Linguini on the Ceiling

A little baking humor...very little

2012-01-11T13:57:00.001-05:00

If I'm given a drug test within the next 48 hours, I would test positive for heroin.

I'm streamlining a recipe for lemon poppy seed scones and have been taste-testing all day.

So I suppose I would not get whatever job I'd be drug-tested for because I was.....

...wait for it...

SCONED!!!!!!

BWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

(I'm very tired.)

It ain't all dreamin' the dream...

2012-01-08T17:42:00.000-05:00

Cash registers, bookkeeping, cleaning fluids, purchase orders -- this weekend we dealt with some of the less glamorous aspects of opening a cafe; only because there is nothing else we can do.

We are in limbo while we wait for counters to be built and equipment to arrive. So while we wait, we perform the tasks that are the least amount of fun -- made obvious by the fact that there was very little lighthearted banter going on; just a roomful of bad-tempered people hunched over their own little projects suddenly emitting exclamatory profanity, like there was a sudden Tourette's epidemic.

My biggest accomplishment this weekend was teaching myself the ins and outs of our computerized cash register and obsessing over whether we should at any point offer biscuits and sausage gravy in the morning breakfast service. You'd be surprised how easily your mind can get stuck on biscuits and sausage gravy at 3 a.m. It made me realize how much of a problem I'm going to have putting items on the menu that I don't personally like myself. I guarantee, kale will never cross the threshold of the Courthouse Corner Cafe.

Dirtman tore down, cleaned and put back together the expresso machine and two coffee grinders. After several phone calls and flooding the front service area, he wrangled our first cup of expresso out of the machine. It was...um...special*.

DG was online ordering the last few big ticket items and watching the cafe's bank balance dwindle. He could be heard whimpering as he shook his head nervously. In the afternoon, we left him waving distractedly and muttering. By the time we got back home he'd turned a very strange corner and was sending me bizarre e-mails with bad puns on "barristers" and "baristas."

The Twin Prodigy (DG's sons) got the most visible work done -- they cleaned and fixed all the ceiling fans and lights both inside and out of the building.

And they tried to drink the expresso.

Now, if we could only settle on a font for our logo...**

*In all fairness, Dirtman didn't have real expresso beans to work with, nor could he find the tamper for the grounds. He just wanted to get the machine clean and working.
**We're all waiting on DG, for whom this seems to be a matter requiring a significant amount of meditation and consideration.

Crazy Scary

2012-01-05T16:38:00.000-05:00

I was ready for them this time: The naysayers, the predictors of doom and those who "just want to let you know we care" by listing every calamity that can possibly befall people who have the audacity to test Frost's road less traveled.

The Cafe

I wasn't quite as prepared for the level of terror I experienced when for the first time I decided not to listen.

I'm writing about this very personal feeling because I know I'm not alone in this. These dreams, these crazy, seemingly-unattainable dreams we have when we complete the sentence, "Wouldn't it be wonderful if..."; these dreams we can imagine so vividly, they make our pulse speed and keep us up at night...until that conservative voice of reason kicks in.

I think this is where most dreams die; before they're even uttered out loud or see the light of day.

Some, though, survive...weakened but still viable. And that's when the naysayers and predictors of doom deliver that final coup de grace.

As a people pleaser and dysfunctionally obsessive Good Girl, I've always done what I was told. There is safety in listening to what other claim to know more about (everything) than you, because you never have to hear, "I told you so." That way, though I've never gotten anywhere, I could stay the Good Girl everyone liked (predictability is always like, isn't it?).

And, let's face it, the naysayers have history and tradition going for them -- there is a reason everybody takes the path of safety -- most of the time it doesn't lead to calamity. (Though, I gotta say..."the path of safety" has been, for us, a minefield. So there is not much to recommend "doing what everyone does" to us.)

Which brings us to that weed-riddled, rocky path upon which we decided to embark -- opening a cafe during a recession. Or, insert your own seemingly wacky endeavor that seems to annoy everyone around you singing the praises of the status quo. For us it's a cafe.

This is another reason why, in the past, I've always done whatever is safest.

Terror.

There is no other way to put it.

Terror is very different from intuition. Intuition goes much deeper. Terror reacts to the cues in front of it. Terror drowns out intuition.

This is terrifying. It's terrifying to not do as expected. It's terrifying to do something that lacks the safety net of working for someone else in a field that is a sure thing. It's terrifying to be placing something that is so personally produced by me up for sale; up for others' judgement.

I think both Dark Garden and I counted on the fact that we were doing this together to waylay some of that fear. We appeared to each other so confident. I figured he was sure of himself, we must be okay. I seemed just as sure to him, so he figured the same.

... and then we had to commit. And we looked at each other and realized no matter what, we were going to have to muster a type of courage we had never tapped into before. Oh sure, it took courage to go through some of the challenges my family has over come in the past few years. And God knows, as a cop, courage is DG's stock-in-trade.

This is different, though. It's a different kind of fear and requires a different kind of courage. And I don't think there is any getting around it. You either let it stop you or you just let it flow while you do what you have to do.

And so yesterday we closed on the cafe. For myself, once it was a done deal, the terror subsided to a dull twinge and I was offered another option: Excitement. Oh, there is still that scared part of me that nudges every now and then, but I let the excitement drown it out.

I feel like the elderly Isak Dinesen reminiscing at the beginning of Out of Africa*: "I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills."

I have a cafe in Romney at the foot of the West Virginia Appalachian Mountains.

*Perhaps, more appropriately is this: "...the Earth was made round so that we would not see too far down the road."

Dear 2012...

2012-01-01T10:30:00.000-05:00

Dear 2012,

Happy Birthday.

That's right. No exclamation point. I will acknowledge the day, but I haven't been able to muster the enthusiasm of an exclamation point for you or you siblings for a few years. I think my disenchantment with your family began back when your brother 2008 arrived, all cuddly and cute and pretending to be just another year until May*, when it suddenly turned into a psychopathic monster threatening to destroy our lives.

Ironically, when your sibling 2009 was born Dirtman and I still celebrated by clinking glasses, shrugging our shoulders and saying, "Well, at least it can't get any worse!"

What the hell were we thinking? Was there ever a phrase more guaranteed to bring down the wrath of God, the gods and any minor imps within hearing range?

Whatever the reason, I don't remember ever experiencing a year so defiant and stubborn, so unwilling to work well with its predecessors, so unwilling to work for the greater good. By the time December rolled around we were more than ready to kick 2009's annuated arse out the door.

Little did we know that we'd miss 2009's up front, in-your-face hijinks. We'd learned our lesson about trying to approach the new arrival of 2010 with unfettered optimism; but, secretly we hoped that 2010 would be more like her older siblings -- cooperative, understanding, sensitive to our weaknesses. In the beginning she was there everyday, pressed and dressed and ready to take on the world. But she really didn't do much for anybody, certainly not for us. In the end, she'd turned pretty nasty in a scary, stalker sort of way.

We were afraid to forcibly do anything about 2010, but were relieved when she up and left of her own accord to make way for her brother, 2011 -- the demon spawn. More wily and cunning than any of its siblings, 2011 baited us with a false sense of security. It pretended to be our friend. It showed us a glimpse of rosy future and assured us it's what fate had in store for us. We believed in 2011 and enthusiastically hopped aboard his optimism train.

You know those Road Runner cartoons where Wile E. Coyote is speeding along and Road Runner paints a tunnel on a rock dead end? That's where 2011 led us.

So here you are, 2012, expecting a big party and happy revelers. Well, I don't think so. We're a little tired of you and your tyrannical siblings showing up here every January 1 to knock us around like you're the boss of us. You can just let yourself in this year, park your butt in the corner and keep your mouth shut.

This time I'm in charge.

Sincerely,
Sisiggy

P.S. Since when do you show up at someone's home without a hostess gift?

*The incident of 2008 has been linked ad nauseum and I'm reluctant to make it my first link of the New Year. Besides, just about everyone knows the story, but for those who don't I will insert a very tiny one here. I hope it won't stir up any bad karma...

My life with pasta

2011-12-29T16:08:00.001-05:00

Homemade ravioli for Christmas dinner

Lately I'm all about homemade pasta. You would think this activity would be in my DNA or something. Don't all Eye-talians know how to make pasta and sing opera?

Frankly, though, I had to teach myself like anybody else.

I didn't grow up eating a whole lot of fresh pasta. Occasionally my grandmother would take a day and make homemade noodles to go with chicken soup. This was before pasta machines were available to just anybody. She'd roll out the dough herself, fold it up and cut it into thin strips. Then she'd lay a tablecloth out on my parents' queen-size bed, dust it with flour and shake each batch out to dry until dinner time.

Oh -- and she kept the bedroom door closed so the dog wouldn't get the noodles. I, however, had opposable thumbs (still do!). So I would try to sneak in and eat the raw noodles...oh, how I loved the raw noodles...more than the cooked ones. Of course, if I got caught I incurred the wrath of my grandmother, who was convinced I was going to get worms from eating raw dough. I've lived to tell the tale -- wormless.

I do recall, that as she got older, the noodles got thicker and thicker until they more like dumplings; good dumplings -- but still not the tender, toothsome strands they were supposed to be. And for the most part, when she made chicken noodle soup, the pasta of choice was acini de pepe out of a box.

I would occasionally make homemade pasta when the kids were growing up -- usually on days they weren't home and it was just Dirtman and me. It takes a long time to make, roll out and shape enough pasta for four people, particularly when they're used to filling their bowls to over flowing. My success in those days was erratic -- sometimes it flowed smoothly and was delicious; sometimes it was an exhausting nightmare of tight, unyielding dough with an ultimate mediocre texture; sometimes the whole thing wound up in the trash.

I didn't begin to enjoy making pasta until the Christmas Dirtman bought me the pasta-making attachment for my blender (Dirtman will happily buy me all the kitchen equipment I want. Recently at K-Mart he tried to foist a fryer on me). I don't know why this is, because a pasta machine only does half the work of pasta-making -- the shaping. And the shaping is the easy part if you've put together a proper dough.

Having read up on the subject and following the directions of countless different methods, I'm convinced the only way to learn to make pasta is to just make pasta. I've worked with the step-by-step directions in front of my face -- directions written out carefully by someone whose handiwork I'd admired -- and had to, at some point, just let The Force take over. Whether it's because it really is in my DNA or whether it was because I just relaxed at this point and enjoyed the process, I've never had trouble since.

Today I'm making lasagna noodles (and the lasagna). Two batches should be more than enough -- I prefer making a lot of smaller batches than a single large batch. When I work with too much, the pasta is always tough; and, honestly, I just love the feel of that nice, smooth little lump of pasta dough sliding like silk on the board. (I wish there was a job where I could do nothing all day but knead dough -- bread dough, pasta dough, whatever; love to knead dough).

It's something I'd like to see incorporated into the cafe on a limited basis -- say, fresh noodles for the chicken and beef noodle soups. It's a little fiddly and I certainly wouldn't commit to fresh pasta dishes if we were a full-service restaurant (God bless restaurants that do!). But a couple of days a week, a couple of batches of noodles shouldn't be too much fuss.

There's got to be a morning after

2011-12-26T14:20:00.001-05:00

At around 8 p.m. Christmas Day, I start looking forward to December 26.

Please realize, I love hosting these big holiday get-togethers and, as strange as we all are, we're a fun bunch to be around. The current game of choice is called The Game of Things where you are given a category (say, "Things you might say during a lull in the conversation") and everyone's written answer is read out loud. You then have to guess who said which "thing." Needless to say, the Linguini version defies my attempts to keep the answers on high ground. Our gaming always lasts into the wee hours, this after an already hectic day. I truly love every minute of it.

But, whereas Christmas Day has required a month of logistical planning to produced a carefully-choreographed balance of feast, activity and sentimentality, the day after is a clean slate defying any attempts at scheduling or formality.

Only Dirtman had to drag himself out to work and I wasn't exactly pressed, dressed and faithfully waving goodbye to him from the front door. As I recall, having poured myself a second cup of coffee, I had sunk back into bed with TCM on low and only woke up briefly when he kissed me goodbye and assuaged my guilt by "ordering" me to stay in bed today and rest.

Well, if you insist...

Heating up my third cup of coffee made me the most active person remaining in the house, since the Heirs hadn't yet touched foot to floor. Later, while shoving a stale Christmas cookie into my mouth to go with the third cup of coffee, I noticed Heir 2, sleeping on the couch for the holidays, checking his e-mail from his lap top. He mumbled something I took to be "Good morning." I didn't bother to correct him on his assumption of the time of day and returned to bed, turning on the Food Network.

They had great recipes I have no intention of cooking today. Have another stale cookie.

Oh...and all that rich food that seemed such a good idea yesterday? Forget it. I just want a salad. There is a head of romaine lettuce and a bag of scallions in the crisper that I could cut up.

Instead I stand at the refrigerator, eat a cold leftover shrimp and take a spoonful of the leftover tiramasu that didn't set properly. I grab another stale cookie and go back to bed.

I am reminded by Zsa Zsa that I have dogs and that they require my opening the door for them to relieve themselves. Her nudge and stare make me feel guilty and I feel worse when I notice the water bowl is empty. Even Whiskers the cat is looking at me like I'm scum.

I let the dogs out, fill the water dish, and let them all back in.

It's nap time for the dogs. And me. I've worked hard.

There are stirrings in the kitchen. The Heirs have woken up hungry. I told them about the salad they could make, but they come in munching on the last of the cookies that were left out.

Heir 2 mentions setting up the Blu-Ray player John Boy brought us yesterday. Then he crawls back onto the couch. Heir 1 heads to his bedroom with leftover bacon-wrapped scallops and a glass of milk. He points out that the scallops were wrapped with water chestnuts and that the water chestnuts were the only vegetable we've had in two days. I reminded him that the tortilla chips had corn in them and the queso dip had tomatoes. I am a good mother.

Okay. Maybe I'll make up that salad for everyone.

Later.

After a nap.

Priorities*

2011-12-24T09:18:00.000-05:00

We have come to accept that, during the holiday season, we won't be able to get a whole lot done toward opening our cafe. Our excitement over this new venture is not shared by the various bureaucratic agencies through whose hoops we are required to jump.We're waiting for our FEIN; they're kvetching over their chintzy Secret Santa gift.

There is another dark cloud tempering our enthusiasm -- I need to find housing closer to the cafe. Rentals, even for the most pathetic hovel, are exorbitant and, even in a rural area and with dogs as wonderful as mine, it's hard to find someone to rent to a pet owner.

This is not the cabin, only a facsimile of where I may be spending my off hours

Still, we soldier on, which lead to the following e-mail exchange between me and Dark Garden, who you need to know is a captain in his county's sheriff's department and their head investigator.

Me: Come whenever on Christmas. I'm doing a ham and it'll just be an all-day buffet.

DG: Don't know about this weekend right now. Caught a murder this morning. Old, rickety cabin -- two-week old body was found (what follows is a stomach churning account of smells and fluids that DG can't help but go into detail about, but that I will spare you the detail of)...so this place is falling apart and we had to pull the body out and...(more details of limbs and corpse transportation). I'll let you know later today.

Me: So...........................................................................................................................................................
..............................................................there's a cabin available?

*I'll bet you thought this post was going to be a lot deeper.

In keepin' with the situation...*

2011-12-23T10:59:00.002-05:00

We have had some wild Christmases; we've had some quiet Christmases; we've had some weird Christmases; and we've had some really sucky Christmases.

I've decided to call this year's holiday our Deconstructed Christmas. 'Cause -- really -- I'll be good to get the bathroom cleaned.

It's all my own doing, I admit; which is why I can't really complain. And, while I indulged in a good couple of weeks of self-loathing, I realize that it's all part of the flow. Some years you're Martha Stewart; some years you're Ebenezer Scrooge; and some years you're Bartleby the Scrivner and "prefer not to."

So I've been Bartleby for the past few weeks and -- waddaya know! -- stuff got done (thanks to Charley and Emily). So I am not the Hub of the Yuletide Universe after all!

Still, there are no piles of tins containing Christmas cookies or no handmade ornaments. There is no wreath on the door since I never made it out to cut the greens and the swag on the mantlepiece is fake.

We'll have ham Christmas day because ham isn't so much cooking as "heating up." We're probably too many to sit at the table anyway -- and I have to admit that just about everyone prefers milling around and picking at stuff. I usually feel like I'm breaking up people having fun by making them file to the table and sit in their assigned seats.

Besides, I think the best times we've had have been when Dark Garden and I just start yanking things out of the fridge and cooking them (and making John Boy taste them first...and poor Dirtman stuck with the washing up). We have created some amazing dishes, only to look at each other and say, "Did you write any of that down? How did we do that?" Sometimes we'll actually remember -- depending on how many martinis fueled our creativity.

Then we send plates of our experiments out to the nephews, who are parked in front of the TV with whatever video game they bought each other. I never worry about spillage -- the dogs are on the job.

I think I've written myself from Bartleby to Martha after all. I amy conjure up some pies. Maybe I'll make up a batch of fresh pasta and do fried ravioli (lately, everything we cook has the added chore of being a test for our restaurant); perhaps some ubiquitous bacon-wrapped scallops...REAL EGG NOG!!!

See? I can manifest Christmas spirit...at least when it comes to food...

*Yes, another movie quote. The 1951 version of A Christmas Carol -- our favorite and most-quoted.

Here we come on the run with a burger and a bun...*

2011-12-14T18:41:00.000-05:00

My mother always advised, "The only people you can ever trust in this world is family."

The dynamics of my mother's relationship with her sisters and my grandmother are the stuff of which legends are told. Given the volatility of any interaction between the various players, it's amazing to me that she somehow convinced my father not once (a nursing home), but twice (a grocery store) to throw his lot in with this family whose members wore their issues with each other so prominently on their shirt sleeves and go into business with them.

Of course, conventional wisdom says, "Never go into business with family;" and certainly Ma and Pa are a testament to that. Both ventures left them financially depleted and one landed them in court.

Yet here we are, me and Da Bros, entering into a business together -- something we've talked about doing for years. I could enumerate the differences between my parents' misguided ventures and this one, but I think the most significant is our history of going to the mat for each other. While we have a lot of happy memories of our childhood, we went through some pretty scary stuff that forced us to rely on each other.

A very old photo of the cousins

It's not something we talk about, but it is the reason why we can enter this business knowing that each of us would sooner sacrifice ourselves personally rather than betray each other. (Da Bros are, at this point, becoming uncomfortable, so we shall never speak of this again.)

The Courthouse Corner Cafe will probably open Feb. 1, 2012, in Romney, WV, and will feature, along with the ubiquitous specialty coffees, homemade soups, baked goods, panini and sandwiches. This is a family venture, so along with Dark Garden, John Boy and me, Dirtman will also be involved as well as the Heirs and the Twinz and, we hope, guest appearances by John Boy's son, Jason.

For the most part, it will be me and DG, since one of our favorite things to do on weekends in get together and cook ... um ... stuff. Dirtman has subbed as a barista and Jason and Heir 2 have worked as baristas, though they're both employed elsewhere. Heir 1 worked at Panera Bread for a year; the Twinz -- Mickey D's.

Then there's John Boy, who DG insists will sit in the front of the cafe sipping wine and eating gruel. He might even tell about a little thing called the Pony Express...

Yeah. Right. We're happy to serve you. You gotta problem with that?

*The Flintstones -- come on, People!

The Scent of a Zombie

2011-11-30T09:23:00.001-05:00

I'm trying very hard to love Walking Dead.

Each fall I try to find a television show to hang my hat on; another West Wing; another Northern Exposure. House was compelling for awhile until it turned into a soap opera that I thought would be relieved this season by the removal of House's love interest. Unfortunately, once Dr. House no longer had a dramatic private life, he turned into a sort of mean-spirited Yente and you get the feeling that he'd be diagnosing these diseases a lot sooner if he would just mind his own business.

But back to Walking Dead...

I know this is rather an odd choice for me, but my whole purpose in trying to find a television show I can embrace is so that I can join in with conversations and sound like I'm interacting with society on a regular basis. The truth is I don't, really. Mostly I just see my family and everyone in my family is watching Walking Dead.

This required me to spend an afternoon catching up by watching all of season one in one great big bite, thanks to Netflix. I'll admit I almost quit after the first episode when they let the zombies have the horse, but I soldiered on. And, believe me, it wasn't easy watching all those episodes together. Watching people being chased by zombies one hour at a time is one thing. Spending an entire afternoon watching people being chased by zombies gets pretty intense. (I admit, I de-toxed with a few early episodes of Upstairs Downstairs.)

I've caught up and this season I'm watching with everyone else. Perhaps the storyline in interesting...perhaps not. I can't tell you. I'm too busy worrying about when everyone is going to get their next shower.

This can't be just me. I know for a fact that Dark Garden has concerns about there being rampant body odor among the survivors and I, for one, am amazed that one of the women got pregnant at all, considering the lack of facilities at the campsite last season.

The thing is, this whole showering concern is really affecting how I react to key moments in the plot. For instance, when the survivors were in Atlanta, trying to escape a department store completely surrounded by zombies, I wasn't the least bit concerned for anyone's safety; I was just bummed that it meant no one would be showering any time soon. And then, when they draped themselves with dead person so that they smelled like a zombie so they could escape...and then got into a closed vehicle with each other and drove off...and then embraced their loved ones when they got to the campground...I could only curl up in a fetal position and try to keep my lunch down.

Heir 2 assures me that the writers just figure we assume they're maintaining good grooming habits, but I have my doubts. Otherwise, they wouldn't make such a big deal about when they do actually shower. Sheriff's office: big shower scene; CDC: big shower scene; Herschel's farm: big shower scene.

These people are exerting themselves much too often not to have frequent shower opportunities.

What's worse is that whenever they come to a place where they assured of regular bathing, they are always forced to leave. Even the guy who owns the farm where the group has finally found sanctuary (and plumbing) wants them to move on, though, frankly, I haven't seen any lines to use the shower facilities at Herschel's farm -- just a well they pulled a zombie out of and, well, that just won't do.

I don't think it's too much to ask -- just so I can enjoy the rest of the series -- for a swimming hole...a lake...something.

Oh...and a dog. A dog would be nice, as long as I have assurance the dog will not be killed off.

Jonesing for a bargainorSisiggy's Annual Commercialism Rant

2011-11-28T09:14:00.001-05:00

Is it me or are this year's holiday commercials just a little too frenetic?

I've accepted the whole "commercialism" aspect of Christmas. I don't like it, but I accept that it is now so integral a part of our economy that, if it were abolished, something equally or more distasteful would have to take its place, like baby factories or Soylent Green.

I also accept that, as the economy slides further and further, the holiday season takes on more and more significance to businesses trying to make up for a dismal year.

But does every commercial have to sound like everyone involved is on crack? Does every single symbol of the holiday have to appear in every single commercial (except, of course, the actual purpose of Christmas -- don't want to lose those valuable pluralistic dollars)? AND STOP SCREAMING AT ME!

The problem, as is the problem with most acts of desperation, is that rather than making me want to do something, they just strike me as sort of, well...sad. I feel like I'm witnessing an entire society having a nervous breakdown.

