem...love interest?)<br />
<br />
When did Penelope Widmore die?<br />
<br />
For that matter, when did Hurley, Ben, Kate, Miles and Lapides die?<br />
<br />
Who is in charge of the Island?<br />
<br />
Where is Miles and Lapides?<br />
<br />
<i>What was the point?</i><br />
<br />
What? Did the writers get tired of writing or did they make their storyline so complicated, even <i>they </i>couldn't figure it out? My neat, tidy puzzle ended up being a box of puzzle pieces, only half of which belong in the actual puzzle.<br />
<br />
AND WHERE ARE VINCENT AND THE SHIH TZUS?</div>
Sisiggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12187439975974001825noreply@blogger.com1