Showing posts with label Get-Togethers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Get-Togethers. Show all posts

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Making memories...

...whether you want to or not

I think I've finally mastered the skill of not making an all-out assault on a major holiday.

It has taken quite awhile, considering I've been responsible in some way or another for family holidays since I was in my 20s. I admit that the weight of that responsibility is all my own. Back in the day, I had a soul-sucking habit of attributing too much sentimentality and piling too much food into one single day. This resulted in an entire week of a misery that, I was convinced, was never fully appreciated by those who benefitted from my martyrdom. By the evening of Thanksgiving, I'd be cross, cranky and ready for bed by 5 o'clock.

I had come by my holiday obsessions honestly. There was no such thing as a "quiet Thanksgiving" for my mother. Like every good Italian, it was required that there be approximately 50 percent more food than necessary for the number of people invited -- and the number of people invited was always inflated  because my mother invited anybody and everybody and, unless they told her "no" in so uncertain terms, they were counted as a definite. My mother, though, had both my grandmother and me helping out.

So the bar was set and every year I would frantically try to incorporate any and all traditions and even concocted some of my own. I would cram my kids with so much rich food and heartwarming ritual they would feel positively miserable if they had to spend the holiday anywhere other than with their perfect mother.

The first clue I had that I was missing the mark in the building memories department was the year that I made homemade cinnamon buns for Thanksgiving day breakfast. I got up at 6 a.m. to make sure they had enough time to rise and that they'd be hot and ready when everyone got up. They were absolutely wonderful and I couldn't help puffing up at my domestic derring-do...until one of the Heirs sighed, "But I sure miss those ones you used to make that popped out of the can."

Goodness knows, I tried to deliver the homey holiday Hallmark is convinced we're all supposed to have. I've tried the tradition of going around the table and saying one thing we're thankful for -- this dissolves into chaos pretty quickly when participants list "not having a gaping head wound" or "tequila." I had to hold up the Official Lighting of the Creche so the Bethlehem stable could be festooned with prayerfully and properly respectful, but anachronistic, action figures. I only tried a sing-a-long once -- it's amazing how quickly my family can come up with alternative lyrics...and I'm not talking about the kids, either. I gave up trying to inject tradition into holidays two decades ago.

Let me tell you something about traditions, particularly ones you concoct yourself -- they're never the ones your kids remember anyway. They pick their own favorites, thankyouverymuch, and the more embarrassing they are to you, the better.

Toppergetdown
For instance, we now have a tradition of guessing what dish I made that I forgot to put out. It's usually salad, but one year I woke up Friday morning to find the tiny nubs of brussels sprouts drying in the oven. Another favorite is guessing what time it will be when I'm finally so distracted by cooking that I forget to push food far enough back so our Australian Shepherd can't countersurf the cheese.

Heir 2 began a tradition of seeing how many times he could program the stereo to play "What's New Pussycat?" before it pisses someone off (he'll usually stick in one "It's Not Unusual," just to hear someone say, "Thank goodness!" to a song like "It's Not Unusual" -- which is then followed again by more "What's New Pussycat?").

And, once again, I will dig out the basket of nuts for Heir 1. So he can look at them and know they are there. (Do not eat any of the nuts in the basket, should you visit us during the holidays. The boys weren't even in high school when I bought those nuts. But it just isn't the holiday season without the basket of nuts.)

So, I've learned to let go of the control of the holidays. I no longer wear myself out cooking a huge, complicated menu. Wonder of wonders: no one cares. Do I still fuss and cook on Thursday? You bet I do! Well, until it gets tedious. Then I stop, have a martini and enjoy myself. No one ever left my house hungry.

So Martha Stewart would probably cringe at the haphazard delivery of turkey right off the cutting board and self-serve dessert, not to mention my lumpy mashed potatoes. The wine is probably wrong and I never remember to put on my "nice clothes" after doing all the cooking.

And Topper will probably eat all the leftover Doritos out of the bowl someone leaves on the coffee table. Just like he did last year. And the year before that.

Apparently, it's tradition.


Monday, May 30, 2011

Picnicking with the Linguinis

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.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Proud to not be Martha

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...

Sunday, October 03, 2010

In which Sisiggy leaves the state -- all by herself

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!

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Out of the Woods

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...

Sunday, July 26, 2009

How I Spent My Summer Vacation*

I stared out at this*2:



Tried to ignore this (not for the faint of heart or stomach).

Did this:

Read these:

Came home to this*3:



(Sigh)

*Summer vacation generously supplied by Mr. and Mrs. Dark Garden, to whom we are eternally grateful, but not so much as to adopt their TV viewing habit (Oh, yes. I saw you two watching wrestling and I tried to convince myself that you were doing it so I would comment on it until I actually heard you discussing the program like you watch this on a regular basis at which point I immediately took up smoking, binge drinking and hard drugs because now I realize there is absolutely no hope for the world and I might as well die young {ish}.)