It saddened me that so many retailers opted to open at midnight on Black Friday, requiring their employees to leave their families on Thanksgiving Day. I'd hoped that people would just stay home and show that this was an idea that took one step too far.

Sadly, it worked. It wasn't enough to ruin Christmas -- now even Thanksgiving is tainted.

The thing that strikes me most is that every year there is more and more of a disparity between what I'm being sold -- not only the products, but the whole idea of Christmas frenzy in decorating, gift-giving and activity -- and what I truly want to get out of the holiday season. And I don't think I'm unique in my thinking.

Somehow, with millions of good people out of work (like us!), a reindeer sweater-clad blonde skipping maniacally down the aisle grabbing random stuff from displays without looking at what she's buying, not thinking twice about pilfering from someone else's shopping cart*, seems downright obscene.

And before you hop on me about how all this "commercialism" is going to pull us out of an economic slump and suddenly put everyone back to work, I'll have to beg your pardon. After they've squeezed every last dollar out of us over the holiday season, Walmart will lay off all those extras employees and offer their same crappy service; the extra money will not be used to bring out-sourced jobs back to the United States; it will not provide workers with the proper benefits so they no longer have to rely on social services.

By this time we should all know what it will do: more money for retailers only means a handful of executives will get a bigger bonus.

Which, I suppose, puts into perspective the commercial featuring a Lexus in the driveway with a bow on it.

*This aspect of the commercial I'm speaking of -- I think it was Kohl's -- seems to bother a lot of people. Me? Not so much. I figure it's expected behavior given the entire motif of the ad.

Me, Zsa Zsa and Pandora

2011-11-16T18:30:00.000-05:00

I've taken to having conversations with Pandora.

For the most part, when I'm at work, I'm alone. My work during this time of year is quite repetitious and basic, requiring very little concentration. So I listen to Pandora all day long.

So there we are: Me. And Pandora. (...and Zsa Zsa, who is depressed because there aren't that many volunteers this time of year. She is used to crowds of people fawning over her.)

I really do admire the genome aspect of Pandora, but I suspect I'm expecting it to pick up on things that may be too nuanced for it to understand.

Like when I "thumbs-down" something, it seems to go over-board in trying to appease me. If I'm on my New Age station, it will always follow a "thumbs down" with Enya. If I'm on my "Cheesy Geezer" station, it's Sinatra. The Folk station gets Dylan. The rock station -- John Lennon. The classical station -- Mozart. And the opera station -- always, always, always Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma -- a young Pavarotti's Nesssun Dorma.

And, honestly, I think sometimes Pandora is messing with me.

For instance, I have a variety of stations ranging from classical to rock. But every single station insisted on playing Israel Kamakawiwoʻole's "Over the Rainbow/What A Wonderful World" -- and, for awhile -- always at 3 p.m. I never requested it, but I did give it a thumbs up on one of my stations -- it's a campy, okay kind of song. But it seemed that it would play several times a day -- on any freakin' channel I was on.

I was forced to ban Israel Kamakawiwoʻole and I have guilt over that.

And why can't Pandora "get" that, just because I thumbs up Ray Charles, I don't want James Brown screaming in my ear?

And...and...Pandora? I like ONE SONG by Sarah McLachlan -- and I've thumbs-downed every single song since then. Do you GET that I don't want any more Sarah McLachlan?

And enough with John Tesh -- what makes you think I want to hear John Tesh? I don't care WHERE he is playing; I don't care WHAT he is playing. The fact that I have for two years thumbs-downed every John Tesh offering should let you know I FREAKIN' DON'T WANT TO HEAR JOHN TESH.

I know. I know, Pandora. As much as I listen to you, I should be a paying customer. But I work for a non-profit. I DON'T GET HOLIDAY PAY FOR CHRISTMAS AND YOU WANT ME TO PAY TO "THUMBS DOWN" JOHN TESH?????

ANSWER ME!!!!!!

Think positive...NOW!

2011-11-14T14:05:00.002-05:00

It's a phrase that absolutely sets my teeth on edge, almost as much as when someone orders me to, "Smile!"

"Think positive!" The only people who have ever said that to me have said it to either manipulate my actions for their benefit or stood to gain more than I would -- usually financially -- from my having "positive" attitude.

Aside from being rude and unfeeling, the phrase should be restated to mean it's true intent: "Think positively about what I want and to hell with your feelings."

Don't get me wrong -- I am a great proponent of positive thinking. I could not have gone through some of the challenges of my life -- and Linguini readers know they have been many and brutal -- if I hadn't consciously developed an immunity to all the negative energy swirling about me.

I can recognize when, as a family, we've entered "rut mode," where, after a setback, we begin feeding off each other's fears. But even then, it's not my place to order everyone to "be positive." And I'm well aware of the wisdom of the phrase, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." Certainly there have been times when I've had the power to set the tone for the household and knew I'd better pull myself together before someone does something drastic.

As a mother, I'll admit when the Heirs were younger there were times I had to remind them that most of what we worry about never happens and to take responsibility for their own, personal "rut modes." But to tell them how the "should" feel ("Think positive!") would have been a betrayal of the latitude given to me as a parent.

I recall an incident when my mother was dying of cancer. I was working in the comptroller's department of a bank at the time, living at home and trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. This was a time before "hospice" when terminal patients were either kept in hospitals or sent home for relatives to make do as best they could.

It was a horrible, horrible few months for Da Bros and I, not to mention my father, who had essentially shut down, leaving poor 15-year-old Dark Garden not only without a mother, but also without a father.

This wasn't a situation I shared with everyone at work. I didn't want to become "the lady with the dying mother." However, whereas I usually functioned as the office comic, not to mention the department diplomat who smoothed over office politics before it had to go to personnel, I was now more sedate and quiet and, frankly, clueless when day-to-day employee kerfuffles were escalating.

Most of my co-workers and management were satisfied with the explanation that I was "going through some stuff." After all, my work wasn't suffering. But one supervisor -- a woman who got her job mostly because she was married to the son of the bank's CFO and who had been cushioned since birth by money and plain, dumb luck -- just couldn't let it go. She called me into her office to tell me she couldn't help noticing my attitude and perhaps I needed to "leave my burnt toast at home."

And then, when I offered the "going through some stuff" explanation, she uttered the words that ring in my ears to this day: "You need to think positively! It will turn your life around and everything will change!"

Now, not only did I feel miserable because I was 22 and my life consisted of working, going to hospitals and tending to my sick mother and that, ultimately, my mother was going to die anyway, I also felt guilty that I felt BAD about it. Call it a Catholic girls guilt or whatever -- the fact is, that in the throes of my grief and pain, I was made to feel that somehow this was all my fault because I couldn't manage to FEED GOOD about it. And, truthfully, I felt that way for a long time.

I know now, 32 years later, that I was called into that office because I was no longer doing the supervisor's job of employee relations for her. I think of what a more enlightened Sisiggy would have said and even considered, for a time, returning there to deliver my scathing diatribe.

Alas, the bank no longer existed. A few years after I left to move to Virginia, the entire company was investigated by the fed, and most of upper management was found guilty of various forms of financial mayhem.

Still, I have this vision of visiting her in her reduced circumstances, patting her on the hand and advising her to "think positive!"

What reminded me of all this was I was shopping at a department store recently and ahead of me a very talkative woman was checking out, going on and on about why she'd purchased each item or why she chose one thing over another or why her son hated this, but loved that and blah, blah blah. The clerk, as it appeared to me, was focusing on the transaction and not responding to the inane chatter of the customer. This was bothering the customer no end and she kept looking toward me and rolling her eyes as though we should join forces against mute department store clerks.

As the clerk handed the customer the receipt and said the obligatory, "Thank you," Ms. Motormouth looks at her closely and says perkily, "You should smile!"

The clerk had this stricken, deer-in-the-headlights look on her face and I think she almost broke down and cried. These days, especially, you don't know people's story and what they're going through. What I saw in that clerk was a raw, depleted soul, white-knuckling it through her obligations with the last of her reserves being asked by a privileged, insensitive airhead to validate her skills as a savvy shopper.

Now, I'm don't normally jump into the fray on things like this. But that clerk looked so stricken and then looked at me as if to say, "Now, what are you going to hit me with?"

I looked at the Perky Pollyanna walking toward the exit, shook my head and said, "What an idiot!"

We both smiled. And breathed.

SOMEONE didn't get the memo about the day's plaid motif...

2011-11-03T16:39:00.001-04:00

SOMEONE didn't get the memo about the day's plaid motif..., a photo by Sisiggy on Flickr.

Take a hike walk

2011-10-29T16:20:00.010-04:00

I must admit to being a rather pathetic hiker -- which, frankly, is a doggone shame when you live in the Shenandoah Valley and it's fall.

Back in the day, I could blame my hiking woes on an inexplicable acrophoia. I don't know why I have this and it totally baffles family and friends who don't have it. I know a lot of people equate the fear of heights with vertigo, but that's not exactly true. Vertigo makes you dizzy. For me, acrophobia feels like a vacuum pulling me to the edge.

John Boy has gamely tried on a few occasions to drag me up a mountain only to be disgusted by the sniveling puddle of goo I become when confronted by a rock outcropping.

I remember one ledge when we hiked up Rag Mountain. In retrospect, it really wasn't a ledge. It was quite wide and, while it was a straight drop down from the edge, the rock was plenty wide and the exposed edge only about few feet wide. A normal, thinking person -- even one uncomfortable with heights -- would focus on the path ahead and step over the rock ledge -- it was that small.

All I had to see was a peek at the valley beyond and I could feel the suction from the edge and knew I would be sucked out into the air it I even tried to set foot on that rock. And so I went into a total meltdown.

I don't remember how I got past the ledge -- I think John Boy had to literally drag me across while I closed my eyes. He was quite angry with me, especially because, now that my nerves were completely shot, I was whiny and cross for the rest of the hike. So John Boy solved this by getting well ahead of me (pretty easy to do) and allowing me to catch up while he rested.

Of course I deserved it and, having enjoyed what was, to him, a leisurely hike back down the mountain, he was maddeningly upbeat all the way back home from Virginia to New Jersey.

That being said, John Boy does have a reputation for overestimating the abilities of his hiking partners. The result of this is that he cannot often talk anyone into hiking with him unless a second opinion can be obtained as to the intensity of the trail.

You would think such experiences would turn me off hiking completely. But there were enough good memories for desire to stay with me, even though I'm not exactly hiking material. Granted, I still have not overcome my acrophobia; but there are plenty of trails in Shenandoah National Park where that is not a problem.

These days I have to admit that I just don't have the strength -- for whatever reason (had I health insurance I would find out). I tell myself it's age (though John Boy is four years older than me...).

Fortunately, somewhere in the bureaucracy of the national park system are people who understand how I feel and they have made it possible for me to pretend I'm hiking. To John Boy, these would be "walks." The longest of them is a mile loop. There are very few inclines. Some of them are even paved. I come out of them in pain and totally exhausted, but I'm determined to keep it up until I can tackle something substantial

It's Dirtman, of course, who accompanies me on these excursion, even though they are probably equally lame to him as they are to everyone else. When we're done, though, he acts like I've conquered Everest or made it to the North Pole.

The pictures accompanying this post are of the Storybook Trail on the Massanutten Mountain here in the valley. I used to bring the kids up here back when we were homeschooling because there are stations along the trail that tell how the Shenandoah Valley was formed.

So, along with the gorgeous fall foliage, I can remember the echoes of my little boys running about on all the subtrails that loop back to the main, paved trail. Our dog, at that time, was our first Australian Shepherd Dundee, who worried himself over the fact that Heir 2 kept disappearing, reappearing and disappearing again.

Now it's Dirtman, Zsa Zsa and me (the Heirs think calling the Storybook Trail a "hike" is like calling computer solitaire a "video game") and that's fine too. We pack a lunch, take a walk and take the long way home over dirt roads.

I sleep the best after an outing like this.

Can you tell The Leash is an insult to Zsa Zsa? Well it is. She would no more take off than she would sprout wings and fly. We frustrated her because Dirtman was always ahead of me and I was always limping behind -- she couldn't keep her herd together! Just another example of "My Dog Thinks I'm a Moron."

Note: My blogging manners are atrocious of late and for that I apologize. Of course, I have excuses for my silence, but I'm not going to go down that path right now until I can succinctly give it all perspective.

Only the women can relate to this...

2011-09-03T13:25:00.002-04:00

Who thought up the name "menopause?"

It should be "meno-STOP."

Complete with the capital letters.

A Study in Stupidity

2011-08-15T08:02:00.004-04:00

In one of those knee-jerk reaction-type moves, the Albemarle School Board voted to remove the Sherlock Holmes book "A Study in Scarlet" from its sixth grade reading list.

What? What is that sound? Oh! It's Thomas Jefferson rolling over in his grave!

Albemarle County, Virginia, is not some little uptight Bible belt town. It is the suburbs of the city of Charlottesville, where Jefferson's little educational project, the University of Virginia, makes the county population probably one of the most educated in the country.

My first reaction was to shake my head incredulously at this lame sort of censorship (after all, they haven't resorted to removing the book from the library shelves) and the equally lame excuse for its removal (I figured it was Holmes' drug use -- I was wrong; it was an unflattering mention of Mormonism).

If presenting specific religious sects in a bad light is Albemarle's criterion for what is recommended to students, they've got a lot of weeding out to do. Let's start with their history books...ANY history book. Historically, religious sects seem to behave in a bad light. You can only put so much sugar-coating on the Crusades or the Salem witch trials.

Then it occurred to me. I'd missed the point completely! The Albemarle School Board members are not a group of ignorant, weak-minded PC cowards. They're savvy educators who know their charges.

What a brilliant move! Now every 11-year-old will be beating a path to the public library to read the forbidden text -- they may even underline those salacious Mormon references. And, since they will probably be on a waiting list for A Study in Scarlet, they may settle for any of the other Holmes books.

Perhaps some really smart librarian can come up with a List of Books Removed from the Sixth Grade Reading List and surreptitiously circulate it in the middle school.

Rest easy, Mr. Jefferson. Education is in the capable hand of the Albemarle School Board.

Two Geeks Texting

2011-08-10T17:28:00.002-04:00

Between me, at work, and Heir 1, at home:

Me: Would you put Hokie in his pen and let all the dogs out, please? And take out the garbage. And, ummm...the front lawn? Oh! And move the house a little to the left.

Heir 1: I did everything you asked, but when I tried to move the house there was a temporal distortion and I went back in time 2 hours.
The past sucks!

Me: I'm pretty sure I'm the only one to ever receive a text with the phrase "temporal distortion" in it.

Heir 1: I'm sure that's how Jonathan Frakes gets out of doing laundry.

Functionally Groomed

2011-07-26T16:21:00.005-04:00

When we were showing her, Zsa Zsa's coat always required a great deal of fussing.

"There is no such thing as the perfect dog" is the AKC mantra and, to be sure, just about every breed requires a certain amount of grooming before entering the show ring. Like every other dog, Zsa Zsa had her "issues." She was on the small size (she prefers the term "petite"), though well within the standard -- and her coat at time could be iffy.

This is nothing strange -- bitches blow their coats when they're in heat. So she was always either in the process of blowing her coat or in the process of getting her coat back. Somewhere in there was a window for me to show her, an undertaking neither of us enjoyed at the time (though it did once garner us a "pity placement" -- a story for another time).

These days, Zsa Zsa's job is much different. She is the ambassador at work. She is the first staff member volunteers meet when they come to the farm and, as far as I know, no one who knows the official Australian Shepherd standard has ever deigned to pull a weed or pluck an onion on our premises. No one really cares about the quality of her coat or whether her paws look high and tight or if her black areas have a red cast to it.

Bascially, Zsa Zsa needs to not stink and her tail area (Australian Shepherd are not supposed have tails) is clean.

Fluffed and combed -- okay. But, above all else -- Zsa Zsa must not stink. Her coat can be too limp or too silky -- doesn't matter.

So she is primped and bathed on a regular basis to prevent stinkage and I keep her trimmed pretty closely so that the area of concern is not...a concern.

Recently, though, it occurred to me that I was spending a lot of time pulling out thick undercoat. In fact, I was spending more time than ever pulling out thick undercoat. Plus I was having to trim her britches -- that's the back of her rear and her hind legs, an area that used to suffer the worse affects of her lady-cycle. In the old days, once I'd pulled out dead undercoat, there wasn't a whole lot left to work with.

These days, however, I have to thin it out and cut it short and generally weed-whack Zsa Zsa's britches. I've never had to do this before.

Where? Where? Where was this wonderful, thick coat when I was trying to show her?

When I was learning from Mamma K to show-groom an Australian Shepherd, she taught me to put a "smiley face" where their tail would be. Well, there's no show, but I still like to see Zsa Zsa's butt smile.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

2011-07-22T18:54:00.005-04:00

There is just no other way to put it. I've lived in this house for three years and I have yet to see a male hummingbird. I live in Shenandoah County's only hummingbird convent.

Around here we only get Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds, so it's quite easy to tell males from females. If they have a red throat, they're males. If not, they're females.

I haven't seen a male hummingbird since The House That Shall No Longer Be Named. They are rather dapper fellows and their female counterparts just don't have the bling they do.

Nor do the females dive bomb each other -- at least not around here. The good sisters simple file in for their evening meal, sup quietly, then murmur their way through vespers.

I suppose I could have missed the males. It's quite obvious that my days of sitting at my computer writing and looking out at my bird feeder are long gone. I hadn't seen a new bird show up at the feeder in over a year. But three years?

Our regulars come and go, but every now and then we get a migrating bird that we've never seen before -- Grosbeaks, Waxwings, Tree Sparrows. When I was at my computer all day, I was there to capture it.

These days I'm around to see the morning inundation of finches and the evening visits of the woodpeckers. The Sisters of Perpetual Humming come and go all day.

We have had one new visitor this year that decided to stay. It all started with a sound. I kept thinking someone had dumped a kitten on us and it had crawled into the bushes.

Hence, the name "Catbird."

To be honest, he's a rather unremarkable fellow, but for one thing.

He looks like he's wearing a toupee*.

*I apologize for the horrible photo. Don't ask me what happened to my telephoto lens -- I'll just burst into tears...

Extreme Curmudgeonly Complaining

2011-07-20T16:32:00.007-04:00

What is it that we all can't just enjoy a nice little perk without going overboard and screwing it up for everybody? Why, why, why must we indulge in being the "-est" in every activity required to live: best, hottest, biggest, fastest...

Whenever you see the word "extreme" before an activity, it won't be long before said activity will be outlawed, regulated, or we'll all be forced to wear silly gear in order to perform it -- because just riding a bike isn't enough for some people; they have to flip is and twirl it and jump over stuff with it and now to ride a bike you look like you're entering a jousting match against the Black Knight.

That was what I was thinking when I read about what is being called "extreme couponing."

For decades there have been stories of couponing women who could pull off a free basket of groceries with their coupons. I'll admit, I love me a good coupon. Nothing tickles me more than to layer a double coupon onto a BOGO -- such little glitches are God's way of patting you on the back and saying, "Thanks for fighting the good fight. Here. Have a stick of Suave deodorant on Me." And I say, "Thank you, God" and be on my way. I smell better, the store gets its money, Suave gets its money and no one gets hurt.

Usually I found most coupons were for things I didn't use -- junk food, prepared foods, specialty foods, brand-name cleaning products (white vinegar, baking soda, Lysol in a gallon jug and Clorox -- all you need). From what I understand, there are coupons out there for staples like sugar or flour. I haven't come across them but, then, one of the other requirements I have for dealing with coupons is that it shouldn't take me more than a half hour to prepare to go grocery shopping -- I'm fulfilling a basic household chore, not composing my life's work.

Unfortunately, the "extremists" may ruin it for the rest of us. Stores have already begun limiting the amount of coupons a customer can use with one order. This will lead to a single customer breaking their order up into several smaller orders, complicating things further until stores will have no choice but to eliminate coupons altogether.

Stores have to wait for the coupon money they deduct from your total bill -- their vendor is in no hurry to get them their cash back (not to mention the value of the float). Sisiggy cashing in her $1 Suave coupon is one thing -- even if 15 Sisiggys cash in 15 coupons. However, multiply by 15 these women claiming to get a $300 grocery order for free and you've got a serious cash flow problem.

Believe me, nothing appeals to my "threat of nuclear holocaust" obsession more than a basement pantry lined with canned goods (okay...I admit...mine are lined with goods I canned myself -- and a spare pair of glasses). But I keep myself in check -- I recognize how easily this can become one of those compulsions inspiring yet another cable reality show ("In the Bunker: Extreme Nuclear Holocaust Hoarders"). I don't even approach my mother's dried bean hoarding (my father used to say the beans would work on two levels -- we'd survive...plus no one would want to be around us to take our stuff).

The thing is, the amounts of the same product you end up with when "extreme couponing" can only be justified through a window of a major national, political and social disaster -- all at once. No one knows more than me the comfort in such an inventory -- my first memory of being in a church was during the Cuban Missile Crisis; but even I recognize such an expectation of doom is just bad karma all around.

So, like walking Zsas around Lowes and letting the wind blow through my hair as I ride my bike without a helmet, the kismet of a free tube of mascara for trying out the store brand eye cream is probably a thing of the past.

Let's hope no one decides to be an "Extreme Library Patron."

Dog Days of Summer

2011-07-18T14:22:00.009-04:00

This weekend went to the dogs.

So goes this time of year when our kennel club puts on its own two-day event -- two back-to-back dog shows.

When we're in the thick of it, everything seems so imperative. The day after, though, I always wonder what we were all so tense about. Really, it's kind of fun.

For a small club that puts on a relatively small show, we do get to see a lot of different breeds, though mostly thanks to club member Frank, who seems to specialize in knowing what rare breeds the AKC will ultimately sanction and usually has a champion ready to go.

This is Frank's Xoloitzcuintli (or, Mexican Hairless). I did see the first litter of these and I had my doubts -- the puppies resembled internal organs.

Jane is one of the founding members of our club, not to mention a role model for the sport of purebred dog conformation. People show dogs for all kinds of reasons and sometimes -- a lot of times -- those reasons clash. The thing about Jane is that she never lets all the controversy and drama get in the way of the pure joy of the sport. She never gossips or takes sides and always had the attitude of "this too shall pass."

She's put Championships on more dogs than I'll ever own and the last one was when she was over 80 -- I know, she doesn't look it! Jane reminds me always of the best part of the sport is building a relationship with the dogs and with each other and it's supposed to be fun.

And this is Carole (and me), who breeds Irish Wolfhounds and could actually run the show entirely by herself, but allows the rest of us to do things too -- just to keep our spirits up. If I had a quarter of her energy, I'd take on another full time job.

We saw lots of beautiful Australian Shepherds and lot of deceptively adorable Parson Russell ~~Terrorists~~ Terriers (thanks, Carole!).

Goodness knows, I'm not a fan of the toy breeds. But I have to say, Pomeranians just make you laugh. They have this perpetual smile and they run around like little wind-up toys. And when there is a bunch of them together, you can't help but snicker a little.

A very exhausting two days, but also very satisfying. What's not to love?

