They Said, "Yes!"

I'm not the sentimental type. 

To me The Hallmark Channel is just lazy storytelling set to forgettable music with wardrobe out of Coldwater Creek or L.L. Bean, depending on the time of year.

You will not find a single romance novel on my shelves or in my Kindle; in fact, if the phrase "smile that made his eyes crinkle" shows up within the first 15 pages, I will physically throw the book away. EYES DON'T FREAKIN' CRINKLE, BRENDA! If they're crinkling, you need to get the dude to an ER, not "feel my heart skip a beat."

The fact is, I've grown into a rather cynical old broad and, quite frankly, after a year of being an "essential employee" (not essential like healthcare professionals, but essential like the pizza delivery guy -- both essential, but one gets praised in Facebook memes and the other gets coughed on by anti-vaxers), I've become downright bitter.

I think the pandemic took the perkiness out of the sunniest dispositions. But, honestly, you only have to spend a few minutes scrolling social media to know the world is filled with discontentment and skepticism.

Then this weekend, this happened:

That's my son Charley getting down on one knee and proposing marriage to Sarah at Longwood Gardens.

I might add that I was not there. I did know he'd planned it, but I didn't know when.

John and me (ca. 1972)

When he told me his plans, I was nostalgically touched; for generations Longwood Gardens has been our place to visit, no matter where we lived. There are photos of my family at the garden dating back over half a century. If there is anything such as "ancestral lands" for my family, Longwood would be it. 

I was envious. When I was 12, I decided I was going to own Longwood Gardens. Not only was I going to own Longwood Gardens, but there was going to be a guy who was damn well going to propose to me there and I was going to make sure he knew where it should happen and how I wanted it done.

Turns out Longwood wasn't for sale so there went that plan.

Gazebo where -- admit it
 -- if you went to Longwood,
you were adamant that jerk Rolf
was going to dance with you in.

I have to admit, I shuddered for Charley when he told me his plans. Longwood is so crowded in the summer. I envisioned him trying to get the proposal out as a six-year-old streaks by and some old lady wanders cluelessly between them. 

But I also know that, while this seemed like the biggest event now, there are so many landmark moments before him, a bungled proposal would become no more than an amusing anecdote around the after dinner table for the two of them. But, still -- a mother worries.

Charley called me the Sunday evening after he proposed and said he was sending pictures.

I asked if he had thought to bring a friend along to document the moment.

"This proposal is well documented," he assured me.

The photo above -- taken by a bystander. The documentation Charley spoke of was all from complete strangers.

Wait.

What?

That's right. Complete strangers stopped to watch and document an occasion that occurs every day, millions of times, over and over, since forever. These angry, divided, disheartened humans stopped their personal experience of the day to watch two people they didn't even know, decide to commit to each other.

Seriously -- was no one going to shout out, "Just trying to pay less taxes by filing jointly" or "Marriage is a device of the patriarchy?"

Nope.

For a moment...for just that moment...life was the simplest thing in the world: two people in love taking their first scary, shaky steps together into their future.

And for a moment...for just that moment...an entire conservatory full of disparate individuals came together, dropped their jaundiced view of the world, and recognized the purity and poignancy of the moment.

A couple couldn't ask for a greater mitzvah, if I may respectfully borrow a term.

That was enough to make this bitter old lady do something she's never done in her entire life -- I happy cried.

And I couldn't stop. 

I see the photos and I start right back up again. Especially when I remember that the guy in this photo:

Is the same boy in this photo:

BUT I AM IN NO WAY SENTIMENTAL, do you hear me!

Aggressive Holiday Decorating(with illustrations)

It seems the Linguinis have a holiday tradition I've only just noticed. I don't know how I missed this, but the Heirs have determined (when they think I can't hear them) that I'm becoming a senile old bat who can't remember from one year to the next.