*2 Believe it or not, we were at Outerbanks -- nice North Carolina beaches. I will not take my camera to the beach. But you all know what a beach looks like, right?

*
3 Our neighbor IH across the street naively took a dozen. She told Dirtman, "no more for awhile," not realizing that her acceptance of said cucumbers has automatically contractually obligated her to receive cucumbers every day until the end of the growing season -- unless, of course, she sends back the card we mail her to opt out for a days' worth, which I have a feeling will probably get lost in the mail. IH suggest we put out a table with the extra produce, but I have a feeling that's a good way to lose a table and not much else.

*4 We would also like to acknowledge Heir 1 for staying home and taking care of all the animals and plants without making me feel guilty about it, even though Zsa Zsa was on one of her yogurt and farina diets, Topper gets the runs whenever I leave, Abbey was finishing being in heat and Salt continuously slipped off to peruse the neighborhood. Miraculously, dogs and cats are all happy and healthy and one, in particular, still qualifies to enter a convent (were she not canine, I guess...).

Monday, June 01, 2009

Lost in Lost River

John Boy was to arrive at Lost River State Park much earlier than the rest of us in order to go on a hike and then would meet us for a picnic.

A (sort of) direct quote from John Boy, after sitting a half hour in the general parking area while we had already set up the site and having arrived, via his car, after searching the whole park:

"I thought you'd probably leave a note or something on my windshield..."



"...but I got distracted."

Did I mention Linguinis have a focusing prob...

Oh, look! Zsa Zsa!


Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Up to speed

Ahhhh! Back on my usual computer. The laptop is okay for just working in Word, but doing anything else is a nuisance -- and will be until I get myself a mouse.

Things have been truly buzzing around here; so much good news, I'm wondering if perhaps the universe is tilting in a strange direction or maybe I've fallen through some black hole to a parallel universe -- one that isn't out to get us.

Or maybe my Year of Grief has come to an end, even though I didn't know I was experiencing a Year of Grief because I was...well...experiencing a Year of Grief. What is the psycho babble phrase? I found my New Normal?

First of all, NO MORE CISTERN!!!! Our landlord/neighbor hooked us up to his well. What this means is no more turning on the kitchen sink, hearing a telltale thunk that means "rinse what you got and quick;" or waking up at night when someone uses the bathroom and hearing an ominous hiss that means no one else will be able to use the toilet until water is delivered. Turns out the cistern still had a leak, which I wish we knew, like, eight expensive loads of water ago...

Second: Dirtman has quit tobacco! The Heirs are particularly happy about this since they envisioned a future of having to be the caregiver to a father with half a face. I'm just relieved he got rid of the health risk. Oh, and now I don't have to run away when he tries to kiss me.

Some minor positive notes: The thyroid meds have finally kicked in completely and, while I wouldn't say the pounds are "melting" away, I feel like I'm back on track and am fitting in clothes I haven't seen since two summers ago. My energy has returned and my joints aren't screaming every time I put forth a little exertion. My hair has stopped falling out and my nails grow again.

So we've been busy. Landlord/neighbor plowed a section in the back of the yard (beyond the fence) for a communal vegetable garden. As soon as it dries up a little he's going to have it tilled. So we started a compost pile because...yea...we've got a lot to compost.

Mothers' Day was spent at Dark Garden's house, where I was -- against my will -- entered into a dip contest. Had I known this was a contest, I would not have brought hummus, which was, technically, in violation of the "dip theme" of the gathering. The dip was supposed to go with tortilla chips, but since I was trying not to eat tortilla chips, I brought hummus and carrot and celery sticks.

Do I need to tell you I lost miserably -- even to Dirtman's dip, which was...well, if you have a strong stomach and aren't eating anything, you can read about Dirtman's dip. First of all, men don't like hummus. They say they do to appease women attempting to get them to eating healthily, but they don't. Second, I can't think of anything more disgusting than hummus on a tortilla chip. And, finally, this batch didn't turn out as well as usual because for the first time in my life I made something with not enough garlic and, I think, my tahini might have been too old. (Dark Garden will make a comment about that last phrase.)

Additionally, Dark Garden will say I'm taking this way too seriously, which is what the person who sets up such competition always says when he purposely sabotaged the entry of the competition he feared. It ended up being a draw between his and John Boy's salsas, but only statistically. Each dip had its own merit and it's hard to compare, say, a cheese-based dip with a salsa because sometimes you want cheese and sometimes you want salsa.

And sometimes you don't want either because you want fresh vegetables and hummus.

I think that catches us up.

Oh, except for this, which we found next to Abbey's favorite gnome:

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Of limited interest to most

Don't you just hate it when a blog that's sort of interesting to read all of a sudden jumps the shark and dissolves into a never-ending chronicle of how wonderful the author's kids are?