Excuse me, I believe you have my stapler...*

2011-07-15T15:57:00.007-04:00

Yahoo! recently asked its readers to submit their stories of being unemployed. For some reason, they were "surprised" at the number of responses they received -- hundreds of thousands -- and at the rawness of the responses.

There is no mistaking -- it's an employers' market out there and, if you have a job, hang on tight and don't give your employer any reason to even think about replacing you. This seems like common sense to me.

Then tell me, please, why, when I go into a department store, grocery or restaurant, I am waited on by some half-witted bachagaloop who acts like he's doing me a favor pausing his texting long enough to wait on me? Why am I reading current novels that have glaring grammatical, spelling and typo errors rampant throughout the book? Why was my order wrong in three out of three visits I made to a fast food place since the first of the year? Why did I read a piece about Lady Gaga being bashed for a routine where she dresses as a mermaid and rolls on stage in a wheelchair, yet there was no reference to the fact that this stunt was a staple in Bette Midler's show twenty years ago -- and no one was offended?

And, while I'm asking, how do I get a job where the bar is set so low?

Just so you know this is not just the ranting of a curmudgeonly 54-year-old, consider this: a friend of mine daily relates his frustration with his fellow workers who continually fail to show up for their shift, come in late for their shifts, are the recipients of not one, but several, customer complaints, show up for work high, leave in the middle of a shift and continually defy governmental regulations protecting the public health.

Then, there is the story of a friend's son who was "rewarded" for doing what he should have been doing anyway. But "just doing his job" was so rare to this particular supervisor, that he felt it warranted a reward. Before you heap accolades on the supervisor, though: the "reward" was a bag of pot.

You would think, with the job market such as it is, only the best workers would be employed. But, it seems, even management is lazy.

It did occur to me, though, these entitled-worker behaviors are the precise traits of the upper corporate management that caused this economic bust in the first place -- laziness, deceit, smug security of position, and an overall lack of integrity.

And that is the ranting of a curmudgeonly 54-year-old who, incidentally, knows the difference between "there," "their," and "they're" and that, in a sentence, the tense of the subject and predicate should agree, even if a there is a prepositional phrase after the subject.

*Office Space -- as if you didn't know.

Wait for it...The Grapes of Wrath

2011-07-11T19:47:00.009-04:00

The Grapes of Wrath was another classic movie that I deliberately put off watching.

This is one of those movies that is difficult to watch, but necessary... and enlightening. The ultimate movie of this genre is Schindler's List -- definitely not "entertaining," in the traditional sense, but required viewing as far as I'm concerned.

Along those lines, I rather felt I'd "done my duty" by reading The Grapes of Wrath as a book. The book is unrelenting. Capitalism untempered with compassion is an ugly, nauseating travesty. That conditions for migrant workers were actually worse than Steinbeck described, is unimaginable.

So I approached my first viewing of the film version of The Grapes of Wrath as a sort of homework assignment for someone professing to be a movie buff. But, fear not. The movie gets the same point across (though it isn't quite the "call to arms" inspired by the book) and still manages to convey the strength of character that is its ultimate hope.

If you have not read the book (and you should) or seen the film, all you need to know for my "Wait For It..." moment is that the story deals with the Joad family, who has lost the home where they've lived for generations and must now take to the road to find work.

The most famous scene belongs to Henry Fonda (Tom Joad) and occurs toward the end of the film ("Wherever you can look - wherever there's a fight, so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever there's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. . .").

However, hands down, the most poignant moment in the movie is silent and features the careworn Ma Joad (played by Jane Darwell), Tom's mother, a woman who has been buffeted by life and it shows in her face and her clothing and every move she makes. She is the last person to leave the house that is slated to be leveled by the mortgage company and now is going through a box of memorabilia, burning whatever cannot be taken along on the one vehicle the entire family must use to cross the country to find work.

In the box she finds a pair of earrings and it triggers a memory of lively music. She holds the earrings up to her ears and looks at her reflection in a beat-up old mirror. And you watch her face falls as the mirror brings her back to the present and the old woman life has made her.

My heart breaks every time -- every. time. -- I see that scene.

I identify with Ma Joad, for obvious reasons. I'm with her from that agonizing gaze that was her farewell to her old life, to her inspiring final statement:

Rich fellas come up an' they die, an' their kids ain't no good an' they die out. But we keep a'comin'. We're the people that live. They can't wipe us out; they can't lick us. We'll go on forever, Pa, 'cause we're the people.

My Biggest Fan

2011-07-11T10:40:00.006-04:00

I don't think I've ever had a being so smitten with me as my dog Hokie.

Keep in mind, I have four other dogs. Oh, and a husband.

The two Parson Russell Terriers -- well...they're terriers; totally mercenary. They're my best buds...until someone with a better offer comes around.

Then there is Topper (aka, "Toppergetdown"), who is like the Woody Allen of the dog world; neurotic and self-centered, you just know he's got this inner-dialogue going on: "Oh, jeese. There's that cat again drinking out of my water bowl. Yeah, fine, cat. Go ahead and leak your drool in my water. I'd say something, but she'd go and tell that other cat and they I'd have them both laughing at me..."

And, of course, there is Zsa Zsa, my constant companion who accompanies me everywhere. Zsa Zsa is welcome in houses where people don't even like dogs. She is the dog most petted by non-dog people. Zsa Zsa is perfect -- and, just when you think you've caught her being imperfect, it turns out that she was two steps ahead of you and her imperfection was deliberate, needed and, therefore, another example of her perfection.

In short, Zsa Zsa is better than me and she knows it. I am HER pet.

And, as for the husband...I think we both passed "smitten" a good 20 years ago. "Smitten" requires a certain blindness to faults -- something you can't keep up for that long a time.

But Hokie...

Good ol' Hokie...the baby of the bunch; the first-born of Zsa Zsa's last litter...the one we almost lost. The one everyone told us was merely "pet quality," but who blossomed after his first year (it's heart-breaking that we can't afford to show him).

Perhaps his devotion to me stems from the fact that, being one of the two least troublesome of that litter, he got the least amount of my attention. He goes where he's supposed to go when he is supposed to go there. He does what he's supposed to do when he's supposed to do it. So it's easy to take Hokie for granted.

Plus, he loves the outdoors. We've tried to get him to stay inside, but he's usually too hot (that panting) or too bored (that staring). He likes lording over the backyard, terrorizing birds and letting our landlord/neighbor know he's On The Job.

However, if I step foot outside, he's right there, ready to pounce.

In fact, the pouncing is a problem we're working on. I know how to deal with "jumping up." I couldn't understand why all the standard training methods didn't work on what he was doing, until I broke precisely what he was doing, which was a combination of happy leap and trying to get close. The usual "turning your back" method was useless -- back or front he was close and that was his goal.

He's gotten better, though it took some real creative training to break him of the habit -- and he still falls off the wagon.

Now he confines his interaction with me to sitting in worshipful attendance, fidgeting back and forth on his haunches. Granted, this is partly because, in order to break him of the pouncing (along with deliberately spending more time with him), I would sit at his eye level and call him to me, so there was no need for him to pounce. He will sit there for a long time like that and, when he finally does lie down into something like relaxation, I have merely to move a limb and he's up, fidgeting, anticipating.

More unnerving, is Hokie's stalker morning behavior. Both my bedroom and the bathroom window look out onto our back patio where we have a large, round outdoor table. In the morning, as I get ready, I flit back and forth between bathroom and bedroom. When I glance out the windows as I pass, I can see Hokie, sitting on the table, staring at either window and fidgeting with excitement if I make eye contact.

I suppose I should be flattered. I mean, all the dogs are usually happy to see me when I come home. But Hokie -- Hokie makes me feel like a rock star.

Hokie makes me feel like there could possible be something like Jeanne-mania

I kinda like the way she, like the way she, DIPS...

2011-07-07T21:08:00.004-04:00

There is something about summer that triggers memories.

They say smells are the strongest impetus for random past moments to come crashing into the brain, but I say summer is right up there with chlorine pools and original-scented Pledge for dragging me back to a time when my knees were perpetually skinned from riding my bike in places a Huffy gear-less cycle had no business going.

Today Pandora had me tumbling down the rabbit hole of the past and I landed smack dab in the middle of an incident that, surprisingly, I’d forgotten about completely: The Day I Chased The Cars.

Before I relate this tiny incident (that, fortunately, my parents went to their graves never knowing a thing about), let me give you a little background.

I am, was, and always will be A Good Girl. I could talk a good game, just to keep up a modicum of what would these days be called “street cred;” but, basically, I was a wimp. It’s not that I was or am morally superior to everyone else – it’s that I was a coward. I was absolutely positive that: A.) I would go to hell if I did anything wrong ; and B.)my mother would somehow, someway, defy the laws of logic and find out no matter how carefully I covered my tracks – she had a reputation for divining.

I wanted very badly not to be A Good Girl – sometimes. The late 70s/early 80s was the era of The Bad Girl because the Bad Girls were reveling in being the first generation produced by the Women’s Movement. Bad Girls were the 80s; Good Girls were still stuck in the early 60s.

So I attached myself to Lisa.

Lisa was a Bad Girl. She was so bad, she told me, that she once chatted with her mother while having sex with a rich older man in the beachfront house next door to the Kennedy compound in Manasquan and her mother didn’t even know what was going on (she told me this story as we were passing the house next door to the Kennedy compound in Manasquan – did I mention is was a Very Gullible Good Girl?).

Lisa worked with me at a bank and was, in the end , fired for stealing $500 to buy a Chesterfield blazer with HUGE shoulder pads and Sergio Valente designer jeans (“Uh-oh, Ser-gee-oh-oh!”). There was no absolute proof she’d stolen anything, but such is the fate of one who is an undeniable Bad Girl – you’re never given the benefit of the doubt.

Lisa was head-over-heels for the music of The Cars. At least that’s what she told me – Lisa didn’t listen to music unless she was driving around. I suspect she was more interested in The Cars than their music, but I’m getting ahead of myself. That year – whatever year it was – The Cars were playing at The Spectrum in Philadelphia (a moment of silence for what was once The Spectrum in Philadelphia).

Since I was the one with a valid credit card, I obtained tickets to the concert because I liked The Cars (musically – I actually owned the album) and because Lisa talked me into it (yes, I know all the sirens are going off in your head. Give me a break -- I was 20, working full time, going to school full time and spending most of my “off” time taking my mother, aunts or grandmother to doctor appointments).

I drove – of course, because Lisa didn’t own a car.

And the concert was very good

Not enough for Lisa, though. After the performance, Lisa decided that we should find out where the band was exiting so that we could, perhaps, obtain an autograph – a practice I’ve always thought rather useless but, hey, apparently a worthy goal for a Bad Girl, so I was on board!

We drove around The Spectrum parking lot and eventually did find where the band was exiting and, well – there they were!

So I look at Lisa and she’s standing off to the side, staring and – undulating. There is just no other word for it – she was undulating and batting her eyes; but she was not asking for an autograph and now The Cars were getting into their limo, at which point Lisa drags me back to my own car (a Dodge Dart – oh, how I LOVED that car…) and screams, “FOLLOW THEM!”

And so began Jeanne’s Wild Ride or, as I like to think of it, “Jeanne’s One Bad Girl Moment.”

I sped. I tailgated. I cut people off. I ran not one, but three, red lights. I made a lefthand turn from the righthand lane of a four-lane street. I drove the wrong way on a one-way.

I screeched to a halt in front of the Fairmont Hotel just as The Cars were exiting the limo. Lisa jumped out, but I stayed put.

“Don’t you want an autograph or something?” Lisa asked, halfway across the street.

I shook my head, but she came back, grabbed an envelope out of my purse and took off to the crowd gathered in front of the hotel.

Frankly, I was in shock. I'd done so much Bad Girl stuff in the last two minutes, my entire system had shut down. I couldn’t believe where I was and how I’d gotten there.

Suddenly there was a man at the window, handing me a piece of paper. He looked in at me and said, “Are you some kind of idiot?”

If you were raised a Roman Catholic girl in the 60s, my answer will make perfect sense to you; otherwise, you will call me a complete and total wuss.

I lowered my head and, closing my eyes (okay, yeah, I was about to cry), I said, “I’m so very sorry.”

He threw the piece of paper at me. It turned out Lisa had grabbed my JC Penney bill. It was signed, “Rick Ocasek.”

“I hope this doesn’t mean I’m responsible for the balance,” he said, walking away.

I still think that was a rather lame joke, but he’s – like – Rick Ocasek, right?

So there you have it. My moment of Badness. My sons think this a rather sad attempt at rebellion and they (and their cousins) still work tirelessly to get me to drop the F-bomb.

I used to relate this story as a lesson to the boys about peer pressure. I mean, I liked The Cars, but certainly not enough to take the kind of risks I took to obtain a sample of someone’s handwriting. I only did it, I said, because I wanted Lisa to think I was a Bad Girl just like her.

There were other elements, though, that I ‘d always hesitated to point out to the Heirs when they were at their most impressionable. And, while I can’t advocate driving like a maniac through the streets of Philadelphia, I have to admit it was the first and only time I could ever call myself…well…brave.

Yeah. Brave.

After a lifetime of behaving myself and feeling guilty over the slightest infraction, I was brave. I was defying authority, defying propriety and, at times it seems, defying physics (there was certainly an angel on my shoulder that night who was kind enough to grant me this one moment of grace).*

I had plenty of time to gather my wits since Lisa, obviously, had had plans to be invited by a band member up to their hotel room – which, of course, never happened. There was a small crowd of fans at the hotel when we pulled up and she was one among many, in spite of her amazing undulation skills.

“What did he say to you?” Lisa asked excitedly when she finally returned to the car.

I didn’t want to tell her he’d called me an idiot and then cracked a lame joke. So I made up a story about how impressed Rick Ocasek was with my driving skills. Because Bad Girls lie.

The rest of the evening was uneventful. I think we stopped at Olga’s Diner in Marlton on the way home (which, I hear, closed a few years back…yeah…I know…). A week later Lisa was fired and I never saw her again. She never paid me for the tickets.

For years I carried the JC Penney bill with Rick Ocasek’s autograph around in my wallet. I’d take it out and remember my Bad Girl moment and the guts it took to get it.

Years later, though, I’d seen the deaths of my parents and of my own child; I’d navigated my way through foreclosure and bankruptcy; I’d worked through pain and illness. Following a rock star’s limo through the streets of Philadelphia paled in comparison.

I threw the autograph out.

I truly don’t regret it; it’s just ink on paper. With all due respect, Rick Ocasek does his job. I do mine. It’s all good.

But sometimes…sometimes like tonight when it’s still hot when the sun goes down and the oil and pavement have been cooking all day long and Pandora decides to it’s time to play My Best Friend’s Girl (“I kinda like the way, like the way, she dips…)…I think of that rush of adrenaline, of the humid air blowing the smell of pavement into the car window and how, for once in my life, I didn’t care about how I looked or what people thought or what I was going to or not going to eat – I just had to follow that limo.

I think it was literally the only time in my life I was in a state of pure being.

I felt immortal.

As one does at 20.

It could have ended very differently, I’ll grant. But it didn’t and I thank that angel everyday for that and for averting the myriad of other tragedies that could have befallen me when I was at my most stupid (a “short cut” to Penn Station after an evening Broadway show comes to mind…).

*I was also defying intelligence. Let me tell you what a smart person would have done: Rather than search an entire arena for where the band might depart and then wait for them to come out, a smart person – especially one who had spent a good decade rambling around the City of Brotherly Love – would remember there was only one luxury hotel in Center City Philadelphia and head there right after the concert ended.

Wait for it...

2011-06-02T07:13:00.001-04:00

I am introducing a new category here on Linguini on the Ceiling that requires some explanation. It's taken me awhile to come up with what to call this category, since the most concise and descriptive title would be "Movie Moments," which is really lame.

What I came up with is "Wait for it..."

...because these are minor moments in movies that make watching the whole film worthwhile.

I'm not talking about the obvious stuff -- like the sword-wielding guy in Raiders of the Lost Ark going through his moves and getting shot by a slightly-annoyed Indy -- or by Vivian Leigh shaking a carrot to the heavens swearing she will never be hungry again in Gone With the Wind. All effective -- but I don't need to point these out to you, do I?

Instead I'm going to focus on lesser-respected moments with popular movies and memorable moments in movies that most people may not have seen. Some of the movies, as a whole, were not particularly good, but they may have had one line or one moment that cut to the core of truth, irony or poignancy.

If you are a true movie addict, I won't be showing you anything you don't know. But it's always good to reminded about these little flashes of inspiration or creativity.

I will also admit that most of what I talk about are special to me for very personal reasons. That being said, I also think they were very deliberate in their inclusion in the film and, therefore, not as "personal" as I think. In which case, they are my gift to you; we are, none of us, as alone as the evil voice in our brains would have us believe.

My first "Wait for it..." occurs in the classic movie Born Yesterday.

You'd probably recognize the most famous clip they show from this movie; it's the one where Judy Holliday is creaming Broderick Crawford at gin rummy. I love the clip in that it shows Judy Holiday at her funniest, but it does do a disservice to the film. For years I avoided watching the movie, assuming it was yet another story about how ditzy, show-girl types have a heart of gold and are all actually candidates for Mensa.

Needless to say, I was wrong.

To set up the scene, you need to know that Judy Holiday ("Billie") is Broderick Crawford's ("Harry") girlfriend and Harry has hidden a lot of his wealth by putting things in Billie's name, even though she hasn't a clue about any of his dealings. However, everything Harry does requires Billie's signature, which isn't a problem, since Billie doesn't seem to care one way or the other about Harry's business dealings nor does she seem capable of understanding them if she did. She signs what she's told without question.

Harry brings Billie along on a trip to Washington, D.C., where he intends to "do business" with a less-than-ethical congressman. The problem is, Harry doesn't think Billie is up to the social ramifications of rubbing elbows with politicians. He gets a bully's pleasure in mocking her pathetic attempts at socializing with the congressman's wife, even though he shows himself to be a big jadroole playing the Big Shot Host.

Harry hires William Holden ("Paul") to "educate" Billie. Paul is a D.C. political columnist and, while tutoring Billie in sophistication (locals will enjoy seeing clips of the city before there was a Watergate or a Kennedy Center) and grammar, he also gives her a lesson in government.

Knowledge is power, as they say, and Billie begins to notice the way her boyfriend "does business." The next time Billie is asked to sign some papers, she refuses until she reads over what she is signing. Billie refuses several times to sign, first with Harry's lawyer, then with Harry screaming at her.

The scene that follows is disturbing -- but also one of the most empowering.

Harry degrades her new-found knowledge and, when that doesn't work, threatens her with violence, as he has so many times before. This time though, she sticks to her guns.

He hits her.

It's a watershed moment. On one hand, it's almost a relief because you know this is what will finally cause her break with Harry. On the other hand, she tearfully signs the papers, giving the superficial impression that Harry has won and a deeper fear that the violence will force Billie back to her clueless stupor.

The moment is particularly superb because of Judy Holiday's artful ability to show Billie's strength through her painful acquiescence. You cry with her, but you also know that Harry's victory will be short-lived.

Of course, my favorite line the the movie is spoken by Billie to Harry:

"You just ain't COUTH!"

Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with the fact that Born Yesterday is currently on Broadway and am in no way affiliated (as if...). And, while I'm incredulous about the fact that Broadway seems to spend more time on old stuff than on finding new material, I would still love to see it. Sigh.

Picnicking with the Linguinis

2011-05-30T08:40:00.009-04:00

You must understand this: We Linguinis NEVER take picnics lightly.

Well...until yesterday...

However, you must understand our background of picnicking before you can truly be amazed at yesterday's excursion to Lost River State Park in West Virginia.

Growing up, there were always several picnic excursions throughout the summer and they were always hours away. My father always liked to be traveling in the opposite direction of the traffic; so, though we lived near the shore, with a beautiful state parks 10 to 30 minutes away, we were always heading "against traffic" to the "mountains" of New Jersey (High Point State Park has what New Jerseyans call "mountains"). This required leaving at 6 o'clock in the morning and dragging in at 9 o'clock at night -- but not a single second was spent sitting in traffic (though Pa would look at the line of cars going in the opposite direction and comment on how ridiculous it was to be sitting in traffic like that).

I realize the purpose of a picnic is to eat -- A. Meal.

One. Meal.

Remember, though: We arrive at 8 o'clock in the morning. So breakfast, lunch and dinner all have to be arranged and carted. There were bags of Mrs. Obco's Donuts and thermoses of coffee (my parents had an official coffee thermos bag specifically for this) for breakfast, deli for lunch with a complete selection of cold cuts, rolls, bread, condiments and salads, and then a variety of meats to barbecue for dinner.

On top of this, were the rare treats of junk food -- this was the one time my mother would buy us any sweet crap the television has convinced us was the end-all in desserts. And she wouldn't just buy a package -- she'd buy an entire BOX; boxes of Twinkies, boxes of TastyKake pies, boxes of chocolate grahams, boxes and boxes and boxes of sugar! (We won't discuss the long-range ramifications of this practice; right now I choose to make this a happy memory...in her heart, Ma meant well -- though when I tell this to my kids now, they're really bummed.)

Okay. That was just the food. Now we had to load the car with things to occupy us for 12 hours, both in the car and at the picnic site. John Boy had his maps and pamphlets, Dark Garden had his assortment of recreational equipment (fishing rod, basketball, swim gear), I had a pile of books, my mother had her crossword puzzles, and Pa had his beer (though, in all fairness, he was the one who took DG fishing, swimming and to the playground, not to mention he did all the barbecuing).

Oh...did I mention the assorted relatives? Grandma, aunts, cousins -- sometimes it spilled over into a second vehicle, particularly since a dog or two also had to be accommodated.

Whenever we'd arrive at the park, if it was crowded, my mother used to moan about there being so many people around that it wouldn't be relaxing. It occurs to me that, upon seeing our parade enter the picnic area, most of the other people were thinking the same thing.

Nowadays, my generation is in charge of the picnicking and, while we've streamlined a few things, it is still and event requiring more planning than the Normandy Invasion. Everything is up for discussion, from the venue to the menu.

JB makes lists and, while I've never actually seen his list, it must look like this: beer, bratwurst, bottle opener.

DG brings all the meat, barbecue stuff...and cleaning products; lots and lots of cleaning products. We always have the cleanest picnic site in the park. No roll of paper towels and damp cloth for him -- no! He's got spray disinfectant and cloths and wipes.

I bring the stuff that has to be cooked ahead -- salads, side dishes and...yes...dessert; one dessert. ONE.

Yes, we've pretty much got this picnic thing down, though I will admit, all the advance planning a prep can get stressful until we decide on everything.

Well, until yesterday...

It all came together too easily -- which should have warned me. We immediately agreed on the venue, we each stated what we were bringing (admittedly, we do turn into the Atkins family on picnics) and we generally coordinated a time (cell phones don't work at Lost River).

I have to admit, it was coming together so nicely that all week long I hardly gave it a thought. I did my usual grocery shopping and only threw in a few items that were picnic-related (instead of doing my usual pre-picnic shopping blast I can ill-afford). I did a few prep things the night before, slept in the day of (unprecedented!), and loading the car consisted of one cooler and Zsa Zsa's water bowl and tie-out chain (which we only use if we see park rangers driving around -- I try to spare her the indignity of being in chains when there is no need).