I enter the holiday season crankily complaining about too much Christmas too soon. I gripe about having to muster the amount of enthusiasm equal to the maniacal blinking lights, screaming commercials and nauseating made-for-HallmarkTV movies. I go out of my way to avoid those crazed tinsel-bedecked maniacs who have their shopping done by the first week of December and spend the days up to Christmas announcing what cookie they baked or what craft they manifested in front of their fireplace each day.

I assuage the depth of my angst by writing blog posts that try to either temper some of the excesses of the season or encourage others like me to just say, "heck with it" and spend December snorking down cans of Redi-Whip and reading Jane Austen (not that I...ever...did...DON'T JUDGE ME!).

That's only half of the tradition. The other half is that a week into December, Heir 1 comes along and drags me, kicking and screaming, into the holiday season.

And so, having read my post of last week where I extoled the virtue of moderation in holiday decor, Heir 1 showed up recently to not only to spew holiday cheer all over us, but to make sure that when he did, it was as tacky and unrelentingly tasteless as he could possible conjure out of a quarter-century's worth of accumulated Yuletide debris.

Heir 1: (pulling a mouse-eaten ribbon out of a box) Oh, yeah!

Me: Just throw it out.

Heir 1: Oh...It's going up!

An hour later, Heir 1 calls me in to observe his handiwork.

Me: It looks like Santa Claus threw up all over the bannister.

Heir 1: That's what you get for keeping every piece of red and green crap Joe and I ever threw together. I mean, seriously...

Holds up this:

Heir 1: You will literally hang onto anything.

Heir 1 suddenly gets a bright idea and picks the empty tea candle containers out of two votive cups.

Heir 1: (a minute or so later) Here! I made this! Now you have to hang it up!

Me: I think there is a statute of limitations on how long you have to hang up your kids' creations.

 We stand and observe the overall effect of Heir 1's artistry.

Me: People are going to think it's just tacky decorating. I'm not sure my friends will see the irony.

Heir 1: (patting my on the shoulder) Mom...oh, Mom... (I think he is about to lecture me on intellectual snobbishness) You know you don't have any friends.

Two Geeks Texting

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.

Silly Facial Hair

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...

Crisp WeatherorWhy I Baked Apple Cake

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!...

I love work. I could watch it for hours...well, a half hour...

Pretty barren, huh?

Such is the plight of trying to establish a new garden area. First it has to be plowed, then disked a few times, all done when the ground is relatively dry and all done by a third party whose schedule understandably does not revolve around us. It's been so wet lately, today was the first day we could plant anything.

Rumor had it that even today's weather could not be relied upon and we almost scrapped plans to get all the plants in. But the sky stayed clear and we went ahead.

We.

Actually, it was more like Dirtman getting the plants in and Zsa Zsa and I sitting in the shade watching. I'm still a little shaky after two days in bed and, while the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak (and flabby and white). As for Zsa Zsa -- well, you don't expect The Zsa Zsa to work, do you?

And I must confess that after awhile I went into the house, did dishes and then sat in my happy place and knit. Yeah. I did. While Dirtman sweated away in the field, I sat in the shade with a tall glass of ice water and knit (a project I will share some other day).

I offered real meat for dinner, but he was too hot and tired to digest anything so heavy. So tomorrow is real meat. Tonight features the last of this area's asparagus crop, hard boiled eggs and this conversation with Heir 1:

Me: Asparagus and eggs for dinner tonight.

Heir 1: Uhhhh....(Makes a face)

Me: It's perfect for a hot day.

Heir 1: That's not a dinner. It's a salad -- heated up. It's almost as bad as Spud Night.

Me: Other people have Spud Night.

Heir 1: Other people have Spud Lunch.

Me: Think of Spud Night as Chili Night with a potato under it.

Heir 1: (Makes another face).

Me: Oh, dear.

Heir 1: What?

Me: I think you need to find a new restaurant.

Arrrrrrrrr!

Heir 1: Did you see where those pirates are complaining about being shot at?