And when she normally posts pictures that are sort of pretty or funny, now she's posting pictures of her kid standing there smiling at whatever activity makes them so wonderful? Don't you hate that?



And don't you hate it when, say, the son of the author of a blog you used to enjoy reading gets inducted into the National Honor Society and instead of kidding around about things like mushrooms and gnomes, she slaps up pictures of her kid standing next to everybody at the ceremony?
Caisee and Heir 2










Caisee's mom Carol and Heir 2











Caisee, Caisee's grandmother and Heir 2











Heir 2 and his friend Jesse











Heir 2 and Jesse's mom, Janie

And then there's the ubiquitous cake shot.


Don't you hate the ubiquitous cake shot? And then all those shots of the kid being really annoyed by his father taking all those photographs?

Give me a break!





Yeah. I really hate that.





Ubiquitous shot of me looking ticked off when I'm really not.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Respite

As I said, things around Casa Linguini have been pretty tense lately as we near the finalization of our bankruptcy. This general aura is not helped by the daily reminders of doom and gloom predicted on the news that Dirtman insists drone on all day long.

My usual response, in the good ol’ days when my backbone was intact, used to be a forceful command of, “Enough!” as I snap off the television and come up with some ridiculous scheme that, while most likely unable to be executed, at least gets everyone out of the funk we’re in and thinking outside the box.

But on top of the overall dismal character of what we’re going through, we have the added burden of job hunting, a task that I at first approached very matter-of-factly until, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t find a job I wanted. Seriously, up to this point, I’ve never been not hired when I wanted to be hired. But, then, I was never job hunting at 51 years old before. (I know there are those for whom it would make their day if they walked into their local McDonalds to hear me ask them if they want fries with that, but I can’t afford to work for such low wages merely for the satisfaction of those who want a bankruptcy to result in complete degradation.)

So let’s add rejection to our list of depressive conditions and you can understand why it’s harder these days to channel my inner Pollyanna. But channel her I do, even though right now, every penny must be accounted for, every expense justified to the world at large, every thing we do or say judged through a filter called “bankruptcy.”

Some days are better than others, but the best days are the ones where someone else takes over the cheering up so I can just enjoy the ride for a day.

Such was Sunday when my brother Dark Garden and sister-in-law Beth up and hauled us into Washington, D.C., for the day. On top of that, they wanted to go to my favorite place: The National Gallery of Art.

We each have our own view of the day which you can read Dirtman's take on his blog (scroll down or click the archives to Oct. 14, 2008) and here from Dark Garden. Beth is, as always, patient and tolerant with the lot of us.

The last time I was at the Smithsonian was when I was homeschooling the Heirs and, naturally, our visits focused on the Museums of Natural History, American History and Air and Space. When I was single I used to take the train to D.C. from Jersey and, through the Smithsonian Associates program (which back then was really, really generous), I stayed at the L’Enfant Plaza for two nights ($75 including two continental breakfasts delivered to my room, a dinner in one of their dining rooms and an all-day pass on the tour bus – which I only used once). I’d spend hours at the gallery. Since I’ve been married, I went once when Dirtman was at a conference in Rosslyn and took Metro in and spent an entire glorious day just exploring the art of the 16th and 17th centuries.

I’ve always been particularly fond of this time period. I always feel this obligation when I’m at the gallery to start at the beginning and work my way forward in time. It’s always such a relief after the almost suffocating effects of the Church on art, to finally see those lovely sepia-toned Flemish and Dutch paintings of everyday life and pock-marked peasantry.


Because, as much as I’d like to believe I’d inspire an artist to use my visage on a serene-faced Madonna, I know I’d be in one of those Molenaer Dutch peasant paintings, a figure in the background basting a grouse – or just doing what I do.









It was so nice to get lost for a few hours, though I think the Escher-like layout of rooms got to Beth after awhile. I was fading fast myself after being on my feet for so long (I won’t go into all the ramifications of being without health insurance for over a year, but I will admit that the effects of not taking medications you were supposed to be on for the rest of your life can result in being pretty uncomfortable and, frankly, I find it annoying).

So off we trotted to dinner which, since Dark Garden was in attendance, was bound to be an adventure for reasons we never quite know why. All I know is this: We go to restaurants, eat and leave with no incident. Add Dark Garden to the mix, and things invariably go wrong. He does absolutely nothing to deserve this. He’s friendly enough, no more or no less than anyone else. He’s undemanding and polite.

This time we didn’t even get to order before we knew it was happening again. All around us were people who had been seated after us, receiving their drinks, ordering food. And there we sat – no water, no server and no one with which to make eye contact or flag down or hit over the head and drag to our table.