So here is how it went down:

DG was bummed because my nephews both had to work that day and couldn't come. Dirtman was also working, so he wasn't there. Heir2 couldn't make it home from Roanoke for the holiday weekend, so he wasn't there.

No one brought paper plates.

No one brought tongs to barbecue.

No one brought paper towels.

JB blamed it all on the fact that for the first time, he hadn't made a list (he never put these things on his stupid list and, besides, when he makes a list, he always forgets to put something on the list anyway, rendering the list useless).

However (and everyone else may disagree, I'll admit):

I had a wonderful, relaxing time. We had a nice, secluded spot next to a brook. I could sit on a rock and put my feet in the water. It wasn't too hot or too cold.

All the other stuff?

We made do.

Note the dishes made from aluminum foil, the knife doubling as "tongs" and our site-side cleaning system (actually, we only washed our hands in the stream).

The food was great. It was a beautiful day. But, more importantly...

...Zsa Zsa was happy.

Macaroni and...

2011-05-10T17:06:00.004-04:00

Every ethnicity has their own version of a fallback meal. I'm sure this is what stir fries are in Asian cuisine and pot pies are in Anglo circles. For us it was the "macaroni and...s."

The dish usually starts with softening up some onions and/or garlic in olive oil while boiling up a pound of whatever pasta you have around (hence, the generic "macaroni" instead of a specific type). Then you throw in whatever vegetable(s) is(are) handy in the crisper, freezer or can, toss in a little of the pasta water and, usually basil and/or oregano. The cheese and grater are, of course, on the table.

These days, I cut the amount of olive oil and rely on chicken stock along with the pasta water for some of the moisture. And I don't cook the living daylights out of the vegetables and pasta like my mother and grandmother did

The dish above is macaroni and cauliflower, which sounds like it shouldn't go, but actually does (a drained can of diced tomatoes is in there too). I've upgraded it with fresh oregano, only because somehow last year's oregano patch that went to seed survived the winter and now we have more oregano than we know what to do with. When you come to my house, you don't get to leave unless you take oregano with you.

There is also macaroni and peas made the same way, only I confess I like it best with a handful of diced pancetta browned with the onion. I'm the only one who likes macaroni and escarole -- mostly because no one else will even taste it. I'm sure at some point my mother or grandmother made macaroni and kale -- but the main reason I married Dirtman is that he had a equally jaundiced opinion of kale and I knew that I would never be forced to so much as smell that horrid weed ever again.

In this house, our hands down favorite is Macaroni and Beans. This is the only time you will find me opening a can. And it is the only time I will insist on a specific pasta. If you make macaroni and beans (the "beans" being dark, red kidney beans) with medium pasta shells, the beans will slip neatly into the shells like little tiny jackets, offering a perfect bean/pasta ratio. We used to tell the Heirs that I did this little trick by hand, hoping to enhance my Martyr-Mom image -- it worked fine until they turned about four or five and realized their mother didn't have that kind of attention span or patience.

Of course you can go to a restaurant and order just about the same thing for eight or nine dollars. So I plated this in my best Italian ceramic pasta bowls and put that little sprig of fresh oregano there so it would look all professional and we can pretend we're dining out -- well, all except for the 75 cents per plate price tag...and Toppergetdown's chin in my lap.

I remember Mama......'s Day

2011-05-09T09:31:00.003-04:00

Long-time Linguini readers know the Mothers' Day drill around here now that the Heirs are older: breakfast out and I get to choose the activity for the day.

We've always had a good time, though, on our Mothers' Day excursions, in spite of the fact that antique malls, thrift stores and garden fairs are at the absolute bottom of the list of places the Heirs want to be. But they make the best of it and enjoy taunting me with descriptions of the nursing home they plan to stow me in at the first sign of senility (thankfully, they haven't been paying much attention lately...).

For this year's Mothers' Day, I had to work. Ironically, where I work had a booth at the very same garden fair I've been dragging the Heirs to for the past few years. So, instead of dragging my own sons through the foliage and flora, I got to observe other mothers dragging their sons through the flora and fauna.

Oh, dear.

Not a pretty sight.

You know how at the end of Fiddler on the Roof they show the line of people leaving Anatevka? Well, that's a Mardi Gras parade compared to the sad, despondent spectacle that marched past our display tent.

I had to hand it to the dads, though. It was rather endearing to watch them simultaneously rally the morale of the troops, all the while assuring Mom that she had nothing to feel guilty about (i.e., the Bataan Death March to which she was subjecting her offspring) and that the kids were HAPPY -- HAPPY, DO YOU HEAR ME? -- to give up their day because they LOVE Mommy; and not because Dad told them (while Mom was in bed choking down the burnt Eggo waffle) that if they didn't act HAPPY, he would force them all to use Tracphones WITH NO TEXTING CAPABILITIES.

I must point out one incident that sort of put the whole day into perspective; because, frankly, I was not at all happy about having to work on both Saturday and Sunday, particularly on Mothers' Day, though I totally recognize the need for making hay while the hay is available to be made.

The thing about promoting your nonprofit in a venue where there are wonderful things for sale is that there really is no reason for anyone to visit you other than guilt. It's just easier for them to give a wide berth or "just happening" to be looking the other way as they pass.

On the other hand, being at such a venue on Mothers' Day worked out particularly well for me, as Volunteer Coordinator at the farm. It was all summed up with one mother who marched up to the booth with a very exhausted-looking husband and two very energetic boys in tow.

"You'll put them to work?" she asked as the two boys pushed at each other to get to the front.

"Oh, there's always plenty to do," I assured her.

She smoothly removed our collection jar from the hands of her youngest. "Plenty of HARD work?"

"Well, we try to gear the task to the volunteer," I said. I don't like people thinking we're treating kids like slaves.

"Oh, they've got enough energy to handle whatever you can dish out," she said, grabbing the older boy back from behind our display.

"They do need to be there with a parent, though." I thought this would surely send her running. I get a lot of parents who think we're going to babysit their kids for four hours.

"Oh, I'll be with them." She glared down the two boys, who cowered back toward their father. "We'll get a lot done."

She signed my volunteer roster, snapped up my card and pushed her men back into the stream of pedestrian traffic. I sort of can't wait to hear from her. She was awesome.

Mostly, though, I remember the little boy whose family was perusing the booth next door. Dad came out of the booth with a baby in a back carrier and a girl toddler holding his hand. He was about to make the Wide Berth Maneuver around our display when the boy grabbed his hand and dragged him toward us saying, "Here. I want to see this."

I could tell Dad was reluctant, but his son was insistent. This is where running one of these displays gets a little touchy, especially when the parents aren't behind the idea. So I told him about growing vegetables for the food banks and explained about nutrition, expecting him to zone out once he found out we weren't founded to ban homework or make enforced bed times illegal.

Instead he started asking questions. I had purposely left out about needing volunteers or money, but he wanted to know what he could do. His dad seemed as surprised as we were at the level of this kid's enthusiasm and began to take interest too.

Made my day, this kid.

Oh, that...and the fact that the Heir1 made dinner and Heir2 made me a cocktail when we got home and TCM was running Mom movies. So I drifted off to sleep with Irene Dunn assuring me in a Norwegian accent, "Is good -- We do not have to go to da bank."

Proud to not be Martha

2011-04-23T08:27:00.008-04:00

Turns out I'm a better mother than Martha Stewart.

Last night I was flipping channels looking for my usual nightcap: The Golden Girls*. When The Golden Girls is on, I know all is right with the world and I can go to sleep.

Instead, I encountered a lame talk show featuring Martha Stewart's daughter and her friend -- emphasis on the word "lame." I understand they also have a show during which you watch them watching Martha's show and making comments and, since I haven't seen it, I won't pass judgement, but...really?

Perhaps, though, the "watching the watchers" show was a howling success leading to the snore-fest I witnessed last night. I even stayed with it, mostly out of incredulity (which kind of defeated the snore-fest aspect), but also because I wanted to see how inane and boring this show could get. All I can say is, it must be good to be Martha Stewart's daughter (there must have been some Martha leverage exerted with the Hallmark Channel; like, Martha will agreed to let them carry her show, if they agree to also air her daughter's misfiring attempts at being glib).

That being said, one thing that did catch my attention was when the two of them (don't remember their names; don't care) were discussing what their Easter baskets were like when they were growing up and Martha's daughter said her Easter baskets were those pre-assembled things from the store.

Doesn't that shock you? I mean, wouldn't you envision an Easter basket by Martha Stewart to be hand-woven and dyed, filled with hand-molded Swiss chocolate bunnies and homemade gourmet natural-juice flavored "jelled beans" in glace' bags tied with French satin ribbons?

So, while Martha was in the kitchen folding napkins into fresh floral rings for the benefit of"her dinner guests, she was flinging some gaudy, cellophane-wrapped plastic basket of artificial, cheap chocolate at her daughter.

That makes me Mother of the Year -- by default.

Let me tell you about what Linguini Easter mornings featured.

First of all, see that photo up above*. You can't see it very well, but I made the outfit for the little tyke on his daddy's knee (the "little tyke" being Heir2 and his daddy being Dirtman) -- and you really can't see the hand-embroidered Easter Bunny on the pocket of the romper, nor the self-made piping around all the seams. And Heir1, standing there like a good little nerd? I made his khaki slacks.

I also cut Heir 1 and Dirtman's hair myself.

But, wait! There's more!

That morning when the boys woke up, the Easter Bunny had, indeed, arrived. They knew this because there were carrot crumbs on the floor (I finely-grated a carrot in a path from the door to the dining room table) and he had left them a totally unintelligible note because I've never heard it said the Easter Bunny was particularly bright (I purposely held the pencil between my two palms when I wrote it because...rabbits have no thumbs, of course. Nor do they have a copy of Strunk and White).

And the Easter baskets contained absolutely NO CANDY. Heir1 received art supplies and Heir2 (who was just one year old at the time) had a basket full of homemade, hand-sewn soft toys.

So, okay, for Easter dinner we used paper napkins and my wine glasses didn't match. And I think the dog retrieved most of the Easter eggs hidden by Dirtman. And I'm pretty sure by the end of the day we were all laughing so hard at something stupid because we used those wine glasses extensively in spite of their mismatching quality. And that may have been the Easter Dark Garden taught Heir1 to climb onto the roof of the garage. And someone flushed a battery down the powder room toilet -- I'm pretty sure it was a kid.

So, no...I'm not Martha-perfect. I am, like, on the opposite end of Martha-perfect. Frankly, if I was Martha-perfect, my family wouldn't show up. Or they'd show up and make fun of me.

For instance, the Heirs find it extremely funny that I spent my time knitting these...

...and crocheting these...

My theory is that, to the Heirs, unless they can eat it, it serves no purpose.

Though they do like making the chicks say rude things...

Like I said... my life is SO not Martha...

*Please ignore Dirtman's white socks...

Silly Facial Hair

2011-04-20T20:08:00.000-04:00

I don't like facial hair on men.

There.

I said it.

This is a continuing discussion between Heir1 and me. Heir1 comes up with new manifestations of facial hair about every couple of months. We've discussed mutton chops, soul patches, goatees, van dykes and fu manchus.

I file these all under what I call Silly Facial Hair.

Silly Facial Hair is any male facial hair that requires "sculpting" with the razor. It bothers me. Because I realize that, in order to attain the fine lines and shapes of, say, a goatee (seriously, guys -- it even starts with "goat") requires more mirror time than even the most vain woman preparing for her ex-husband's wedding. This is unsettles me.

Silly Facial Hair is the same thing as if we women decided to creatively sculpt our leg hair (I just made some of you throw up a little in the back of your mouth, didn't I? See what I mean?). Like, say, I decided to leave a little divot of hair just below my knee cap (if you're of Sicilian descent you know this is not only do-able, but obvious) or, perhaps I shave just to mid-calf (okay, I admit that when I was single, this was my winter-time strategy. DO NOT JUDGE ME.)

Obviously, full beards do not require sculpting and simple 'staches required very minimal sculpting. I'm not as uncomfortable with those but, still, not crazy about them.

Think...Cary Grant. Imagine Cary Grant with a beard or, worse, Silly Facial Hair. I know...right?

Okay. Dirtman has a mustache. A mustache for which I'm totally to blame. For, underneath his big, furry mustache, are the cutest pair of dimples you ever saw. Dirtman's lip dimples are so damn cute, you just have to wiggle your finger in them and make little mewling noises.

You can always tell when Dirtman is attempting to make up for being wrong in a major argument we've had -- he's clean-shaven. I get a few days of dimple-diving before the craters fill...I suppose I can't really blame him.

Once a year during the winter, Dirtman grows a full beard. He used to call this his "hunting beard" -- which is a valid term for people in this area who, every fall, grow a beard to keep the warm while deer hunting. The important phrase here is "while deer hunting." In the quarter of a century I've known him, Dirtman has gone hunting ONCE...and that was 22 year ago.

Yet, Dirtman's beard is an autumnal perennial around here.

Take a stand, you say? Refuse to shave my legs until he shaves his beard? I. Just. Can't. I did go a few weeks once during the winter and I caved. I'm convinced the only feminists still pushing the anti-leg-shaving agenda are all blondes.

I don't expect anyone to actually take my opinion into account, least of all Heir1, who is currently sporting a sharply sculpted junco with longish sideburns.

I can't imagine why he wouldn't want to take style advice...from me...

Perhaps her Grranimals looked suspicious...

2011-04-13T20:57:00.003-04:00

I saw this last night and by this evening it had hit the national press.

I've read about children being frisked by TSA before and I, as everyone else, had my "tsk, tsk" moment.

However.

(Breath)

When you see, raw and unedited, an innocent six-year-old being searched (however gently and professionally), "tsk, tsk" turns into this horrible knot in your stomach that tells you your government has just crossed a really, really obvious honkin' big, red, glowing, flashing line and, with all due respect, needs to ask itself, "What the hell are we doing?"

And before the "Remember 9/11" contingent chimes in, let's remember one thing -- we know what the stakes are now. No one with a box cutter is ever going to take over a plane again. The days of acquiescing to hijackers is long gone. Scissors, screwdrivers, knitting needles, kitchen knives -- as big a baby as I am, I'll risk a boo-boo if it means my plane won't go down. I'm sure an entire plane-load of people would feel the same way.

So we are left with six-year-olds being traumatized for...um...well...a false sense of security for any idiots who might be flying that day and perhaps even for those who honestly think this is making them any safer? Really...help me here -- I'm at a loss.

I would make some kind of ethical stand like, "As long as this practice goes on, I'm never going to fly." But flying anywhere has been off our activity list for awhile now for financial reasons. Let's just say that if I could fly, I wouldn't fly so nanny, nanny boo boo.

Flying has gotten to be such a chore anyway and, even before all the TSA restrictions, was an experience one tiny step up from being a heifer on a 19th century cattle car.

I expect this will be on Jon Stewart tonight, though he's gonna have to go a long way to make this funny.

The Pheebs

2011-04-12T17:49:00.007-04:00

When people saw her, the first thing they'd say way, "That cat is still alive?"

Phoebe decided today she'd had just about enough of that nonsense and finally did what we'd all expected her to do 17 years ago.

Truly, she had beaten the odds several times. The first time was when she contracted "something like feline leukemia" when she was just over a year old. That was all our vet at the time would tell us. All I know is I spent two weeks nursing her back to health by keeping her in our powder room and going in three times a day to administer drugs that she was determined not to ingest. For two weeks I looked like I had been picking blackberries with my teeth and her vet bill set us back three months. But she was Heir 2's confidant and friend, so what's a mother to do?

She survived but, the vet-at-the-time said, she probably would only survive a few years.

So we let her have her way. She came and went as she pleased -- mostly outside in those days. Back then she loved to curl up on the tractor seat and sleep the day away. She'd come in at night -- to pee in the toaster. It took us awhile to figure this out -- her aim was that good. But someone finally caught her in the act (four toasters later) and we learned to put the cutting board over the toaster slots. So she switched to the stove -- again, with uncanny accuracy that left no obvious trace until you attempted to use the burner, at which point -- well, I hope you're not eating...

Why did we keep her after all that?

Well, just about when we were ready to drive The Last Mile to the vet...Phoebe would go on vacation.

Two weeks, every June. She'd simply disappear. It took a few years for us to realize Phoebe was double-dipping; somewhere was another family who thought she was theirs. Apparently this was a significantly more successful family, because they went on vacation for two weeks every June -- and sending her to a kennel. They thought they had a cat that they "threw out every night" (like Fred Flintstone) -- we had a cat that came home every night.

In view of the aforementioned vet bill, we got to keep her. Besides, she was only going to last "a few years," right?

And, let's face it -- she was just so darn cute...

As she got older, Phoebe became more of a recluse, finally never venturing further than Heir 2's bedroom. We called her Miss Havisham, not only because she never saw the light of day, but also because she had just as nasty a personality. The only one she adored was Heir 2.

When Heir 2 went to college and Heir 1 moved into his room, he briefly -- under duress -- adopted Pheebs. It didn't last long. Their arguments are legendary and it's a draw as to who was more boisterous -- Heir 1 when she peed on his keyboard or Phoebe defending her actions with her raspy "meows." When she took out his friend's gaming console, she was kicked out.

She was slowing down by then anyway. The most mischief she could cause was to pee in the dogs' bowl or flip a few papers on the floor. She did manage to install 413 shortcuts to a program I didn't even know I owned on to my computer desk top. It was her swan song of subversive behavior.

This afternoon, she slipped away; but not, Dirtman said, before getting in the last word. Before she died she let out a loud, raspy "MEOW!"

Dirtman says he knew exactly what she was saying, but I don't use that kind of language on this blog...

You ain't foolin' no one, Mistah Puh-doo!

2011-04-03T17:28:00.006-04:00

Today's "Subject on the Block" would be Perdue Farms and I would offer up a scathing example of commercial slight-of-hand, along with a rant about how our food is manufactured and how the animals that provide that food are treated.

However, I have a soft spot in my heart for Perdue because I connect their commercials with a warm memory from my past.

Some of you may recall one of the old, old Perdue Chicken commercials -- we're talking back when Frank Perdue was schilling for the company instead of his son Jim. This old commercial featured people reacting to the paragon that apparently was a Perdue chicken back then (they were certainly more...um...chicken-sized...).

One of the testimonials was an elderly woman, who threw up her hands and, in a universally recognizable New York accent, exclaimed, "God bless you, Mistah Puh-doo!"

My grandmother thought that was the funniest commercial she'd ever seen. If we had chicken for dinner, you could bank on my grandmother somehow working a "God bless you, Mistah Puh-doo!" into the conversation and then laughing like we hadn't heard this 253 times before.*

So, for old times sake I will limit my tirade against Perdue Farms to this:

You know that Perdue commercial where Jim Perdue brags that his chickens are not caged?

The fact is that only laying hens are caged. Perdue raises meat chickens who never were caged to begin with. He's not doing the chickens a favor -- he's spinning the treatment that already exists as an industry standard.

Meat chickens are crammed into long, poorly ventilated buildings where they are bred to have breasts so large they can barely stand and the ones that can stand trample the ones that can't. So the ones that can't live out their brief lives sitting in their own filth until they are thrown by those self-same broken legs into a truck to take them to slaughter.

Now Perdue is not the only company that does this -- all the large commercial poultry processors do the same thing; only they have the decency to not make holier-than-thou claims about it.

We are not stupid, Mistah Puh-doo!

*She also liked to get up in the morning, shuffle around and mutter, "Gotta go make the donuts..." like the old Dunkin' Donuts commercial. She would do it until everyone in the house had seen it. Do you know how many people were in our house sometimes? You'd see the performance eight or nine times if you were up early enough. Believe me -- it gets old...

The end of the world as we know it (...or at least, television...)

2011-04-03T07:51:00.006-04:00

The great thing about the internet is you can hear about things on television and in the media without going through the agony of witnessing them first-hand.

For instance, I've never seen Two-And-A-Half Men, but I know I would have to be under court order to part with a penny of my money to listen to Charlie Sheen talk. So when the 5,100 attendees of Sheen's show in Detroit were outraged at the quality of entertainment they received, all I could think was, "You all deserved to lose your money."

Although this has answered a question that has been burning in my mind for awhile now: What kind of moronic, shallow pinheads keep moronic, shallow reality shows on the air and make inconsiderate, self-centered, self-important people of non-existent or waning talent into media darlings?

Now we know -- they were all gathered for a convention in a Detroit auditorium.

But they can't take the full brunt of the blame. Apparently the Rutgers University administration is peopled with the same moronic, shallow pinheads.

By way of disclaimer, I have seen approximately 10 minutes of Jersey Shore. Since it's filmed in my old stomping grounds of Seaside Heights, NJ, I thought I might catch a glimpse of some old memories. Instead, I saw a glorification of the same skeezes that caused me to press the suspicion button at my teller window whenever they walked into the Seaside branch of the bank I worked for back in the day.

So you all know the story by now: A Rutgers University student entertainment group, who receives funds garnered from a portion of tuition money, hired this Snooki person from Jersey Shore to appear at the school and paid her $32,000 -- $2,000 more than the University is paying Nobel-winning author Toni Morrison to speak at commencement.

If that doesn't cause every brain-functioning viewer to switch off their television, stop buying products advertised on these insipid shows and send little Finster anywhere but Rutgers, then you all deserve the society that is going to be choosing your nursing home.

University reps claim Snooki was chosen based on canvassing students for their preferences.

WORSE!

Yes, I know I go on and on about bad TV and I know there is a bit of the, "I think she doth protest too much" in what bothers me -- and I would agree. It bothers me that, in accepting such incredibly poor programming, our choices are narrowing along with our ability to handle any plot more complicated than the train-wreck lives served up by reality shows.

Obviously, the power-that-be behind television programming know that sensational and shocking plots will draw in more viewers. But, they also know that the more adrenaline-inducing scenarios they throw at the public, the more desensitized they become and the more adrenaline-inducing scenarios will be required to finally satisfy them (sorry- this is beginning to take on a definite sexual metephorical tone...). In other words, the more TV (and advertising) they can make you watch, the more TV (and advertising) they can make you watch.

Let's just say that on the mainstream level (and, truly, I know how pretentious the word "mainstream" is...), "subtlety" is dead; "nuance" is dead; artful allusion is dead.

The Kardashians, however, continue on.

Or, perhaps, because I have only seen approximately 10 minutes of any given reality show, something more goes on after I turn it off? Does a Jersey Shore Guido suddenly have a lucid moment at some point or does a Kardashian suddenly look up and ascertain where lies the true center of the universe?

I would say that's just about as likely as Charlie Sheen completing his 20-city tour.

To blog or not to blog

2011-03-28T14:07:00.004-04:00

This November I will have been blogging for six years. There have been a few months of dry spells here and there* but, if you were bored enough with life to go through each post from the beginning, you would have a pretty good idea of what goes on around here in Linguiniland, the whys and the hows and what everyone around here thinks about it.