Me: Yeah, that idiot Limbaugh was complaining about that too. He said they were just teenagers who were about to give up.

Heir 1: They were pirates. It doesn't matter how old they were. When you're a pirate, you have to expect to be shot at. That's why a pirate who is alive is so awesome!

Me: (nodding)

Heir 1: I don't know. They just didn't seem like real pirates to me.

Me: Was it the lack of a parrot? Or perhaps the lack of an eye patch?

Heir 1: (shrugs) They were too young, I guess for an eye patch. You have to earn an eye patch.

Me: Like the Cub Scouts?

Heir 1: Yeah!

That's Madame Trash Heap, to you

Heir 1 (on his way out to work, observing me watering my houseplants out of a milk jug): Not another re-purposed milk jug.

Me: It's just the right size and I haven't seen my indoor watering can since we moved.

Heir 1: One of these day I'm going to come home and find you wearing a milk jug as a hat. You'd decorate it with dried out weeds from the yard and old vegetables from the refrigerator.

Me: That's ridiculous. I don't wear hats.

Heir 1: You would, just to use the milk jug. Then we'll call you Marjory the Trash Heap.

Me: Nonsense. My Yiddish accent is lousy.

Indulge a mother for a moment...(sniffle)

Yesterday a child came out to wonder

Caught a dragonfly inside a jar

Fearful when the sky was full of thunder

And tearful at the falling of a star








Then the child moved ten times round the seasons

Skated over ten clear frozen streams

Words like, when you're older, must appease him

And promises of someday make his dreams





Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now

Cartwheels turn to car wheels thru the town

And they tell him, take your time, it wont be long now

Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down




So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty

Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true

There'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty

Before the last revolving year is through

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return, we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

Joni Mitchell

The Odd Couple

Me (to Heir 1 as he exits the bathroom to head to the basement where he lives...with the dogs): Did you clean up after yourself?

Heir 1 (rolling his eyes): Yes, Mom.

Me (Because everything must be listed verbally every time otherwise Heir 1 will insist he was never told to do it): You picked up the bath mat off the floor, sprayed the tub with Tilex and closed the shower curtain?

Heir 1: Close the shower curtain? I should think you'd want the shower curtain open so the tiles dry.

Me: No, you open the curtain so the plastic curtain dries and doesn't mildew. We definitely don't want mildew.

Heir 1 (disgusted look and stomps down the basement stairs): I have mildew FOR A ROOMMATE!

An entry strictly for Terry Pratchett readers

Me (on my soapbox): Until you all learn to respect each other and get along, we're never going to get anywhere. And if you don't learn the lesson now, we'll lose even more ground and that's your business, but every time you guys lose ground, you drag me along with you. And I'm tired of...

Heir 1 (patting me on the shoulder): Don't worry, Mom. I'll share my box with you when I'm living in one.

Me: Thanks a lot.

Heir 1: In fact, if I make enough money to move out of the box, I'll let you have the my box for free.

Me: Thanks.

Heir 1: In fact, I'll even put the box in my garage.

Me: And I can hang out on street corners with my filthy little terrier and sell sausages.

Heir 1 (smiling lovingly): Foul Ol' Mom.

And how was your morning?

When the alarm clock rings here at Casa Linguini, things are pretty busy for the first half hour or so.

The Heirs basically fall out of bed and start their day. But there are six dogs for Dirtman and I to air and feed in two shifts, all done in minimal space and on no caffeine.


This is a well-orchestrated dance we’ve worked out over a period of weeks, tweeking it here and there, until finally it’s as smooth a symphony as can be expected when the Katzenjammer Kids Hokie and Abby are involved.

So it goes like this: Dirtman falls out of bed and throws on pants, shirt and shoes while I hit the bathroom and Topper jumps around like a maniac because, while five seconds ago he was sleeping peacefully, he has to go and he has to go NOW, Gaspode paces and Zsa Zsa stares at the closed bathroom door. Then Dirtman puts Topper on a tie out chain and walks Gaspode on a leash while I let Zsa Zsa out and get the dog bowls filled. I lay out Topper, ‘Pode and Zsa Zsa’s bowls and Dirtman lets those three back in to eat. Fortunately, they have learned whose bowl is where and we no long have to fling dogs about the kitchen to their respective bowls.