So we walked out (and they let us) and went onto another restaurant where we were greeted and placated and fed and watered, then back to the Metro where the engineer (who also announces the stops) had to be about the happiest operator I’ve ever driven with.

So today Dirtman and I sent two e-mails: One to Uno Chicago Grill corporate offices detailing our non-meal at their Union Station restaurant; and, secondly, to D.C. Metro telling them how delighted we were to be on the Orange Line Sunday evening.

I guess I have to say this for anyone keeping track: Dirtman and I spent ne'er a penny all day. And Dark Garden says shuddup about it already.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Sunday in the car

Before we begin, let me explain how I spent my childhood.

The entire time I was growing up was spent touring battlefields, following my brother John Boy through thickets and up the steep side of mountains while he read to me from some guidebook he picked up from somewhere. I have a very specific memory of following him through a hayfield as he pointed out all the sites of interest that he, at six feet tall, could see while I, at five feet tall saw nothing but hay.

Honestly, if there was some cheesy history display or map, we were there. Somewhere there are 459 pictures of me and my brothers on every canon on the Eastern Seaboard.

But – really – I’m not bitter.

Sunday started out as an excursion to Rockingham County for a brief visit to the Green Valley Book Fair, a quick stop for bulk products at the farmers’ market and a nice, relaxing dinner at Mrs. Rowe’s (formerly Evers, for you locals). I was almost happy when Dirtman told me John Boy was going to come along.

Then I remembered. John Boy does not read. He pretends to read by buying a novel every five years or so. And he will buy books, but upon closer examination you will see the books are merely lists of statistics or maps or black jack strategy.

But it was too late. Dirtman and John Boy had already hijacked my perfect relaxing day and I had played right into their devious plot by agreeing to head to Rockingham County where only the week before John Boy had discovered there was an electronic map outlining the Civil War battle movements in the Shenandoah Valley during 1862. (Ya know that look kids get when they find they’re going to Disney World? That’s the look John Boy got on his face when he found out there was an electronic map outlining the Civil War battle movements in the Shenandoah Valley during 1862.)

So here was the “equitable” plan as it was presented to me: First we visit the electronic map outlining the Civil War battle movements in the Shenandoah Valley during 1862 (EMOTCWBMITSVD1862) since it probably closes before anything, then “of course, Honey, you can visit Patchwork Plus and buy fabric! It’s your day!”, then the farmers market, then Green Valley, then lunch and then, perhaps, even a movie.

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you My Day:

This is me finding out about EMOTCWBMITSVD1862.

Actually, at this point I really didn’t mind. But I find every candid shot of me looks like I’m really ticked off at something. I’m not, though. It’s just my face.

This is John Boy hoping this is not the EMOTCWBMITSVD1862.

Turn out it wasn’t because…


This is what the map was.


And here’s some of the historic sites featured.

Let me tell you something about Rockingham County, more specifically about Dayton: There is a huge Old Order Mennonite population there. I think this was the moment I knew there was to be no Patchwork Plus (run by Mennonite women) or farmers’ market (run by Mennonite farmers) and, I had a feeling, no Mrs. Rowes (used to be run by Mennonites when it was Evers).

But there was Green Valley, but I won’t bore you with the details of the cute baby knitting pattern I scored (no I’m not, nor is anyone I know. But it’s a good, standard pattern so that if anyone is, I’m ready).

“I’m not really hungry yet,” I sighed after Green Valley. Both Dirtman and John Boy had conspired to eat a hot dog from a vendor in the parking lot so, of course, they’re not hungry yet.

What to do? What to do?

“I know what let’s do! Let’s just knock around a few Civil War battle spots and that’ll work up an appetite!” John Boy innocently suggested like it hadn’t been planned all along.

Stop #1.









Someone has an agenda that is not so much pro-Obama as anti-Republican.

I figured their “no photograph” sign was kind of like Paris Hilton flashing the camera and saying, “Don’t look at me!” Plus I was on state property.

Anyway – yup – a field.

Stop #2.








Things are looking up – the sign is bigger than the site!

Alas, it encompasses the entire hillside.

Sisiggy amuses herself in the car trying photograph herself not looking like a cranky old lady.

Turns out the only way to do that is to crop out three quarter of my head. That way I still look old, but decidedly less ticked off.

Stop #3.

Yup – another field. Fortunately, no trail. (Why is John Boy under the marker? Long story -- don't ask. But rumor has it, if you knock three times on the marker, a voice will tell you all about Abraham Lincoln.)

Stop #4.

Yup – another field. Unfortunately, a trail.

Umm…guys? Hello? Dinner?

Mrs. Rowe's closed at five.

Someone want to explain to me why a place called O’Charley’s doesn’t have Guiness on tap?

So join us next week, friends for Sisiggy’s Revenge or it’s working title: Jeanne goes thrift shopping for lots of pink frilly girlie things while Dirtman has to sit and hold her purse.