Back in 2005 I had some misgivings about starting a blog. Oh, privacy didn't bother me much -- anyone can pick up a phone book and find out more about us than they'll glean from my blog. And I knew better than to treat Linguini on the Ceiling as an actual on-line journal or, worse, an on-line litany of my "feelings" and the state of my health.

I've been mulling over the reasons I blog since the day I started. Back then, it really was a great way to stop the "blogging in my brain." It became the outlet for the stories and observations I'd relate if, say, we were having lunch together.

But, every now and then I'd think, "This is really a self-absorbed sort of pass-time." That was a pretty good indication that whatever I was writing was inappropriate for this blog.

I will admit that in the time following our foreclosure and bankruptcy, some of the posts got a little raw and personal. That was a very deliberate decision on my part. While my family was going through all this agony, there were tens of thousands of other families going through the same thing; only no one had the least bit of compassion for these people whose lives were turned upside down. Instead everyone bought into the media short-cut of clumping the economy's victims under the banner of "spoiled, materialistic, over-spenders." It was lazy thinking and, I suppose, gave comfort to those it hadn't happened to: "That couldn't possibly happen to us because we are not like them." There is the illusion of safety in an "Us and Them" mentality -- and denial.

I have been particularly thinking along these lines the past few months and, at one point, even considered abandoning Linguini altogether. Afterall, Facebook gives an adequate snap shot of what's going on around here, if you're really interested. And there are very few people left with the focusing ability to read full paragraphs. But I just can't do it. Every now and then I hit common ground with someone who just happened by and that makes it all worth it. I've made some swell friends through this blog.

C.S. Lewis said, "We read to know we are not alone."

Sometimes we write for the same reason.

*I have no other explanation for my absence during the past few months other than to say I may not be as immune from Seasonal Affective Disorder as I've previously stated. But we have pushed through, thanks to the efforts of my family...and the entire collection of Jeeves and Wooster (thank you, Netflix).

In which I take a nap

2011-01-08T18:15:00.004-05:00

A day like this only comes together by some serendipitous alignment of schedules. When they happen, I imagine myself like one of my Jack Russell Terriers when allowed the rare treat of lying on the bed -- they roll around and snuggle in with the pure, physical joy of it all.

Saturdays are half days for work usually followed by cleaning -- not my usual after-work cleaning where I make strange little deals with myself to get out of doing it all, as it should be done in a house with five dogs. No, Saturdays are everything days.

Thankfully, this is a tiny house and, once I pushed myself to get started, it didn't take nearly as long as I had built up in my mind.

And there I was, all alone in the house, having put in a good amount of work, a dusting of snow on the ground and my ABE order that I bought with the portion of my Christmas money that didn't go toward Dirtman's gift or bills. I hadn't opened it, since I figured it was my reward for getting my work done.

And so -- flannel jammies (the infamous FJ with the Popsicles on them that Heir1 considers my Oxymoron jammies), Elizabeth Goudge and...

...what for dinner?

Ohhhhhh....nothing aggressive. This was not the evening for culinary acrobatics. Something simple; mild; comforting -- macaroni and eggs.

I had a beloved aunt who did not know much about cooking. Whenever I went to visit, I cooked or we went out to eat. But during one visit, I came down rather rapidly with the flu and she made me "macaroni and eggs." It was the one dish she knew how to make.

Basically, you boil some sort of pasta (if the kids were still little, I'd have the perfect pasta on hand -- pastina -- which I used to smuggle out of New Jersey when visiting the self-same aunt; we can now get pastina here, but I didn't have it handy -- I used boring old elbow macaroni) but, when it's almost done, instead of draining all the water, you leave a little water in there, toss in some butter and salt; then, just as it's done, you slowly add a beaten egg or two, tossing the whole thing as you do.

And there it is.

The quintessential comfort food.

And so -- the oxymoronic flannel jammies, Elizabeth Goudge ("Pilgrims Inn," for the aficionados), macaroni and eggs, a comfy couch with fuzzy blanket and cuddly cat that makes no more noise than little beeps and rumbles. All I would have needed was Itzhak Perlman to be performing Vaughn-Williams' Lark Ascending in the corner to convince me I'd achieved the ultimate salvation of heaven.

There were no Israeli violinists performing early 20th century classical music, though, so I'm still among the living. But I did read a bit, nap a bit and dream a bit, all luxuries in my book. And that night I slept for an unprecedented nine and a half hours -- I haven't slept for that long since the days when my in-laws would be gracious enough to take my two toddlers for the weekend.

Heir 1 arrived home from staying with a friend at 12:30 in the morning. Heir 2 arrived home this afternoon. Two different genres of music compete with each other from their respective rooms, along with the sounds of video games and laughing friends. All the Linguinis are "in the house," so to speak.

And that's lovely too.

Whooooo are you?Who, who?Who, who?

2011-01-06T16:55:00.008-05:00

I've lost track of who's who in Hollywood and, frankly, I'm mighty proud of it.

Clicking around the internet lately, trying to break up a particularly tedious task at work, I realized it was equally tedious trying to find someone I cared about in the entertainment field -- or even knew.

The most obvious reason for this, as far as I can tell, is the glut of "celebrities" who are famous because of reality programs; meaning, talentless. You can go into any select group of people and find a troublemaker, a drama queen and a gossip -- turn on the cameras and let the soap opera unfold. Snore. It helps if they just happen to be sluts willing to give each other Brazilian waxes on national television (...and if their last name starts with a "K" and their dead father made them really rich even by Hollywood standards so it gave the illusion they are somehow important -- and relevant -- to anything...).

Yet, I've come to accept this because the existence of the aforementioned freaks can pull even those in the depths of the deepest depression -- so deep that they actually watched programming featuring the aforementioned freaks for an entire 10 minutes -- out of their beds and back into the world with the hopes of balancing out the imbecile population who are succeeding in keeping the aforementioned freaks in the limelight. I apologize if you are one of those imbeciles -- okay, no I don't. But I figure, if you are one of those imbeciles, this is way too far for you to read anyway.

What is alarming, though, are the amount of "young actors" popping up all over the place, probably because there are now a gazillion cable channels and an equal amount of baby boomer babies to sit around and watch them. Is anyone else creeped out that they all look sort of the same? (I still think Keira Knightly, Natalie Portman and Winona Ryder are all the same person.)

Now that I think of it, why wouldn't they all look alike? In this day and age where trends and tastes are so closely monitored, of course you end up with what will please the most people. Hollywood has always had it's stable of "types." Types have their place, so you don't end up having to do character development for minor characters. Unfortunately, it's come down to there being nothing but "types" so the audience doesn't have to work their brains too hard or...focus.

I think that's why the reaction I have to my lost summer is guilt over having wasted so much time watching so much television; you know, that slightly guilty feeling you get when you promised yourself that, if you bought the pint of Starbuck's Coffee Ice Cream, you'd dole it out to yourself in sensible, half-cup portions over the course of four days and then end up scarfing the entire pint in one sitting. Because Starbuck's Coffee Ice Cream is expensive and, probably after the first half-cup, your tastebuds were so frozen they weren't really tasting the ice cream anyway -- yet you couldn't make yourself stop and basically wasted the rest of the pint. And this summer was wasted on something even more tasteless and unhealthy.

Oh, I know, I know: "Stop yammering on about the television, Sisiggy. Just turn it off and leave the rest of us alone."

And, honestly, I would -- if the trend wasn't creeping into other areas of my life. Movies (please, somebody, revoke Disney's license to make movies); Broadway (please, somebody, revoke Disney's license to make musicals); music (does everything have to sound like a revival of Riverdance?); and even food (let's ban the word "chocoholic," for instance. Yes, there are times only chocolate will do, four days out of the month in particular. But, other than that, there are so many other flavors and STOP ADDING CHOCOLATE TO THEM!).

So, while we think we have a variety of choices in all we do, the types of choices we have remind me of going to Golden Corral for a meal: It looks like there are all different kinds of things to eat, until you actually taste the food, at which point you realize all the savory stuff tastes about the same and all the sweet stuff tastes about the same and, really, by the looks of everything, it all should have tasted really good. Instead, though you are stuffed and bloated, you don't remember actually enjoying any of it.

I'm just afraid that pretty soon Golden Corral will be all there is because Golden Corrals make money for the franchise while making customers think they're getting a great deal -- and they are, if they're not picky about things like...well...taste.

Did you honestly expect anything but a food metaphor from me?

Waiting for the last ball to drop

2011-01-01T10:12:00.004-05:00

I can't remember a year I didn't watch the ball drop in Times Square. But this is the first year it dawned on me that I could barely see the ball for the tower of advertising. In fact, the path the ball travels has been shortened so much by the advertising, they have a problem doing the countdown before it hits the bottom -- which really isn't the bottom or anywhere near it anymore.

Overall, ringing in the New Year on television has become an all-around depressing proposition. I was one who stuck with good ol' Guy Lombardo to the bitter end; none of that new-fangled Dick Clark's Rockin' in New Years Eve for me! My last memory of Guy Lombardo at the Waldorf Astoria is of watching the ancient couples, dressed to the nines, crammed on the dance floor. There was a bittersweetness about it that sort of summed of the idea of New Years Eve.

But Guy, the Royal Canadians and their audience weren't ... uncomfortable ... to watch -- just outdated and just a little goofy. With all due respect to Dick Clark's past accomplishments and his battle to overcome the debilitating effect of his stroke, even the brief time I saw him last night was painful (I was, after all, focusing my evening on the Marx Brothers over at TCM).

In the end, Dirtman encouraged me to switch over to NBC where the countdown was being emceed by people I didn't recognize, but who seemed to think, in the last minutes before the New Year, we wanted to hear about their irrelevant (to a national broadcast of an worldwide event) life stories.

Then they all counted backwards from ten while most of the screen was taken up by flashing lights trying to sell me Japanese electronics.

Next year, I'll just use my cell phone. Happy New Year, every one; may it be as commercial-free as possible...

New Year's Day . . . and beyond

2010-12-31T07:12:00.004-05:00

This is not among my favorite holidays. All that forced celebration is almost too maniacal; the pessimist in me knows that, in spite of the "New" moniker, we are also mourning a year that's gone.

I rarely hear anyone wrap up Dec. 31 by saying, "Wow! That was a great year!" It's always something along the line of "Good riddance!"

I won't belabor the fact that you have the same assurance of a fresh run of 365 new days on June 30 as you do on Dec. 31. We love milestones and that new challenge of remembering to change the number at the end of the date every time you write a check. And -- hey -- any excuse to run a 40 percent off sale at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

My mother used to make a big fuss over New Year's Eve and even New Year's Day. I think it was her attempt to extend the holiday season as much as possible and I wonder, in retrospect, if she didn't suffer a bit from Seasonal Affective Disorder -- I do remember her sighing sadly once and mentioning, "Now comes the post-holiday blues." I don't recall her ever acting depressed, but hers was a generation that wouldn't have "acted out" their feelings.

I will admit that January is sort of a blank time these days. There is nothing to anticipate -- even gardeners are relegated to merely perusing seed catalogs. We're not preparing for anything or anticipating anything but the end of it. Even beastly February at least features Valentine's Day, Presidents' Day white sales and mattress discounts, and Lent (okay, Lent is probably not an eagerly anticipated event and one that, when I was a Catholic schoolgirl, I never quite "got." I knew I had to give something up, so I usually chose something I didn't really like to begin with -- like liver...or kale). You have to travel to experience Mardi Gras and, frankly, every day in the South is Fat Tuesday.

January, though, is 31 days of a blank slate. To me, that's terrific. I have 31 days for which nothing is expected; 31 days where whatever I do is gravy. I can get in some groundwork for times when I will have an obligation...or not. Mostly, I can pick my project and my deadline. So much power!

I remember saying last year that 2009 had been so horrible, I was glad it was over. I was ready to say the same thing about 2010. But, ya know...even though both years held their terrors, they also held a certain beauty of painful, but necessary, growth and poignant moments that only gut-wrenching misery can manifest. I doubt I would have ever witnessed my children's strength and compassion or my brothers' fierce loyalty had this year not happened.

So, thank you, 2010, for what you brought. And I'll even welcome you, 2011 -- in my own, quiet way.

Cookbooks and Candy

2010-12-27T13:45:00.009-05:00

My family knows me...

...and they like to eat.

After a brief 24-hour break from cooking so we could whittle back some of the Christmas leftovers, I couldn't wait to get back into the kitchen today to play with the new toys I got for Christmas.

Today it was the Cranberry Apple Cake from Ina Garten's book (or "In the Garden," if you're my brother...). I kind of owed this cake to Dirtman, since I'd put cranberries in the freezer to make for Thanksgiving and then promptly forgot them. Dirtman loves cranberries and the rest of us love apples, cinnamon and orange*. And...it's cake -- it won't see a new day.

This went together very easily -- perfect for a day I had three loads to hang on the clothes line to catch up on laundry. The wind gusts are pretty strong, which is good for drying clothes as long as you anchor them good and tight. I have nightmares of my bras flying about the neighborhood, causing traffic pile-ups.

*Yes, Heir 1, the cake is for us, not for the Dog People. (Heir 1 claims whenever I make something good, it's always for a kennel club function.)

Not for The Dog People

Just wait until next year...

2010-12-23T08:13:00.008-05:00

Well, true to form, my ambitions for the holiday kick in about a month too late. Let's see...what was I doing a month ago? Oh, that's right -- apologizing for not properly preparing for Thanksgiving.

At least I've waited until three days before Christmas before berating myself for the stuff I didn't get done. There was I time when I began writing off this year's holiday on December 1.

Those were the days when I'd plan all sorts of handmade fabulousness, from a hand-sculpted Advent wreath to a set of matching hand knit sweaters for the entire family. I still hang on to a cross-stitch pattern for an Advent calendar in 22-ct. gauge (that's teeny-tiny) -- I still tell myself I'm going to get it done (keep in mind, the Heirs are now in their twenties -- not the age where they jump out of bed with excitement each morning to see a picture of sheep behind door number 14...).

All this planning usually happens the day after Christmas when I swear, "Next year will be better. I'll start now...today." I may even go so far as buying the supplies.

Then New Year's Eve comes and goes and I'm so over Christmas I have to leave the house while Dirtman deals with the dismal job of undoing and packing away all the glitter and glamor that seemed such a good idea at the time. By January 1, I want to think of nothing but the coming spring. Hand-sculpted Advent wreath? Plenty of time; right now I'm all about pastels and minimalist decor' accented with fresh flowers.

I know this, yet even now, as I'm typing this, I'm saying to myself, "Yeah, well, NEXT year really WILL be better. NEXT year I will be disciplined, organized and energetic."

I'm thinking hand-needlepoint Christmas stockings for Dirtman and the Heirs and hand-sewn cushions for all the dogs and cats...

For Dirtman

2010-12-17T16:36:00.006-05:00

I've been waiting a long time to post this video. I found it way back in June and almost posted it then.

This is for Dirtman, in particular -- our resident bowl of mush. But, honestly (swear you won't tell anyone), I can't get through it without gritting my teeth and draping my arm somewhere, trying to look casual and blase'.

What amazes me is how long this commercial is. With the 15-second commercials flashing in front of us, an ad this long is almost an info-mercial.

So, make sure you are at maximum tissuage or can easily blame your watering eyes on allergies.

Merry Christmas, Sparkey. I saved the best for you.

*Oh, God...I just realized (I haven't seen this commercial since the 80s) the little boy's name is "Charley," the name of my oldest son. Forget everything I said about looking cool and blase'.

Razzleberry Dressing

2010-12-15T07:02:00.002-05:00

Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol was not our favorite version of the Dickens classic, but it was requisite and quoted extensively.

Mr. Magoo in his natural state was ...well ... very politically incorrect. Basically, it was a cartoon making fun of an almost-blind old man. To make things worse, Mr. Magoo had a Chinese houseboy named Charley, complete with buck teeth, pigtail and "l" and "r" speech confusion ("Mistah Ma-gloo!")*.

There is no Charley in Magoo's Christmas Carol (not even in the "set up" song, "Great to be Back on Broadway"). And there is very little of Magoo's vision problems -- mistaking a coat rack for a visitor and, of course, the butcher's belly for the giant turkey Scrooge sends to the Cratchitts ("bwoot, bwoot").

So, Merry Christmas, John Boy and Dark Garden. May it be filled with razzleberry dressing.

*This led to a particular embarrassing moment for my mother. I had adopted "Charley's" version of saying "hello" and used it for everyone: "Heh-roh!" We moved to Maryland during this time period and I needed to change pediatricians. My mother was mortified when I greeted my new doctor -- Dr. Yim, a Chinese-American -- with a hearty "Heh-roh!"

A brief respite from being dragged down Memory Lane

2010-12-11T16:37:00.004-05:00

By now everyone has seen the flash mob Hallelujah Chorus, so I'm not going to imbed it here. Follow the link if you haven't seen it.

Oh, and make sure you are at maximum tissuage*.

A few things that struck me after watching it a (ahem) few times. I wonder how many people we see singing aren't the ones who practiced for the event. I, myself, could have sung any of the parts, having worked out a simplified, four-part version for kazoo that was to be performed one Christmas Eve a very VERY long time ago that never came to pass because of the refusal on the part of ~~Dark Garden~~ some people not to practice and the inability to find someone to play bass kazoo.

Anyway, this time of year, every church tries to whip its choir into shape enough to wow the Christmas Eve crowd with a passable version of the Handel classic and, thereby, inspire the once-a-year folks to sign on for the duration. So I figure there had to be a few church choir members in the food court crowd who, upon seeing the spontaneous outbreak of a piece they knew, stood and joined the singing.

Then there is the standing thing. I've seen a lot of comments on the internet about how rude it was that so many people didn't stand. Standing during the Hallelujah Chorus is a tradition, not a sacred rite. If this had occurred at my local mall, the lack of standing would have been the same. Most men don't around here don't bother to remove their hats during the Star Spangled Banner either.

It made me laugh to see the people in the background actually fleeing the area, as if they were terrified they'd be charged for listening to Handel without having to choke up a "love offering."

What did touch me, though, were the parents with children. I got a little weepy watching parents make some gesture or sign to their children telling them to pay attention -- "this is special; this is a moment." Watch how many parents reach out and touch their children in some way; they're so aware that this mundane shopping day suddenly became a gift that would never leave either memories.

I have to admit, if this were to occur in our local mall, while Dirtman and I would enjoy the performance, just about every other Linguini would be heading for the door. John Boy would be afraid a sing-along was about to break out. Dark Garden would balk at the idea of sacred music being inflicted upon him while he was doing a chore he hated in the first place. As for the Small Assorted Cratchits (which is what we call the Heirs and the Twins this time of year), duct tape over their mouths might be be wisest course of action.

In stark contrast to the organized and grand version of this perennial classic that is sweeping the web, I offer this older, more rustic version by the Roches (whose Christmas performance in Northern Virginia I swear I will attend one day when I grow up). It's not quite as full-bodied as a mall full of singers, but mesmerizing by its own merit.

*"Tissuage is a word because I say it is.

Those holiday specials were...ummm...special

2010-12-09T16:10:00.001-05:00

Here is my dilema: There are certain things I love but I'm not sure I love them for what they are or for the memory they induce.

For instance: There is a song in my Playlist by Julius LaRosa called "Eh, Cumpare." Bluntly, Placido Domingo will not be performing it anytime soon at the Met. It's a campy song, but I love it. I love it because I have a very specific memory from when I was five or six of that song coming on and my mother, grandmother and two aunts singing and miming along and laughing so hard they couldn't breath. I'm pretty sure there had to be Old Fashioneds and Martinis preceding the performance (for everyone but my mother, who didn't drink but had no problem acting like she had). From then on whenever that song was played, the entire Linguini assembly would begin singing and miming and laughing. (This was obviously not only a Linguini thing -- if you watch Godfather III, they have a similar -- though certainly more organized -- reaction to the song).

So, for what it's worth, growing up I absolutely loved Christmas specials. Not just the ones for kids, though. During the Christmas season, I was permitted to stay up past my 8 o'clock bedtime (that's right -- through my sophomore year in high school I had to go to bed at 8 o'clock...) and see all the Christmas shows that ran throughout December; and everyone had one -- Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Red Skelton (who ran the same one every year -- Greer Garson; I loved it), Dean Martin, Andy Williams, and any other celebrity who had a "variety show" (TV Guide designation) on the air at the time.

I see clips of them now and part of me cringes. The writing was horrible, the "special effects" were embarrassing (and not even done ironically) and the music was canned. But -- what was it? I couldn't look away.

Well, of course it was that I was warm and comfy on the sofa surrounded by relatives (oh brother, was I surrounded by relatives...), safe, secure and convinced that this whole "living" thing was a breeze. And, of course, there were cookies.

To this day, I hear Bing Crosby sing and my whole stress level drops.

And, so, for those of you who have forgotten how wonderfully horrible they were or for those who have not experienced the "specialness" of the 1960s Christmas Special:

Or, of course, you could just go to Branson...

How many more sleeps 'til Christmas?

2010-12-08T06:49:00.002-05:00

It's pretty safe to say that every Linguini can quote most of Dickens' A Christmas Carol from memory. Bits and pieces of it creep into our lexicon this time of year, but each line has it's own particular source depending on the situation, speaker and gravity of what we are really trying to say.

John Boy, Dark Garden and I grew up with six versions: two records (one featuring no less than Laurence Olivier), the 1951 movie with Alastair Sim and the 1938 version with Reginald Owen, the musical version from the 70s and the rather bizarre version starring Mr. Magoo (more on that at a later date). Dark Garden was quite young when the musical movie came out and he probably has the fondest memories of that -- seeing it at Radio City Music Hall at Christmas time was our reward that year for good report cards in the first semester (I wore my very fashionable maxi-coat that was gray and John Boy said made me look like Sgt. Schultz from Hogan's Heroes -- but I digress...).

Since then, there has been a flood of Christmas Carols (and I'm not counting every sitcom's obligatory Christmas episode that always seems to be a really stupid variation) and each with it's own merit. We have our personal favorites of course, though I like different ones for different reasons -- sometimes just for one line.

It stands to reason that a little of this would rub off on the Heirs and I wondered which of version they would take to heart. I figured the musical version if just for Albert Finney's muttered one-liners or maybe even the Patrick Stewart version because it's Capt. Picard from Star Trek.

But, no. This is the Heirs' favorite version of the Christmas Carol. I have fond memories of the two of them cuddled around me while we watched this.

I never cried over commercials until...

2010-12-07T07:15:00.000-05:00

Christmas commercials don't make me cry anymore. I doubt they make anyone cry. They're loud and crass or, worse, deliberately and heavy-handedly sentimental. Jewelry commercials are the worst and don't get me started on car commercials that even hint that a car is an appropriate Christmas present.

I was never a weepy person. Oh, the opening of Lassie always had me swallowing hard, but that was about it. I had a friend who always exited gooey movies in tears and I'd be rolling my eyes.

Then life happened -- I had kids and troubles and turmoil and that all changed. Now I cry over everything. Heir 2 can't leave for college or come home from college that I'm not I'm blubbering in the driveway. I just have to hear a dog whimper and I tear up. I even found myself crying while watching Charlie Chaplin and Jackie Coogan in The Kid.