There is about a minute of peace during which I clear the dish drainer of any dishes and retrieve used dog bowls as they become available. Then Dirtman heads to the basement to let out Salt and Bonnie and Clyde Hokie and Abby. I put Gaspode in the bedroom, Topper on the tie out chain and send Zsa Zsa outside to help keep Butch and Sundance Hokie and Abby in line. Then I put down the three remaining bowls.

Dirtman lets the last three dogs in to eat and I act as a sort of weir to divert Thelma and Louise Hokie and Abby to their proper bowls. When they are done, Dirtman escorts Jake and Elwood Hokie and Abby to their pen and put Gaspode on the tie out chain, hopefully before “bubby makes a kishka” – if you catch my drift (analogy credit goes to John Boy, but it’s become the vernacular around here). I wash dog bowls.

Then – and only then – we make coffee.

So I’m sorry if I was a little sarcastic when, in the midst of all this activity, Heir 1, who had to be at work at 7 a.m., said, “The coffee isn’t done yet?”

“Wait a minute,” I said and proceeded to look out the window at the front yard. “Uhhhh…Nope, I don’t see it.”

“See what?” Heir 1 asked.

“The sign that says ‘Welcome to Holiday Inn’.”

I got the look and he walked out in disgust.

“I love you!” I called after him.

Eyes rolled.

“Have a good day!” I called out the kitchen window.

Head shake.

“Follow your dreams!”

I think I saw him smile when he got behind the wheel. Then, again, it may have been a grimace.

...With the dogs

Heir 1 gets the Linguini Unsung Hero Award. This is because, when referring to our family, we refer to Heir 2 as “our one son in school,” but somehow when referring to Heir 1 it’s been “and this is our son who lives in the basement…with the dogs.”

That pause is always there and we all do it, including him.

The truth is, though, that Heir 1 was a sort of unwitting victim to this entire foreclosure fiasco. He was renting The House of Squalor with two other friends and was also forced out. Instead of renting elsewhere, he’s moved back home to help us get over this hump. So he is basically paying to live in the basement…with the dogs.

I might add that this is not some modern finished basement. Oh, no. This is your bare-minimum cement block wall basement. With a sump pump. And a smell that isn’t just the dogs. He empties the dehumidifier several times a day.

Originally he told us he was going to rent somewhere else, which was fine with us. But when he did the math he found he could rent elsewhere and have no financial wiggle room, or stay here and contribute to the family and we all pool our resources.

So then he was going to share a room with Heir 2. But he’d been on his own too long.

So – and I want this on the record – it was his idea to move into the basement. He assured me this wouldn’t be a problem, that he didn’t mind that is was like a dungeon; didn’t mind that from his bed you can have a conversation in normal vocal tones with whoever is in the bathroom; didn’t mind that he was living in a basement…with the dogs.

The “with the dogs” part seems to be the kicker in this. Actually he’s down there with only three of the dogs. Zsa Zsa, Topper and Gaspode sleep in my bedroom on the floor (until we fall asleep at which point Gaspode sneaks up into the crook of Dirtman’s leg). The dogs in the basement – Abby, Hokie and Salt – sleep in crates and, Heir 1 insists, fart all night and talk in their sleep. I tell him this will prepare him for marriage.

Still, I think he’s having fun with the designation of “son we keep in the basement.” When our landlord came to fix the pipes, we called down to give him a heads up. The answer back was preceded with snarling and coughing and then in a drooling Igor voice, “Yethe, mathters!”

Our landlord looked a little frightened, so we explained, “Oh, that’s just our son who lives in the basement…”

And all together we said, “…with the dogs.”