Bye Bye, Sarge

Gnome Hill's Sergeant Pepper is heading for New Jersey. Our first to leave the nest.

Zsa Zsa is doing her usual happy dance...

Inspiration for Dark Garden...

Mushroom babies
Originally uploaded by Sisiggy

...who is so inspired by 'Shrooms.
















They rather remind me of these.
(Okay...so it was goblins, not gnomes...)

Fungus, Pt. 2

Dark Garden has been indulging in some 'shrooms over at the Realm. Don't drink anything, and certainly nothing carbonated.

A fungus among us

So there I was, doing the dishes, minding my own business when I look up and there, in my plain old African Violet sitting placidly on the windowsill:





'Shroom!

Big, yellow 'shroom!

There it was, hanging grotesquely over the edge of the pot.

"Is it edible?" Dirtman wondered out loud.

I consider that perhaps it will make me taller, like in Alice in Wonderland.

"Probably not, but it may make you think you are," Heir 1 suggested. "Can I try it and find out?"

"NO!" Dirtman and I scream in unison.

"I was only kidding," Heir 1 said, walking away and shaking his head like he really should be devoting more time toward finding us a good, clean nursing home.

I decided to go online to find out what, exactly, had infiltrated my innocent houseplant and if it will one night consume us all.

Turns out I have one of these. Nothing exotic. Like the birds at my birdfeeder ("typical feeder bird...), even my fungus is mundane.

The only question left is: Which one left the spores?


















Incidently: new puppy photos over on Flickr. Link is on the right, so you don't have to bother reading my blather anymore if you only love me for my puppy photos...

Just our opinion, of course...

Heir 2 and I were watching CNN this afternoon and the announcer started talking about Michael Vick announcing his guilty plea and that the NFL is still considering what to do about it (i.e., “Will we make more money if we allow Vick to play before and after serving time, or will we lose money if we tick people off?”)

Me: (dully) Way to go, NFL. Nothing like a definite ethical stance.

Heir 2: They’re saying he’ll probably get more than the minimum jail time.

Me: Really?

Heir 2: But, since he’s so young, when he gets out he’ll still be in condition to play.

Me: He won’t need to. He’ll write a book about how jail has changed him and go on Oprah.

Heir 2: Mom, this is Michael Vick. He can't write...a book.

Poopies -- er--Puppies, I mean

New puppy photos on Flicker.

Ya know how when babies are born, their poop is not so bad and then, all of a sudden, they become really disgusting? Usually this happens when they stop nursing.

Well, it's happened to the puppies. We're starting to wean them and they're becoming little poop factories. Oh, they play a little. But mostly they poop and sleep.

Like babies -- only cuter. Babies are cute for about 20 minutes when they turn 2. Then they wake up and it's all over.

So, if this seems rushed, it is. I've got a 10 minute window and then it's back to changing the puppy pen paper.

Well, I'll look on the bright side. At least they'll never get a driver's license like Heir 2 will this Thursday...

I humbly submit, for those who are interested...

My new blog, for the less sarcastic side of me:


http://domesticderringdo.blogspot.com/

I won't bother you with it anymore, if this is not your cup of tea.

Why you shouldn't take portraits right after meal time:

Going...

Going...

Gone.

Lately, only the animals around here have a life...

This is Whiskers doing the only thing she does during the day other than sleep.

Whiskers is under the impression that there is nothing in the back yard but a swirling blur of white and green. She will sit and watch out “the window” for hours. Since there doesn’t seem to be anything going on back there, she is content to stay in the house.

Little does she know that right outside “the window” she is supposedly looking out of, are birds. Lots and lots of them and they’re all slow and sluggish because we feed them well. They are so slow and sluggish we’ve had to teach Topper not to pounce on them. He thinks he’s playing with them, but ends up stunning them so that the terriers, who have vastly more sinister culinary plans for them, can move in for the kill.

But Whiskers is oblivious to all of this. She sits and stares out into the fog waiting for…something only the feline brain can fathom.

In the meantime, enjoy some gratuitous puppy photos:

Abby and Hokie

Ringo and Abby


Sadie


Ringo and Hokie

Last night, I dreamed I went to Manderley again...*

No, that’s not quite right…I actually dreamed of puppies.

Now where do you suppose that came from?

It all started out backstage at some musical and I was in charge of making navy blue pants and handing them out. So I get my pants organized and there I am flinging pants at people who are asking what the pants are for to which I reply I have no idea, I was just told to make the pants. There is massive pant confusion and men trading pants with each other and giggling (yeah, that’s right).

All of a sudden this woman walks in and orders me to make a white shirt (very uncreative costuming for this musical, I have to say) for the production that has already begun. And, by the way, she says, it has to make the wearer fly – no strings allowed. I tell her I can’t defy gravity in a half hour. She starts arguing with the guys about the pants, so I leave to check on the puppies at home (knew we’d get there eventually).