When I was a teenager, though, I was a rock; except when this commercial came on. I was fine until the veeeeeeeery end -- the kid's reaction...you'll see what I mean.

See? See? Am I right?

With apologies to modern animation...

2010-12-05T16:29:00.003-05:00

I get sucked into a sentimental vortex during the Christmas season, so you will have to bear with me while I drag family members kicking and screaming down memory lane.

Happily, just in case you thought that some childhood holiday ~~trauma~~ memories have been permanently lost with the decay of time, there is always some kindred ~~victim~~ soul who managed to preserve it for you.

And so we have today's first offering. Thanks to YouTube, my brothers and I are seeing this for the first time in color.

When I found it and watched it, I was surprised at how much of this cartoon was ingrained in my head -- we used to do Grampy's "Hmmm.....hmmmm.....hmmm....I got it!" all the time (when we were little, I mean -- it would be silly to do it now...). And that song; I'd forgotten where it had come from.

For those of you who don't remember, Grampy used to show up in Betty Boop cartoons.

The Long and Winding Road

2010-12-02T08:16:00.005-05:00

I travel it twice a day, five -- sometimes six -- times a week and I've been doing it for a year and a half. You'd think I'd be numb to it by now.

The road between my house and the farm where I work is so phenomenally beautiful you would think it was deliberately laid out just for aesthetic purposes; like someone directed, "Put the mountain here and that little foothill there, a broken down barn right on the road, sprinkle a few sheep there and there and -- oh -- have that light come in from the east at just this angle to light up this, but not that...and a cow -- there must be a cow!"

Actually, it is never the same day to day or even hour to hour. The seasons change, the weather changes, the light changes and even the residents initiate change. Yet there is consistency also. The housing boom and subsequent bust had very little affect on this road -- there is only one vast empty field accessed through an elaborate stone archway festooned with now-tattered flags announcing, "Homes!" "Lots for Sale!" The sign with contact information has been knocked over and broken in the ditch for over a year now.

Naturally there is other evidence of the housing crisis cropping up here and there; but there is an overall stability also that speaks of a privilege peculiar to this part of the country -- properties are not sold, so much as passed down to relatives. There is a lack of foreclosures along this road because few of them carried mortgages.

So it is comforting to know that there is a rhythm on this road that I can count on; the plowing in spring; the foraging trails of deer during the winter that on any other road would be a catastrophe; sheep shearing; calving; and even skunk mating season that results in a minefield of putrid-smelling roadkill.

It isn't all boring regularity, though. There are those bizarre little minor events not important enough to remember to relate at the dinner table, but that are funny in their rural, bucolic context. For instance, there are several poultry farms near here and one day someone must have left their turkey pen open. Driving into town to make a bank deposit I saw about a dozen turkeys on the side of the road, apparently conferring with each other over which direction to take. On my way back, maybe 20 minutes later, they were still there. I decided they were waiting for a bus.*

I'm rather proprietary about life along this road, as if my mere presence ensures that life will continue. If a tree falls along Back Road will it make a noise if Sisiggy isn't driving by to hear it? I think not. I am convinced that on my days off the little man who takes a walk everyday just to the end of his vast property and back stays indoors and the lady who walks her Beagle just ties him up in the backyard and sleeps in.

On a sharp curve is a huge, tidy farm with sheep and cattle. Many times when I drive by in the early morning the owner (at least I assume he is) is on his front lawn with his cup of coffee, surveying his good work. Two border collies sit obediently at his feet, awaiting their orders. I wave to him and his return wave is practically a salute. There is no sign of a female presence on the property; no flowers appear on the porch in the spring, nor any other decorative indication that one season is any different from another. The only vehicle in the driveway is the immaculate early-model farm truck. The outside of the house if devoid of a single bush or border and the white paint is renewed regularly. He is in control of his land; a tight, iron-grip of control.

I have decided I like this man but, like the ex-wife I've conjured for him, doubt anyone could ever live with him. By now he's convinced himself he likes it better this way and, were he a talker -- which he is not -- he would tell you so in a firm tone that would prevent your disagreement.

I have built stories like this for each of the houses I pass. The ramshackle farmhouse where a little old lady regularly hangs out her laundry, rain or shine; she's a little addled, but she makes due with regular visits from old friends. There is the young family who live next to a tiny country store; I'm positive the oldest boys is recruited to make regular trips next door for milk and, in my mind, he's always barefoot and in need of a haircut. I've made up an entire medical history for the little man who walks to the end of his property each day.

Even the mountains have a story and I try to picture what this valley looked like when those mountains were as big and craggy as the Rockies and here I am, a tiny speck driving through in my little Subaru Anachronism.

My very favorite thing is finding old road beds and trying to conjure what this area looked like before this nice, convenient road cut off the maze of small country lanes. You can still see the shadows of the old paths, especially when you come across a very old house that has been modified so that its back is now its front.

I get a little annoyed when I meet up with another vehicle on what I consider "my road," especially when they pull behind me and want me to drive over the limit because they're in a hurry. Their heads usually have that sideways tilt, letting me know they're on their cell phone because, you know, it's been an entire three minutes since they dropped off little Finster and his his status may have changed. (What is it with people who can no longer drive without a cell phone attached to their ear? Are their families that inept?)

Sometimes...more times than I like to admit...my drive is the best part of the day...unless, of course, there's something good on TCM...

*Don't worry -- since I was unable to determine which farm the turkeys were from, I called the sheriff's department, which had already been informed (several times over) of the wayward turkeys and were dealing with the problem at that very moment. I considered heading back to the site to watch the turkey round-up, but decided to leave the sheriff's department with their dignity intact.

Back to plate-spinning

2010-11-28T20:47:00.004-05:00

Today is my last day home after a welcomed break for the holiday. Four days off and I've found my old rhythm of housekeeping and homemaking. In four days organization has begun to return along with all my old enthusiasms.

It's called Being Rested. The past four nights I did not go to bed trying to fit the puzzle pieces of who has to be where and what car will take them and how it will all work around letting out dogs and making sure we all have the proper clothing clean and ready to wear.

Instead, for four glorious nights I knew in the morning would be coffee, then a quick lick around the house, and then the easy dance between hanging out laundry and writing and knitting and cooking and sewing.

The little glitches in the day that normally bring the whole opera to a screeching and tragic halt -- for instance, Dirtman being called into work early -- mean nothing more than perhaps flipping a chore or two. Suddenly words I haven't uttered in a very long time come out of my mouth: "No big deal!" Almost...cheerful.

Tomorrow the circus goes back on the road and I will begin my fabulous plate act, running from spinning plate to spinning plate, making sure they stay moving so they don't fall and break.

I can never think beyond the plates while they're spinning, though. They are useless, but urgent and, frankly, I have to be thankful for the opportunity to perform. Rent must be paid, the lights must stay on, Linguinis must be fed.

But, until Christmas, the plates are all there is.

Thanks for ... the turkey...

2010-11-27T11:57:00.005-05:00

It is The Day After Thanksgiving and Dark Garden sends us an e-mail complimenting Dirtman and me on the food we’d had the day before. Because it is The Day after Thanksgiving, I don’t open it until the Day After the Day After Thanksgiving.

The Day After Thanksgiving is the day I stay in bed recuperating from The Week Before Thanksgiving. (Long-time Linguini readers know this involves Turner Classic Movies and a heating pad).

So I get the e-mail and, I have to admit, I’m surprised. I was not particularly impressed with this year’s menu.

The turkey was, as always, very good. Dirtman usually takes care of the turkey with minimal input from me; so, other than resolving each year that Someone Else should carve (someone who is neither Dirtman nor I), the turkey was perfect.

Everything else – meh.

In all fairness, this is the first year I’ve done an all-out Thanksgiving in this house. We had a tiny celebration here the first year and the next year we were at Dark Garden’s house. The kitchen here is very tiny and I’ve had to give away most of my cookware because it didn’t fit in the oven or on the stove. (Ironically, for the first time in my 23 years of marriage, Dirtman was able to find the turkey roaster on Thanksgiving -- but it won't fit into the oven).

I came to realize, though, that in most of the world, huge kitchens with multiple ovens are not seen outside a commercial establishment. If the rest of the world can have their family over for a big meal, well then a good ol’ Yankee girl can certainly do just as well…

…sort of…

…so the praline topping on the sweet potatoes wasn’t crunchy enough…

…and the dressing was too bready (DG would complain about the apples, but he was the only one alarmed at fruit in his stuffing; and maybe John Boy, who doesn’t like vegetables in his cake either…)…

If my job was not away from home (ah, for the good ‘ol days of working from home…), I probably could have solved these problems by doing a whole lot ahead of time. Hindsight being 20/20, I know now what I could have done to prevent side-dish backup.

Did I mention the microwave broke the day before Thanksgiving? No?

So, all-in-all, I think I deserved my TCM and heating pad day – I also spent the day explaining to two 20-somethings how one goes about heating up Thanksgiving leftovers without a microwave…

NOTE: In actuality, the highlight of the day was not the meal at all, but the game of Balderdash that followed (which was actually two games of Balderdash, since Heir 2 made us all go around again until it was after midnight and we were all so tired we couldn't write anymore).

Move on, already...

2010-11-17T17:17:00.006-05:00

It's tempting to jump on the "Ah-Hah! See -- it was the bank's fault all along" bandwagon making the rounds this month among foreclosure victims (for lack of a better word).

I have to admit that I've spent an inordinate amount of time giggling at the vacuous expressions on mortgage-provider employees as they try to explain how they came to sign off on thousands of foreclosures barely having the vaguest idea of what a mortgage is.

For those of us who lost everything during the past few years, we're just happy that, for once, we're not being blamed. And if it means throwing those poor slobs under the bus, I've got to admit for a brief moment it meant relief.

Honestly, though, I know it's not those dazed, confused souls trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as they try to justify signing documents stating they work in states they've never been to or witnessed signatures of people they didn't know. But let's face it, we've all had it out for the financial community in general ever since Bear Stearns went belly up. Bernie Madoff had us lighting torches and marching through the village.

For people like me, it's been good to have the banks around to absorb some of the smug self-righteousness of those who are surviving this financial climate. If I had a nickle for every person, pundit or writer that used the phrase, "living in houses they couldn't afford based on money they hadn't yet earned," I would still be a homeowner. Other than that being the ultimate in arrogant statements, I've found that to be the case in most households -- even ones that are not facing foreclosure.

Which is why I've stopped gloating over this current mortgage crisis. Yes, there was and is rampant greed in the financial world that caused varying degrees of malfeasance. But...

...but...

BIG HONKIN' BUT... that still doesn't excuse our national obsession with buying, wanting, lusting after and judging by Stuff. Focusing on the financial world's contributions to our economic woes may be satisfying, but it gets us nowhere. I heard the fashionable response when someone makes dire economic predictions based on what's happening now is to slough off the whole economic downturn on "a dip in the cycle;" in other words, no need to worry -- this is just what happens sometimes and we'll be back to business as usual again in no time.

Well, yeah...that's why it's cyclical; it's also known as insanity -- doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

We all know that the world was slightly insane, right? And Financial Experts (credentials, please!) claim the key to getting the economy running again is to get money into the hands of the consumer so they can buy more Stuff. And it's probably true -- it really will get us back to where we were, again and again and again.

I am not so naive to think this event was going to change the economic tide of the universe. But there may be out there...and you know who you are...people who recognize this financial upheaval for the gift it is -- albeit a very, very hard gift to accept. It's like getting a big, humongous girdle for Christmas from a really skinny friend and when you look at it you swear it's way too big but then it turns out that it not only fits you, but also makes you look really, really terrific -- you hate to admit that it's a perfect fit and that you needed it all along, but there's no getting around the fact that you need it because you are too damn bloated.

That kind of gift.

Someday I will write of my Journey to the Center of the Socio-economic Earth Sector, where my only armor was my race and my willingness to grovel, neither of which I'm particularly proud. That's for another day.

The point is, I'm glad I know now what I didn't know in my insulated middle class existence. And that's what I think of when I see people grasping at straws to stay in the homes they can't possibly maintain the payments on or refusing to accept that they are in over their heads and are, instead, victims of the hapless banking system.

I want to tell them, Let it go. Admit it: unethical and illegal banking practices aside, you were drowning. Accept it, learn from it and, for your own sake, move on.

Then, maybe, the things will go back to the way it was for everyone; and, for some of us, it will be even better.

But wait! There's more!

2010-11-14T18:26:00.003-05:00

Picture this: 14-year-old Sisiggy, sitting on the couch: striped denim jeans, red tank top, loooong brown hair (NO HEAD BAND because Sisiggy wasn't allowed to wear a headband because her mother said that would make her look like a hippie whore. So she only wore a headband one timewhen her mother, in response to 13-year-old Sisiggy referring to the household as "the Third Reich," threw up her hands and said, "That's it! I give up! Do whatever you want! You want to go around like a putana, go around looking like a putana," resulting in 13-year-old Sisiggy going to her friend's house dressed in the aforementioned outfit, only this time with a 3-inch suede band -- that was actually a choker necklace -- tied around her forehead; something which she never did again since the suede caused her forehead to break out so much that it was a week before she could appear in public without her bangs covering her face). So don't picture the headband.

But, in case this escapes you, I was still dressed cool. Of course there were no witnesses to confirm this other than, perhaps, Dark Garden, who probably doesn't remember, and John Boy, who wouldn't have noticed.

Still, I insist that in 1972, I had my cool moments, brief as they were...

So there I am...cool.

On the television comes an advertisement: Time Life Records. They're hawking the Sound of the Big Band Era. It's hilarious. Old people songs; "Remastered!" Glenn Miller plays while photos, c. 1940s, flash on the screen. It's so campy. They've even wheeled out some of the ancient musicians to give musical credibility to artists who hadn't been heard from for over 30 years. It was kind of sad, really, that these people who were once at the top of the music field, were now hawking these nostalgic compilations during the cheapest advertising slots on local TV.

I am laughing. John Boy comes in and joins me in laughing. Dark Garden comes in and joins us in laughing (though, because he's only 6, he's not quite sure why). We are making fun of the fact that old people like my parents might be interested in all this campy music and that it would conjure memories of all those silly photos flashing before our faces.

You know where this is going...

So today, picture this: 53-year-old Sisiggy, sitting on the couch: baggy pants, over-sized shirt, looong brown hair (who's got money for a haircut?) -- not cool. Not cool and not caring a flying flip that it's not cool; because there is nothing cool about 53 years old, baggy pants, over-sized shirts, looong brown gray-flecked hair, and not caring a flying flip about it.

So there I am...not cool.

And there they are: Dewey Bunnell and Gerry Beckley from America hawking Sound of the 70s, which is basically every single I had in my hot pink 45-rpm record carrying case (adorned with yellow smiley-face stickers) -- along with campy photos of people who looked way cooler than I ever did. Let me repeat that with a different perspective: Dewey Bunnell and Gerry Beckley from America hawking music by Bread. If you are over 50, that's one of those Things That Make You Go, "Hmmm..."

I had a brief moment of nostalgia, during which I thought, "Well, it was nice to hear those again............................................................once."

Except, perhaps for Hotel California. That song should just stay retired.

Fleeting trends we're glad have passed

2010-11-06T12:25:00.009-04:00

One of the pleasures of watching old movies is seeing the fashions and trends of the day that were either being reflected or encouraged at the time the movie was made. I'm not talking about ideology here; that's a subject I wouldn't attempt to tackle in a blog entry. I'm talking about the day-to-day stuff that people encounter that can sometimes tell you not only what era this film was made in, but pinpoint the precise year.

Naturally you get a big heaping eyeful of the fads that defined the time. But, more interestingly, you'll get a glimpse of trends that were popular for the blink of an eye or that never quite caught on.

For instance, one of my favorite movies is Laura starring Gene Tierney*, an elegant film noir in which Tierney plays a classy career woman who is sought after by every man she meets, including the detective assigned to solve her murder (trust me -- this makes perfect sense if you've seen the movie). At any rate, Gene Tierney is a beautiful woman playing a beautiful woman. And then they put her in this:

Okay, so one fashion faux pas in a movie is no big deal. And then, further along in the movie, this:

Even Gene is not quite sure what she had draped on her head...

Just about every actress (except Grace Kelly) has had her share of incredibly poor fashion choices now documented for eternity in some movie or other. Even Katharine Hepburn had her off days. And we won't even mention some of the hats Doris Day attempted to pull off in the early 60s...

Food trends, though, are a little harder to spot. I remember in the 1960s the dish that was considered most elegant was crepe suzette (remember -- "Cathy adores a minuet, the Ballet Russes and crepe Suzette...") and it pops up in a number of movies.

I find it sort of amusing when Cary Grant serves Quiche Lorraine with great ceremony in To Catch a Thief. Quiche Lorraine is one of those end-of-the-month dishes around here because there are always bits of bacon and swiss cheese around and eggs are a nice, cheap protein.

Another example of this occurred in a movie whose name I can't recall (I suppose I could find out, but I'm too lazy and it doesn't matter) but had George Sanders at a nightclub with some woman and another man who had approached their table. In front of him are two large tulip glasses with a white ball in each. He pours champagne over the white balls and, while sitting there delivering dry, witty lines, uses a spoon to flip the balls around in the glass. I looked at the other two characters to see if, perhaps, this was an indication of some mental problem with George's character. But -- no -- they were perfectly fine with what he was doing.

I didn't think anything of it and made a mental note to Google this next time I was at my computer, which I naturally forgot all about within five minutes...

...until a few days later when I was watching another movie I forget the name of and the woman character came upon some fresh peaches, which she proceeded to peel and place in a champagne glass -- one of those wide, flat versions they used to use before flutes became popular. She then poured champagne over the peach, she and her guests toasted and everyone somehow managed to get a mouthful of champagne before the peach flipped out of the shallow glass.

Clearly, I thought, this was a trend that, thankfully, did not catch on. Well, that -- and someone discovered using peach schnapps didn't look quite so silly when drinking a Bellini.

This time I did remember to Google and found this little article, for all you foodies out there who care...

The most disturbing food trend seems to have begun during the thirties. In Dinner at Eight there is a kerfuffle over a lion-shaped aspic that has to be substituted by crab meat. In Alice Adams, Katharine Hepburn laments to Fred McMurray that her mother has served him a heavy roast beef dinner in a heat wave instead of "something iced and jellied." (You may have missed the line, because the scene stealer at this point is Hattie McDaniel and her maid's outfit.)

Now, I like Jello just as much as the next person. I have even, on occasion, indulged in Jello salads (Jello molds are, according to John Boy, a Protestant phenomenon. We never saw Jello molds until we had married Protestants and attended their group functions. Catholics don't do Jello molds, you see.).

However, I can't wrap my mind around a savory gelatin dish. Every now and then someone tries to have aspic make a comeback, but it never quite catches on. It's one of those things that looks like it should be delicious, but then you realize it's something like tomato soup...only it's cold...and solid...sort of...and, well...slimy. And suddenly your throwing up in your mouth a little.

Then there is this tantalizing snippet from The Women: Norma Shearer wants to serve her husband a dish they both love: Pancakes Barbara. It's said as if everyone knows what Pancakes Barbara is and all we are told is that it will make her husband fat. This is another one of those items it took me forever to remember to Google. So, thanks to IMBD:

Almost as theatrical and certainly as decadent as flaming crêpes Suzette, pancakes Barbara are pancakes smothered with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, blanched walnuts, and hot chocolate sauce. Just hearing about them can put on five pounds. In another version: pancakes Barbara are blackberry pancakes served with brandy sauce and named for Barbara La Marr, a beautiful silent screen star. The dessert was on the menu at the MGM commissary in the 1930s, and was a favorite of studio boss Louis B. Mayer.

And this is where I will close since Heir 2 was looking over my shoulder as I looked this up and has now suddenly developed a 1939 craving for Pancakes Barbara...

*I don't know if I loved the movie or if I loved the movie because I loved watching it with my father back in the day. Legend has it that my father wanted to name me Laura, but my mother nixed the idea (strangely, my first doll was named Laura). So instead I was named "after Ma," though her name wasn't Jean, it was Eugenia -- everyone called her "Jean." So I was named "Jean" and everyone was happy. Years later, long after my mother's death, my father said that he agreed to the Jean because of Gene Tierney and that, if I had noticed (I hadn't), he always called me "Jean" (i.e., Gene) and not "Jeanne" like everyone else.

In which we are puzzled and amazed by citified ways

2010-10-26T16:24:00.004-04:00

Just a few observations of things that go on in Northern Virginia that are probably very commonplace to the residents, but strike us as rather bizarre:

An unmarked white panel truck on the opposite side of the road suddenly pulls a "k" turn in the middle of a busy four-lane highway (Rt. 7 in Falls Church, for those from around here), pulls into the righthand lane in front of me and another car and then stops dead. Then, from out of nowhere, forty or fifty Latino men come swarming from behind buildings and jump into the truck. No -- it doesn't surprise me that I was cut off and stuck behind this truck or that all these Latino men began jumping in. What surprised me is that someone had a construction job they could work at...
We arrived an hour early in Arlington and decided to get coffee at a little sidewalk cafe. Of course we're now in "the city" (at least as compared to the farm), so we experience the usual street noises: traffic and construction, particularly a jackhammer. But then I look around me and there is not a whole lot of traffic and not a sign of construction going on anywhere. Which leads me to believe that somewhere there is a company that markets "Sounds on a City Sidewalk" mood CDs specifically for outdoor cafes targeting young professional working people who like to look harried and busy.
I am really thankful for federal buildings that have x-ray machines for my purse so I don't have to have that uncomfortable moment when the security guard opens that little zippered section of my purse -- you know the one. I'm so old, this still embarrasses me; but not so old not to have an embarrassing little zippered section of my purse.
Whenever I travel to The City, I'm convinced I need a Blackberry; and an iPhone; and something with GPS. I'm not quite sure what I'll do with any of these since it annoys me just to send a text message and I hate it when my cell phone rings. But I feel obligated to pull out my cell phone and stare at it, maybe push a few buttons, so I look like everyone else. As soon as I get home, though, the feeling goes away.
What are you all doing over there in ~~Occupied~~ Northern Virginia that you need 80 bazillion nail places?

Tonight I feel as though I've been to visit another planet and I will be very thankful tomorrow morning when the only "traffic" I have to contend with is a tractor pulling feed hay to another field.

Yet Another Curmudgeonly TV Rant

2010-10-21T16:36:00.009-04:00

Warning for those of you sick of these. You're excused. See ya later.

For starters, let me first fess up -- during my Lost Summer I watched more TV than I ever had in my life; not whole shows, mind you...if there wasn't something good on TCM, then I just kept flipping channels looking for direction. For this reason, I actually do know a little something about the programs about which I complain -- rather than my usual method of relying on heresay and getting it wrong (as in the American's Top Model vs. Project Runway fiasco in a Spot-On column I did).

I have since weaned myself off this habit -- and perhaps sometime I will do a blog why I think weaning is necessary, especially if you think it isn't, and how I did it. But that's not for today.

It seems that the new fall shows are being canceled already. I was only dimly aware new fall shows had started, but...really? Already? Not one of the shows even vaguely resembled Turn-On (which gives you an idea of how old I am...).

One of the reasons for this is -- and I quote -- "poor performance among younger viewers."

Really?

That's whose opinion we're relying on to determine what we're allowed to watch?

It explains everything!

It explains why those Kardashian people are making money. It explains why one channel devotes itself almost entirely to weddings of spoiled, whiney couples and their dysfunctional families (it's either Bravo or WE -- whatever; the channel numbers are close to each other on my cable remote). It explains why creating a wonderful meal is a fierce battle on the Food Network. It explains why Ashley Simpson showed up on The Dog Whisperer (the fading celebrity's next to the last ditch effort to revive their career -- after this, it's off to Branson and red, white and blue cowboy attire).

I will admit to being baffled at first, then outraged that I was watching a glorification of talentless, superficial,self-absorbed, self-centered Californians (sorry, Californians; but, as much as you all disparage the sophistication and physical attractiveness of everyone east of your "canyons" and west of your accountants' beach house in the Hamptons, you do know that the rest of the country considers you all a bunch of idiots*, right? -- all except my former editor Chris, who is one of the smartest women I know and who I envision as a sort of Jane Goodall living among the apes).

Upon further reflection, though, I resigned myself to the fact that there is no solution to this and eventually television will be nothing but a cesspool of so many talentless attention grabbers and their exploiters that in order to maintain the momentum they're going to have to resort to killing each other off in creative ways. While crass, this could preserve our gene pool.

We're already seeing signs of degeneration. Monk had a lackluster final season. House has turned into just another medical soap opera. Between American Pickers and Pawn Stars, watching the History Channel is very much like spending a weekend following my in-laws around. And freakin' Ashley Simpson is on The Dog Whisperer.

And I'm not even going to mention The Jersey Shore, because Heir 2 told me not to. He said everybody complains about The Jersey Shore. But, just so you know -- the people on the Jersey Shore are not from the Jersey Shore. Those of us who lived on the Jersey Shore avoided places like Seaside Heights in the summer because of people like them -- usually from New York or North Jersey). Now I'm done not mentioning The Jersey Shore.

Well, look at that -- I've written all the way to here and I haven't even touched on The Leering Channel...excuse me -- The Learning Channel -- little people, morbidly obese people, perpetually pregnant people, morbidly obese pregnant people, pregnant little people and people with severe mental illness being treated as though all they have is an "organizational problem." They're all there for us to -- ahem -- "learn" about!

Okay. I'll stop. For now. Before I start on the cable news channels...

*I feel perfectly justified in making a broad generalization about people I've never met, such as Californians. After all, people make broad generalizations about people from New Jersey based on that hideous show about sleaze buckets at The Jersey Shore who are not from the Jersey shore. (I wrote this before Heir 2 told me not to mention The Jersey Shore.)

In which Dirtman gets older

2010-10-18T09:37:00.011-04:00

What would it take to get two college-age kids on break to agree to spend an entire day with their parents and allow said parents to choose the movie they would go to?

Don't worry -- neither of us is dying.

It's Dirtman's birthday.

Dirtman, Visionary*

So the four of us met up at one of our favorite treats, Alamo Drafthouse, to see the movie Red (Which was good, as what it was; we're not talking To Kill a Mockingbird here...). And we have the photographic evidence to prove it.

I would like to say a few things about this photographic evidence: I get very little cooperation from my subjects and I'm not fond of having my own picture taken.

So, if you want to see current Linguini photos, you pretty much have to take what you can get -- except in the case of Heir 2, who will pretty much pose for anything but a serious photo.

As for me, no matter what happens, I always look ticked off. I truly am not angry -- I just seem to have a face that looks that way (although I will admit that, while Dirtman is taking my photo, I'm usually barking instructions out of the corner of my mouth).
I caught Heir 1 on his way in -- very quickly, since all the time I'm taking the shot, he's nattering, "Why do we always have to make a scene?" You'd think he'd know the answer to that by now...

Never did get a good shot of Heir 2...but we do have a nice, blurry photo of this guy...

...but you all know what Heir 2 looks like, right?

*Have you noticed the re-emergence of Dirtman's neck? He's lost a whole lot of weight and looks great...and very impressive when he dons his business khakis and arranges free stuff for the farm -- like an agricultural well so that when we suffer a drought like we did this year, we can still provide the food banks with lots of vegetables. He did that this week!

Breakfast at Linguini's

2010-10-10T13:18:00.009-04:00

This year we discovered what we have is an Autumn Patio, discovered as we were hanging out laundry and suddenly realized how pleasant it was in the backyard now that the weather is cooler and the sun is hitting at a different angle.
We've taken to spending more time out there and Sunday morning I made up some homemade cinnamon buns and coffee to eat while enjoying the scenery. Since Dirtman* works this afternoon and evening, this will be our version of an "anniversary meal" for this year.

In the summer the patio is unbearably hot. Even with an umbrella over our outside table, it is impossible to sit out there until the sun disappears behind the mountain.

Now, if Dirtman isn't working that evening, we take our "happy hour" out to the patio, driving the dogs nuts -- Zsa Zsa is always hoping I'll drop an olive or two -- and looking out at this.

*...who, we promise, is getting a haircut right now, as I am typing this...

You know you're old when...

2010-10-10T00:49:00.006-04:00

You have to scan in your wedding photos because there was no such thing as a digital camera back when you were married.

You know you've been married a long time when people look at your wedding pictures and say, "Oh, my God!"

We used to look a lot like our wedding photos; then we looked just a little more mature than our wedding photos; now it's tough to convince people these really are our wedding photos.

Nevermind. We've toughed it out through as much muck as can be thrown at a couple, so don't tell me the institution of marriage doesn't work. It's just that people expect of marriage things it was never meant to do. And then, when it breaks their hearts or forces them to grow in ways they never intended, they get scared and run.

So there we are, 23 years ago -- and countless pounds gained, lost and regained since (our glasses alone had to weigh 20 pounds back then...).

So, Happy Anniversary, Sparkey, from Sister Ingnatius Toyota of Our Lady of Perpetual Motion.

The Secret of My "Success"

2010-10-08T19:55:00.004-04:00

I’ve never been cagey about the financial situation here at Casa de Linguini. In a way I’ve been trying to get away from being defined by our bankruptcy and foreclosure because we are so much more than that.

However, unless you’ve got a never-ending fountain of money at your disposal, finances pretty much set the ground rules by which you are required to live. It determines where you live, what you wear and how you spend your spare time; it determines the media to which you have access and, as I’ve come to find out the hard way, it determines how you are treated by total strangers.

This last is a puzzling phenomenon because the entire economic collapse could be summed up by saying that what we were determining as “valuable” was really an illusion, whether it’s a hedge fund manager’s promises of investment returns, Porsche’s assurance that buying their car will make you look successful or Oil of Olay hinting that if you slap on their lotion you’ll get your youth back.

So you’d think we’d know a thing or two about books and their covers, but that would require deeper thought than deciding which media source to go to for our daily dose of stereotyping.

I digress (I’m sure everyone is sick to death of my nattering on about the influence of television).

My point is, I’m very transparent about the fact that our finances are excruciatingly tight. I’m not a stupid person. I am, on occasion, rather witty. I am educated through my own means and well-read. I am honest and strong. I’m a really good mom and have the compassionate, empathetic, hard-working sons to prove it. I’m a fiercely loyal spouse, which I shouldn’t have had to prove.

But I’m still poor as a church mouse.

So I’m not Successful.

No, no. I’m not fishing for validation here…I’m trying to make a point.

I keep reading of financial predictions and the economic goals and all I keep hearing is that we all want to get back to the way it was.

Really?

I don’t.

Let me tell you about “back the way it was.” We were very wealthy then, as I recall. But our kids weren’t “done” yet and I required Dirtman to run interference for me whenever we had “contact” with the outside world (there was a two-year period during which I did not answer the phone – ever). Our marriage had faced what most would have considered "challenges," but that were, in fact, the kind of noble sufferings that made us sort of admirable martyrs; certainly nothing embarrassing that would cause our sensibilities to come into question.

Back then, we were considered “successful.” I’m not going to tell you how successful; but – trust me – we were on every non-profit’s direct mailing list.

Do we really want to go back to that measure of success? Cash value? Bernie Madoff was worth quite a bit – was he successful? (Yes, I know. The skeptic in my brain wants to yell back, “Yeah – if he hadn’t gotten caught!”)

I rather hoped all these economic woes would have taught us something about what constitutes success.

And so I repeat: I’m not a stupid person. I am, on occasion, rather witty. I am educated through my own means and well-read. I am honest and strong. I’m a really good mom and have the compassionate, empathetic, hard-working sons to prove it. I’m a fiercely loyal spouse, which I shouldn’t have had to prove.

And – I insist – I am a success.

Without fail...

2010-10-04T11:23:00.002-04:00

Loads of laundry come and go at different times and in different combinations, but...

...every Sunday at 11 a.m. there they are on the clothesline: six identical brassieres (I'm wearing the seventh), one green satin nightgown, one green silk blouse and one pair of Peds (the green silk blouse outfit is the only one requiring I wear ballet flats).

...if I skip a week the neighbors call to see if I'm all right. I guess it's comforting.

In which Sisiggy leaves the state -- all by herself

2010-10-03T09:06:00.007-04:00

I don't get out much.

This is not hyperbole; and when I say "out," I mean beyond the country road that runs between my house and the farm where I work. It's a beautiful drive and I consider it one of the perks of my job that I get to see a bucolic panorama on my way to work everyday instead of, say, freeway overpasses, strip malls and fast food restaurants. But I can go months and never leave the road where I both live and work.

The reason for this is partially logistic. We are three adults with two vehicles going three different places. At any given time, someone has to stay home while two are at work/school.

I've come to realize, though, that the other part of this is that it's just easier to stay home and I've found I'm susceptible to the easier path -- not very rewarding, but safe. So here I found myself at the end of a summer with my world shrunken to a 10-mile stretch of road.

So when my friend (and former co-worker at the farm) Susan suggested I come and visit her at her new apartment in Maryland where she and her husband moved last July, my knee-jerk reaction was to politely say, "Yes, we must do that sometime;" and if she pressed me with a specific date, there was always the answer, "Dirtman is working that day and needs the car and Heir 1 has school..."

It's not because I don't want to see Susan and Larry. In my head, I'm constantly updating her on what's going on at the farm and in my life. But her invitation brought me to the realization that I had not driven myself anywhere (other than work) in over a year and I was actually having anxiety over something that I usually never gave a second thought about.

It is always easier to give in to the anxiety than it is to overcome it and I've been spending way too much time on the easy path.

Dirtman and Heir 1 were very cooperative about juggling rides when I announced that I intended to drive to Maryland on a Saturday afternoon (really, only about an hour-long trip) and meet up with Susan and that I was going to do this all by myself (was that an attitude of relief I sensed?).

I was, of course, rewarded for my bravery. It was wonderful to see my friends again and, of course, Susan cooked a terrific meal; and we talked...and talked...and talked...

Oh, and did proper homage to Brandy. How can one not do proper homage to Brandy?

And then, without a second thought, I headed home...with a bagful of homemade cookies for my very own...and we all promised we'd do this again sometime soon.

I mean, it's not like it's a big deal or anything...

Dinner and a show!

Short post, so...

2010-10-01T08:39:00.000-04:00

...sorry...had to go get groceries tonight (or, in New Jersey-ese: had to go food shopping).

And now Wuthering Heights is on.

Smell the heather!

In which a little of my bitterness shows through

2010-09-29T07:10:00.006-04:00

So I'm flipping around channels last night*, hoping against all hope that there might be something of interest on the television. There wasn't, of course; but during the search I happened upon one of those home and garden shows that follows a family looking to buy a house.

I have to wonder what others looking at our culture think when they see people walking through a perfectly acceptable, immaculate house turning up their nose because the huge living room isn't huge enough or the appliances in the kitchen are three years old. What do they think when a woman looks at a perfectly serviceable stove top and wrinkles her nose with disdain because it's "so dated."

And are people doing strange things in their bathrooms these days that they have to be the size of a ballroom?

Nobody knows better than me that sometimes you just want luxury and, if you got the money, I say go for it. But won't a simple statement of preference suffice without claiming, "I can't live with that Formica counter." You can't live with an abusive person; you can't live with rabid dog; but a granite counter top?

Okay, I'll admit, compared with the caliber of houses Dirtman and I look at, these houses are palaces. A Formica counter would be an upgrade (in the last house, any counter would have been an upgrade).

The ironic thing is, I'll bet I turn out more meals for bigger crowds of people from my tiny circa. 1960s kitchen than any of them do from their football field size rooms. (Though I do miss my kitchen from The House That Shall Not Be Named. Two ovens really made big dinners run smoothly and it was nice having a dishwasher). No one cooks anymore; they just watch Food Network and promise themselves that they will one day.

So I've sworn off home and garden TV, leaving me with TCM and only TCM. I can relate to the kitchens on TCM.

*An unfortunate side effect of my Lost Summer.

Oh, she may look all sweet and cuddly...

2010-09-28T16:58:00.009-04:00

...but she's just dreaming of ways to turn the entire house upside down.

Phoebe is perhaps the one animal not well-documented during Linguini's five-year existence. This is because Phoebe is our resident recluse.

She's the oldest pet around here, evidenced by how young Heir 1 is in this photo.

The reason Heir 1 is looking so happy is that when this was taken, Phoebe had just been pulled from the jaws of death with the aid of ~~copious amounts of cash~~ two-weeks worth of torturous (to me) pharmaceuticals supplied by a now very wealthy vet and administered to every orifice of her body. And I have the scars to prove it.

Phoebe proceeded to live her life as she pleased, sleeping either on the front porch or Heir 2's bed and taking a two-week vacation every summer. Each year she would disappear at the end of June and then, just when we were ready to write her off as having gotten lost or hit by a car or picked up somewhere, she would show up on the front porch looking for breakfast.

As she got older, though, Phoebe became a hermit and never ventured outside Heir 2's bedroom. I think this is because he was the only one brave enough to pet her; she had a tendency to clamp onto his hand so he couldn't pull away until she was good and ready.

When Heir 2 went off to college and Heir 1 moved into his room, it was with the understanding that Phoebe came with the room. It wasn't exactly a match made in heaven. Phoebs did not approve of the change in roommates and she and Heir 1 could be heard arguing with each other long into the night.

It seems that whatever item was important to Heir 1, Phoebe adopted as her own. If Heir 1 wanted to work on the computer, Phoebe wanted to lay on the keyboard; if Heir 1 wanted to play a video game, Phoebe wanted to lay on the console. She would rub herself all over his clean clothes -- never on the dirty laundry (I suggested the radical idea that perhaps putting the clothing in a drawer might solve this particular problem...what was I thinking?).

The battle escalated until one day Heir 1 flung Phoebe into the office where she's been ever since (seems laying on the gaming console wasn't quite getting the message across -- so Phoebe peed on it.)

So the office has become a sort of nursing home to Phoebs -- who we are convinced has a feline form of Alzheimers. For awhile she slept in her litter pan and relieved herself in the dog's water bowl. Now she sleeps ... well, wherever she damn well pleases -- she's Phoebe, after all.

She loves to argue. You would think a cat with a face that sweet would have a delicate little "mew." Think again. She's sounds like she's been smoking a pack of filter-less Camels for 40 years and she uses her lung power to let you know that her food bowl is empty, you have blocked access to her favorite perching spot (the dining room table) or her personal bidet is in need of cleaning.

And -- for the love of God -- don't pass her without scratching her head or patting her back. She will hunt you down and ~~kill you in your sleep~~ nag you until you acknowledge her or stuff treats in her mouth.

Whenever Dark Garden sees her he suggests we "put her out of her misery." I keep reminding him is would be more like putting her out of our misery.

When Heir 2 left for Roanoke this year, he was quite sure he was saying goodbye to Phoebe for the last time. But she's like one of those aging relatives who uses their illness to manipulate the entire family -- she just keeps going and going and driving everyone crazy...

I gotta admit, for all the trouble she is, I'm kind of pulling for her to hit the over-20 mark.

Home, Creepy Home

2010-09-27T08:10:00.009-04:00

I suppose it is a sign of returning stability that Dirtman and I have begun casually searching for a house to buy.

Okay, maybe "searching" is too strong a term. Considering the rare alignment of circumstances, moods, cash flow, planetary alignment and moon phase that have to be in place for us to be able to become homeowners again, we stand about as good a chance of finding someone willing to float us a mortgage to buy a house as we do standing on the front lawn waiting for one to fall on us.

Let's say we're waiting for a house to call to us. One that the owner is willing to do the financing; a very trusting and understanding owner -- to take pity on us. Ironically, with rents as high as they are right now, it's infinitely cheaper per month to pay a mortgage and who couldn't use a little loosening of the ol' cash flow?

Oh, we're well aware that we are in the "fixer-upper" category in terms of what we are willing to go into debt over.

People don't do "fixer-uppers" anymore, though. They just tear down and build new. So "cheap houses" are sold for the land value and, around here, a property with a septic site goes for about the same amount as a "fixer-upper."

And then there are the "fixer-uppers" that are just beyond our abilities -- such was the case today. It was one of those creepy houses that the previous inhabitants, while dead, haven't quite abandoned yet.

This one would have had Dark Garden running out the door screaming.

Don't believe me, DG? Well, in the bathroom (the one with exposed pipes, no ceiling and hole-pocked linoleum) situated over the commode, was a sticky note that said "Don't forget to replace Mrs. Schneider's teeth in the morning."

Bye, DG...

Yeah, this place was special, all right. There were still canned goods in the pantry, covered with cobwebs and nailed to the wall in one of the outbuildings were instructions on what to do in case of a nuclear attack. And then there's that smell we who frequent abandoned houses all know -- that lovely blend of kerosene and mouse droppings.

Actually, it would be a dream come true for a person really interested in serious restoration. Because underneath the layers of linoleum and lime green plastic bathroom walls and tacky, cheap paneling was a 19th century log cabin. Gutted and restored, it could be a beautiful old house.

But I'm no Bob Villa.

So I had to be content with exploring the remnants of outbuildings that dotted the property while Dirtman pretended to still be interested in where the drainfield was located and how much trouble it would be to hook up to public water.

"It's morning, John! Bring me my teeth!"

Crisp WeatherorWhy I Baked Apple Cake

2010-09-26T18:38:00.010-04:00

We were talking about it being autumn and what that meant. (Frankly, even at 53 years old, I still think I need to buy new saddle shoes in September.)

Heir 1 brightened up and said excitedly, "Fall is crisp weather!"

I felt a tinge of guilt. He wasn't talking about the cool autumn temperatures. He was referring to apple crisp.

Heir 1 loves crisp -- any crisp: peach crisp, blueberry crisp, cherry crisp...even the time I made a strawberry crisp that everyone else was rather ambivalent over. Heir 1 would rather have crisp than pie. He was ecstatic one year when, as a Christmas gift, I gave him a "Crisp-A-Month" for his very own -- Dirtman was not permitted to hijack Heir 1's crisps for breakfast.

Alas, Heir 1 has watched season after season go by this year and nary a crisp in sight. He has even had to endure The Promise of Crisp, only to find that the next day I had neither the energy nor inclination to bake one. To make matters worse, it was left to him to comfort me as I lamented the fact that I was such a loser of a mother that I couldn't even manifest a crisp for my first born child.

So last week I made a huge apple crisp with apples from our local and beloved Rinker Orchard, picked that day. And I would show you that crisp, only it came and went very quickly.

So this weekend rolled around and I was going to make another apple crisp when I remembered that each year I go through apple season making crisp after crisp and, when the local season is over, remember I've been wanting to make an apple walnut cake for myself.

That's right. For ME. I made a totally selfish dessert in spite of the fact that I had abused my first born with promises of Crisp Abundance while languishing in my pajamas watching TCM -- for month after month.

I suppose my punishment was that for the first time in a long time I attempted to take a photo was the first time in a long time that the sky over Shenandoah County clouded over with the threat of rain. The photos stink, but the cake was good and even Heir 1 was not too disappointed that it was not, in fact, crisp.

Only Humpty Dumpty looks like he has evil plans for the apple cake; but, then, he's been a disapproving Dumpty my entire life...

...but it finally rained!...

Out of the Woods

2010-09-26T09:39:00.010-04:00

I will always think of the summer of 2010 as the Lost Summer.

I don't say that glibly, as if time just "got away" -- which it did, only that's not why it was lost. I think, perhaps, I was the one who was lost; when all your old standby survival techniques fail you, that's a pretty good indication of being lost.

Looking back now, I think I more fully understand the nature of depression and how easily it can become a way of life. I mean I didn't realize I was lost until I was most thoroughly in the middle of a dense, dark forest, afraid to take another step.

I'm not going to elaborate on the circumstances, since it really is not my story to tell. But it's best I was not communicating during the summer because I probably would have said something I'd be regretting right now.

I relate this because I went to download some photos of the farm where I work from the camera and on it were photos from May and June of a family gathering and of Dark Garden's twin's graduation. It had been that long since there was anything to photograph around here; that long since we all got together for something other than "helping Sisiggy hold it together."

We do, on occasion, take normal family photos

And so here I emerge at the end of September and find Blogland pretty much desolate. Seems no one wants to read anything longer than a Facebook entry. I would probably agree when referring to entries -- such as this one -- totally self-absorbed and self-serving.

I will continue nonetheless, if only for myself; for the same reason I still use a metal drip coffee pot and prefer to write with a fountain pen. If there is anyone left of those who used to read Linguini, you might find me slightly changed -- the forest was rather brutal -- but I'm really just the same old Sisiggy with the same old quirky family.
...same old quirky Heir 2

I like to think I kept the best part of myself and left the rest back in that forest...

I don't know why this photo cracks me up...

In which I blather about books

2010-05-16T17:28:00.004-04:00

I love books.

Yes, I love to read. But that's not the same thing. I think everyone "gets" that I love to read and, if they haven't, it would be a subject for another blog entry anyway.

I love the books; the physical board, binding and pages that make up a tangible Thing you hold in your hand and read.

New books are okay. I'm a terrible book defiler -- I make notes and underline things because I'm positive I'm going to reread this book someday and want to leave myself a message about where my head was the first time I read it. I am a book collector's nightmare because book collectors only like pristine copies.

Me -- not so much. I would love to buy a used book filled with notations from someone who obviously has the same literary tastes -- kind of like a book club you don't have to bake cookies for...or wear pants.

Which is why my favorite books are used books...and library books. I'd rather browse ABE than Amazon any day.

Book sellers and librarians are pretty diligent about cleaning up the books in their care, but every now and then something slips by them and my day is made.

They're pretty good about leaving inscriptions alone. These speak to the romantic in me. I want to think the book really was given with love from Winston to Melva. I want to believe that the only reason the book is in a used bookstore is that Melva finally died after 12 years of mourning the loss of her beloved Winston and their alcoholic, good-for-nothing son sold every possession he inherited to fund a wild bender in Vegas with his future fifth ex-wife. Or something like that.

One library book I took out had exclamation points in the margin throughout the book, I assume next to passages some reader had liked. I found a cookie recipe written at the end of a chapter in a book I bought at a used bookstore (a mediocre snickedoodle-type thing, but still...).

I remember reading a string of similar library books for awhile and coming across editing marks on a regular basis. Typos in books are rather common, so that didn't surprise me. That someone would feel it necessary to mark the mistakes, as though there would be points off if he let it just slide by, is a little compulsive. Okay, maybe he was majorly compulsive because he felt the need to list the errors and page numbers on the back flyleaf. I'll bet this is the same type of person who, when you were 13 and had to go to school with a giant zit on your nose, felt they had to point out to you that you had a giant zit on your nose.

But what amazed me was that I was obviously checking out the exact same books as the person with this compulsion.

The best, though, is finding a cache of used books before a bookseller or thrift store employee has had a chance to rifle through them. That's when you find the little bits of this and that people mindlessly stuff in between the pages and forget about. Newspaper clippings, receipts, notes -- I have an old copy of The Big Sleep with a faded note in it that says merely, "Tommy, Eat! M." I love that note; it tells me Tommy liked to read Raymond Chandler, but wasn't a big eater and he had a...mom?...that was concerned about that and she wrote with a pen with blue ink in it.

The note is still in the book, which for now I intend to keep. But who knows where it will wind up when I'm gone.

I kind of hope Tommy outlives me.

In which The Heirs eat elsewhere

2010-05-12T16:18:00.010-04:00

When it comes to trying new foods, I'm pretty adventurous. I always thought this was a good thing, since Dirtman loves to bring home the "new products" that come into the produce department at work.

There really hasn't been anything too disturbing; usually a fruit hybrid accompanied by some bizarre, disturbing description: "It tastes like a grape, but has the consistency of an avocado." You have to wonder how boring things get around the horticulture lab that someone suggests "Ya, know what might be good? Let's cross a potato with a watermelon and see what we get."

Anyway, the grocery store chain Dirtman works for has corporate offices out of state and, from there, they sometimes get it into their heads to send entire cases of expensive, exotic vegetables alien to this area, expecting customers to take it on faith that they taste good.

This is how I ended up with a bag of fiddleheads in my kitchen.

Fiddleheads are not completely unknown to me -- they grew wild in my native Pine Barrens of New Jersey. And, while I have been known to avail myself of wild greens in places far, far away from road beds (where vegetation is regularly sprayed with chemicals), it never occurred to me to injest a fiddlehead. Turns out that was probably a smart move, since the Pine Barren variety were probably toxic.

So Dirtman brought home a nice, safe bag of fiddleheads and I followed package directions and boiled them for seven minutes and tossed them with lemon juice, butter and salt. The package claimed the taste was a "cross between asparagus and green beans."

Were we ever in need of a vegetable with a flavor between asparagus and a green bean?

Certainly that was the opinion of the Heirs, who saw no need in their lives for an asparagus/string bean flavor blast, though they were delighted with the fact that holding them upside down turns them into little yo-yos and prompting me to wonder how long after a child has passed his eighteenth year you can stop reminding them not to play with their food.

So Dirtman and I were the only ones who actually ate the fiddleheads, our reaction to which was..........................................................

"Meh."

They tasted like...a vegetable; nothing unique or outstanding. They are, however, visually interesting.

So the next night I decided to put the leftovers into a frittata, figuring I would artfully arrange the coil of the fiddleheads around sliced mushrooms and then pour the egg mixture on top. This way, when I turned the frittata out, the bottom would be the top.

The Heirs, of course, chose to dine elsewhere.

Well, that was the plan anyway. When it came to actually doing it, I remembered that my nonstick pan isn't oven-safe (which is where you finish off a frittata). So I had to resort to my iron skillet where I artfully arranged the fiddleheads and mushrooms and poured the egg mixture on top, at which point I realized that the reason you finish a frittata in the oven is so that the cheese you put on top melts. This was a frittata, not an omelet, and no one was going to see my artfully arranged fiddleheads coiled around sliced mushrooms.

So much for my career in food styling.

The frittata was wonderful, though. Okay...it was wonderful so long as you kept your eyes closed. The fiddleheads turned the eggs gray on the inside. And, again, not a strong flavor.

The final verdict: If I need a conversation-starter at dinner, I'll serve fiddleheads. If doctors discover that fiddleheads cause you to suddenly drop your weight by 10 pounds every week, I'll serve fiddleheads. If fiddleheads go on sale for a dollar a pound, I'll serve fiddleheads. Otherwise..............

Meh.

A Mother of a Day

2010-05-10T08:21:00.005-04:00

As some of you already know, I have this love/hate relationship with Mothers Day.

On one hand I'm thinking: "Hell yeah...I spent 596 hours popping you out; you damn well better bring me weak coffee, burnt toast and a wilted flower in bed this morning."

On the other hand I'm thinking this is a sort of life style choice and no one else gets an entire day to honor their lifestyle choice (except, you know...fathers). You know who deserves a day? People who clean public toilets in bus stations. Now those are people who deserve a free dinner.

I am of the firm belief that no one's job is more important than anyone else's and income in certainly no reflections of a task's function to society; otherwise those annoying Kardashian people would be living in a van down by the river. (Why are those Kardashian people creeping out of the sewer of inane cable television into places like the Washington Correspondents Dinner? Shouldn't someone set out traps or something to prevent such infestation?)

That being said, I never feel entitled to too much hoopla when it comes to Mothers Day because I'm a little reluctant to celebrate merely doing my job. Mothers Day is like saying: "Hooray! The human relegated to your care isn't dead! Good job!"

So, I'm always happy with whatever is planned in my honor on Mothers Day, lest someone find out I'm not quite as saintly as Hallmark would have you believe. So I have a few confessions to make:

My kids always had a consistent bedtime, not because I was a good mother, but because I was tired.
I listened to audio books and knitted during Little League games.
If we were in the pediatrician's office, there had to be a limb dangling or someone's brains seeping out of their ear; I couldn't see paying a doctor to tell me "it's a virus that's going around."
All while my kids were growing up I told them that Disney World was a huge, poorly-run amusement park where people stand in line all day long for a thrill lasting a cumulative half-hour; I told them Disney spends all it's money on marketing, which is why everyone thinks it's this great place to go. (In short -- I told them the truth.) Consequently, they not only have no desire to go to Disney World -- they have an active dislike of anything related to it. That's right -- I stole Mickey Mouse from my children.
I ate some of their Teddy Grahams. Okay, I ate a lot of their Teddy Grahams. Okay, so a few times I ate so many of their Teddy Grahams that they were forced to have toast for a snack (hey -- I put cinnamon and sugar on it...).

So there you have it. And through it all, I still received this yesterday from Heir 1 (it's good to have a kid who works for Panera):

And this from Dirtman (this is one of six):

And was treated to dinner and a movie by Heir 2 (accompanied by Caisee, who was treating her mom, Carol, too!) and a trip to The State Arboretum at Blandy Farm by Dirtman.

Lunch

All this in spite of everything.

So I'm not even angry that I woke up this morning to a sink full of dirty dishes. Well, not too angry...

Gnorm hates spring break

2010-03-12T16:53:00.003-05:00

While Heir 2 was home from school, he was pretty involved with getting caught up on homework. So I left him to his own devices.

However, something about Heir 2's presence stirs up Ungnome and gnome-like activity in general.

Target Practice

Hung by the Gneck

Ungnome gets his

Gnomes on a toot

Unfortunately, Heir 2 didn't get quite as much done as he should have.

The gnomes, however, were exhausted.

Curmudgeon Alert: Who are these people and what are they doing on The Oscars?

2010-03-08T10:34:00.002-05:00

I rarely watch The Oscars. Dirtman runs it in the background so, if I’m dying to know who won what, I need only listen in.

Given an unlimited budget, I’d be in line for every first run movie. I do love the films themselves. I just wish the people who make them would be a little more low-key. The rest of us somehow muddle through our jobs without a seven-figure salary and an annual televised pat-on-the-back; why can’t they?

This year I sat in front of the television and watched – and even paid attention to – The Oscars. This was no small feat – there wasn’t a whole lot to capture my attention. If I hadn’t had such an emotionally-depleting weekend, I would have opted for something a tad more interesting – like doing my taxes or balancing the checkbook.

Now I realize, as a middle-aged person, most of my curmudgeonly griping will be written off. I also realize I’m not exactly the trendiest of middle-aged people (as my sons remind me on a regular basis). And so I do have a few questions:

Who are these CHILDREN the Oscars are passing off as established actors? And why, if they have impressed the industry so much with their performances, can’t they manage to read a teleprompter without looking like Ben Stein on Seconal?

Another thing: is there some sort of collaboration between gown designers and set designers to see how many vacuous ingénues they can force to walk to their mark looking like they have a load in their thong? If so – good job! It provided the only excitement of the evening.

I must say, it was good of Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin to keep their jokes so lame and stilted that they made the rest of the show look almost riveting by comparison.

The only genuine moments came from the group around the movie Precious. They probably didn’t imagine they’d ever make it to the Oscars – well, at least not until their fairy godOprah waved her magic wand. I was kind of pulling for them, though it’s good to know Oprah doesn’t call the shots on everything in this country…yet.

I have to insert here that, other than Inglourious Basterds (Heir 2 brought his DVD of this home for spring break), I saw none of the movies up for awards. So it’s purely personal when I say I had to be happy that The Dude won for best actor (when researching for my job I came across Jeff Bridges’ website for his foundation for hunger in the U.S. – so he immediately jumped a few pegs in my esteem. And…he’s The Dude!).

I was trying to think of a clever way to end this, but I’ve decided to just let it stop, like how The Oscars end with a bunch of people just milling around on the stage.

Trolling the Past

2010-03-07T09:53:00.007-05:00

Heir 2 is home from Roanoke this week (leaves today, as a matter of fact and THAT’S JUST SOMETHING IN MY EYE, YOU HEAR?) and has been cleaning out the storage unit – the one where we tossed everything we had time to salvage during the exodus from the House That Shall Not Be Named.

Needless to say, a lot of bittersweet moments came and went as we unearthed things I thought were gone forever and didn’t unearth things I thought surely had been saved. For the sake of my sanity, we’ll focus on what we kept rather than what we lost. It’s the credo by which I live.

My hardcover copy of Dr. Zhivago with an inscription from John Boy – saved.

My trolls (c. 1966) – saved.

This piece of garbage egg carton and these rusted beach chairs – well, thank God we saved those.

Barbie’s Dream House – saved, if you don’t mind the fact that it’s been providing bedding for mice for the past two years.

THE Tiara – saved. (I KNOW. This is important to a lot of people. It is one of the most important representatives of Linguini silliness.)

The set of Bobbsey Twin books from the 1910s Dirtman found for me – SAVED! CHICK TALK ALERT! ALL GUYS SKIP TO NEXT PARAGRAPH! See, the Bobbsey Twins, Good-n-Plenty, my flannel pajamas and a cat on my stomach is the only known antidote to severe PMS (which I think is totally unfair to still have – you shouldn’t have to be 52 with a reproductive system that thinks it’s 1985).

We haven’t gone through all the boxes yet – most are full of books.

I still hope to unearth the rest of my Barbie dolls. Ken seems to be peculiarly absent – we found his carrying case – filled with trolls and Barbie’s ballerina costume, yet no Ken (which, I guess, would explain why he split from Barbie). I sense Dark Garden’s hand in this, but he may have been too young at the time to remember. I do remember Ken taking a leap out the window with GI Joe – but I’m pretty sure he survived.

It’s been suggested that I can put some of this stuff on E-Bay and make some cash. Anyone want to buy a dusty egg carton?

Mastering the Art of American Whining

2010-03-05T19:00:00.003-05:00

I’m probably the last female on the planet to see Julie and Julia.

First-run movies are, for the most part, out of the Linguini budget and anything even approaching a “chick flick” is certainly destined for the very bottom of the Netflix queue. However, Dirtman, in an obvious ploy to get on my good side, allowed this to rise to the top of the list; or maybe it was that it was the one movie I put on the list that depicted people familiar with indoor plumbing.

For the record, it was a good movie. Meryl Streep playing a beloved icon; lots of food shots; Paris and make-believe Parisians being all warm and inviting – what’s not to love? And that’s what I kept saying to myself while I was watching it, “I love this but…”

… you have to put up with that annoying, insipid side story about a morose 30-year-old who is in desperate need for some real problems in her life since, obviously, complaining is her hobby – even more so than cooking. (I apologize in advance to any morose 30-year-olds. But, I’m sorry: When Julie says that “Julia saved me,” I wanted to ask, “From what? TOTAL self-absorption?”)

Up against Julia Childs’ rich and varied life, Julie Powell is nothing but a spoiled, whining Gen-Xer (or whatever Gen she is part of – I sure lost track of which is which). That may not be the truth in reality, but Movie Julie deserves a good ol’ Cher slap on the face and a, “Snap out of it!”

Honestly, though – I really liked this movie.

I will admit to catching just a hint…a whiff…of condescension. Yes, that’s it: condescension. Perhaps it’s just me, but I sort of winced at the movies’ incredulity over the true love affair between Julia and her husband Paul. Almost as if director/writer/producer Nora Ephron were saying, “Isn’t this INCREDIBLE? Two middle-aged people without movie star looks, absolutely besotted with each other! What a hoot!”

I overlook it though, if only for all the nifty vintage eye candy.

And then, of course, there is Meryl Steep’s lovingly elegant performance as Julia Child. I’ve read critics who defend Amy Adams’ inane performance as Julie Powell, saying she didn’t stand a chance when juxtaposed with Streep’s experience. But, let’s face it, this isn’t Adams’ first time performing with Streep, though she faired considerably better the last time.

Stanley Tucci and Jane Lynch (Childs’ husband and sister, respectively) are always treats in every movie I’ve ever seen them in.

A movie completely on Julia Childs’ life would have satisfied even more. Ephron could have spared us Powell’s whiney grousing, paid her some sort of “reminder’s fee” for highlighting Childs’ career, and allowed us to revel more deeply in the story of a strong, vivacious, powerful, inspiring woman.

Animal House

2010-03-04T07:16:00.001-05:00

In my mind, I live in a lovely little cottage with a tidy husband, two doting sons and six sedate, well-behaved, quiet dogs. This cottage is draped with all kinds of personally-made items like doilies, sewn ruffled curtains, knitted pillows and crocheted afghans. When you walk into this cottage you are greeted by either the scent of sage, cinnamon, lemon or lavender, depending on the season. In this cottage you never have to check the chair before you sit down to see if there is a soggy, smelly sock toy nestled into the cushion.

Also in this cottage, there is a massive mud room where those six dogs, muddy from romping in a melted-snow drenched yard, are happy to curl up and nap until they are dry and all the dirt has fallen miraculously from their paws and fur. Then they calmly join me in front of the fireplace and sit or lie down calmly in front of my large stone fireplace while I knit; and it never once occurs to them to form a semi-circle in front of my chair and stare me down in some sort of mind control laser-gaze designed to force me into flinging Kraft Singles at them to make them stop.

Did I mention that in my mind, when I'm in this cottage I'm a size 8 and all my clothes are made of fabrics that drape like melted chocolate?

Just so you know how very far from reality is the inside of my mind.

I enumerate all these disparities between what is in my mind and what it in my reality because late winter is the exact time when those two manifestations are the farthest apart -- like the sun is from my hemisphere of the earth.

It's not the snow -- it's the remnants of the snowstorms. It's the mud, the slush, the tire gouges that fill with water; it's paw prints everywhere and it being too hot for the fireplace, but too cold not to run it.

C.S. Lewis called it "this nothing time."

Then there's that whole decor issue. There's been plenty of handmade doo-dads around here. One particular set of pillows served to snuff out a wood stove fire that occurred when Someone wasn't watching Someone Else who thought the fire embers could be revived by opening the stove door and "giving it some air" -- all while the Someone Who Knows to Watch Someone Else Like a Hawk was at choir practice (and we all know the identity of the only person in this household who would have any chance of being in a choir). Turns out Someone Else was right, to the extent that the "embers" began spewing out of the stove and the only alternative seemed to be to smother them with my carefully knitted and cabled -- let me repeat: cabled -- throw pillows...cashmere -- did you hear me? CASHMERE.

Then there was the crocheted afghan that made it to the emergency room during one of Dirtman's many bouts with MSG, but never made it back. Then there was the filet crocheted table cloth meticulously unraveled by a newly-adopted Jack Russell Terrier who had suddenly become "too quiet" while I was in the kitchen trying to master making homemade pasta in bulk.

I said it once, five years ago and I now reiterate: I live in a frat house.

The perk to this is that those I live with ("My Three Sons," as they are locally referred to) are perfectly happy with the way things are. They keep my "prideful" side in check. I've tried on occasion for a candlelight supper (al a Hyacinth Bucket) and spent the meal watching Dirtman and Heir 2 reheat their meat over the candle flames while Heir 1 did his Ray Charles impression.

See what I mean? Frat house.

I just want you to know, though, that in my head I live in that really cute cottage that smells like gingerbread and all the books on the shelf are at least 50 years old (though, sorry -- they still have my silly pencil notations in them because, ya know, I have to have the last word...).

And I know what you're thinking: But -- yes, I would still have six dogs; but they would all smell like cookies.

St. Valentine's Day XXIII

2010-02-14T15:46:00.003-05:00

When you're married to a guy who works in a supermarket produce department, any meal he cooks for you inevitably features an abundance of...roughage.

No complaints.

And he's so cute when he fusses in the kitchen. I often wish I still had my old reporters' mini-tape recorder to document the sounds of a man who rarely sets foot in a kitchen trying to put together a romantic meal surrounded by four dogs who are just waiting for him to turn his back on that steak he has sitting on the counter. (By the end of the production, three of the four had been kicked out into a snow drift. Only Zsa Zsa Goody-Two-Paws remained.)

Unfortunately, Dirtman was called into work last minute and our romantic evening was moved up to a romantic lunch and I was the only one drinking wine. Romance is all well and good, but there is nothing romantic about the lights going out when you're not the one who shut off the electricity.

There was time enough, though, even for dessert.

A Large Swath of Insanity

2010-02-11T16:06:00.005-05:00

I'm still not apologizing for my love of snow.

Yeah, we got almost 2-1/2 feet, I've had to rely on the kindness of strangers (Well, the kindness of neighbors, anyway. Hardly strangers.) to help plow my driveway and I'm ultimately going to suffer financially for working at a farm that is unreachable during such weather.

I will admit to a bit of a negative attitude last Thursday when the power went out and I hadn't made coffee yet. I can lose my house, declare bankruptcy, endure joblessness, be threatened with homelessness and shed ne'er a tear; but take away my first cup of coffee in the morning and I dissolve into a sniveling, sniffling basket case requiring every dog in this house to circle the wagons. If they'd had opposable thumbs, they would have made my coffee, a danish and supplied me with my own personal rawhide to gnaw on. But all they could do was sit in their signature semi-circle, facing outward, and look noble and protective (except for Zsa Zsa, whose antidote to everything is to lick my knee).

Eventually, though*, Heir 1 woke up (it may have been the wailing) and immediately shoveled a path to our gas grill outside, turned on the gas, lit it and, thumping his chest, declared he had made fire. Finally, thanks to a mortar and pestle (Note to self: place a few pots-worth of ground coffee in freezer, for just such an occasion), I got my coffee and Heir 1 (who, by the way, was in the throes of the flu) had tea. Thanks to a propane fireplace, we had heat. I had plenty of Britta water and, thanks to the abundance of precipitation, we had enough water to flush toilets (not as easy as you would think -- a spaghetti pot of snow yielded barely a pint of water. This was an on-going project. There are those among you who understand why this would be a priority).

Once I got the coffee in me, I began to enjoy myself. I made homemade chicken soup for dinner (with some -- though not as much as this time -- garlic) and snuggled in with my knitting and several books. Power would come back on and promptly go out again, just when you were in the middle of something, so I learned not to take it for granted.

After awhile, I developed a routine and it was almost with disappointment I realized that the power hadn't gone out in quite awhile and it seemed the "storm" was over.

I've yet to get back to work, but I can't help loving how pretty everything is. Dark Garden will probably have something to say about this -- he does not winterize well. In fact, I rather annoy him with my preference for cold weather (you should see the view from his front window). He is counting down the days until he can move as far south as possible; I lament that I will never be snowbound in some wilderness.

Well, I guess this winter is as close as I'll ever get.

*Dirtman spent this entire time at work, sleeping wherever and helping to keep the store open -- hoping against all hope that his diligence will lead someone in the organization to promote him to a Real Job with Real Benefits and a Real Salary. I won't turn this into a commentary on the sloppy work ethic of younger generations and those whose minds are numbed by the philosophy of union dogma, but I am often flabbergasted by the laziness of aforementioned workers who manage to hold on to their positions. Just saying.

You fly back to school, Little Starling. Fly, fly, fly...

2010-01-18T11:00:00.003-05:00

Starlings.

They're considered pests around here. Their flocks can be huge and noisy. Sometimes they chase other, more delicate birds away from the feeder. On a cloudy day they are very ordinary-looking; a black bird with a yellow beak like so many other black birds with yellow beaks. They don't sing prettily.

Let the sun hit their feathers, though, and they show every color of the rainbow for those willing to look.

I can relate to the starling. In fact, I think I come from starling-esque stock. Noisy, scrappy, infinitely durable. We shove each other around and bring on the vapors in those of a more delicate constitution. You can try to scare us away, annoy us away -- some have even tried poison; but we keep on.

And in a certain light we show every color of the rainbow.

Be careful what you wish for

2010-01-01T15:02:00.006-05:00

On Dirtman's side of the family, the New Year tradition is to eat black-eyed peas on New Year's Day. On my side of the family, the tradition is that the first thing you eat in the New Year has to be herring ("Many different herrings.").

Up to this time we have ignored both these traditions. In fact, I don't believe we even have a New Years tradition. Now that the kids have social lives of their own, we pretty much stay home and stone cold sober in case we are needed. So far, we never have been.

This year we figured, ya know, flying in the face of tradition hasn't gotten us very far; and who are we to argue with hundreds of years of fish and beans? So I sent Dirtman to work with the directive to collect these bizarre talismen.

Well, we are apparently not the only ones falling back on susperstition this year. There was no herring to be found -- sold out, both the herring in wine sauce and the herring in sour cream. He was considerably more successful with the black-eyed peas -- and we didn't even have to resort to dried or canned.

So this morning I went on line to find the least painful black-eyed pea recipe and decided -- in for a penny, in for a pound -- on Hoppin' John.

"Ya know," I pointed out to Dirtman as the recipe emerged from the printer, "if this works and we have a good year, it means every New Years Day for the rest of our lives we're going to have to choke down black-eyed peas."

"We've never had black-eyed peas on New Years Day before?" he asked.

"Nope. I haven't had black-eyed peas on New Years Day since the New Years before I met you," I said casually.

Then I said -- because the realization took me unaware and I blurted it out before I knew what I was saying: "Oh no! I think you are the result of the last time I ate black-eyed peas."

I'll spare you his response.