So I go home and my friends, wine mentors and Knowers-of-where-all-my-stuff-is-including-the-blue-plate April and Steve, have been watching the puppies. Steve complains to April that he’d offered me a glass of wine and I wouldn’t take it (in reality, I am limiting myself to one drink a week since I’ve noticed alcohol really messes with my blood sugar).

Then I go to check on the puppies and all is well there and Zsa Zsa is compliantly nursing them, which is how I know this is a dream and not reality. I leave the room and am greeted by a Cocker Spaniel.

Now this is where Dirtman’s behavior since the birth of the puppies comes into play. In order to appreciate the following, you have to understand that he is only a dog person by marriage. He didn’t grow up with dogs and didn’t want a dog when we got married. It took awhile for me to convince him that having one dog does not a dog person make. He has been tolerant and helpful and very, very understanding over the years, but you could never call him enthusiastic about dogs.

Since the puppies were born, Dirtman has become an all-out fanatic. He documents the puppies’ weight on a little chart. He picks each and every one up and cuddles them. He makes plans for all the things he and Hokie are going to do as soon as he’s weaned. They’re going to go to work together; he’s going to show him in the ring; he’s going to train him for rally.

So – back to the dream – I ask Dirtman (who is suddenly there and April and Steve are not) where the Cocker Spaniel came from and suddenly see a Brittany Spaniel there with her puppies. Dirtman is telling me about how he’s collected all these dogs with their puppies when I notice a Schnauzer whose puppy is a Wired Hair Fox Terrier (it’s a dream…work with me here).

I look out the back door and the yard is full of nursing puppies: a Golden Retriever litter, a German Shepherd Dog litter; lots and lots of Aussies.

I note that there are no Bernese Mountain Dogs (since Cindy, the Provider of the Whelping Box of the Big Dog Head, is whelping her Berner litter at the same time we are whelping Zsa Zsa’s litter) because, I point out, everyone I know has a Bernese Mountain Dog (actually, only Cindy and the owner of Blue Ribbon Acres Kennel, Jen).

Strangely, Dirtman has no answer to this.

I woke up in a euphoric state, having realized my dream of making Dirtman as caninely obsessive as myself.

By the way, I was awakened at that moment by Topper, who knows how to open doors (he’s like the raptors in Jurassic Park) and chose 4:45 a.m. to open the bedroom door and let himself out into the yard where he proceeded to bark at nothing, a skill I’m sure he can’t wait to pass onto his nieces and nephews.

*Famous opening line from Rebecca.

Okay...one more...

Zsa Zsa's new nursing position:



I'm really trying to stop...

The following entry is specifically to annoy Dark Garden...

Yook at da 'ittle puppies! Ooooooohhhhhhhhh, DA PUPPIES. Yuv da puppies! Unca John wuv da 'ittle puppies? YES! Unca John wuv da puppies! Woogie, woogie, Puppies!

Editor's Note: Yeah, we did it again. There's not much else to do around here...

Zsa Zsa is equally annoyed.

Had enough of the puppies yet?

Photos of Zsa Zsa's puppies are on Flicker, for interested parties.

For those not interested, we will return to our regularly scheduled blogging as soon as the novelty wears off. The editorial staff apologizes for the decidedly canine atmosphere of Linguini, which we thought we'd managed to eradicate with the publication of Zsa Zsa's blog. But, just like puppies, sooner or later you just can't contain 'em.

We apologize for the inconvenience.

Litter Linguini

And now we present Eight Reasons We Did Not Go On Vacation This Year.

They may not look like much now, but a boat load of careful decision-making went into these eight gerbil-like creatures. Our decision to breed Zsa Zsa to Que is not half as important as both dogs’ impressive pedigrees representing decades of decisions made by breeders with vastly more knowledge than I have.

Zsa Zsa, frankly, couldn’t care less. She wants to know how, exactly, this happened and who she needs to see about fixing this infestation problem.

The puppies are now three days old and Ms. Zsas is bored with them. She jumps out of her whelping box constantly and waits at the dining room door every time someone enters the kitchen. Then it’s, “Hell with the kids. I smell poultry.”

We let her out a little bit and she potties, begs for more food (we’ve already doubled her feed), drinks a bit, then suddenly gets a look as though she forgot something, but she can’t quite remember what it is.

We remind her she has puppies to tend to and she looks all put out and annoyed, but goes back to her kids with about as much enthusiasm as any woman would have if they had just given birth to octuplets.

Oh, she sticks with it long enough to shut them up, but she also lets us know of her martyrdom. See? She’s picking up on this motherhood thing really well!

Today the puppies get their tales docked and dew claw clipped, so it may be a bumpy night for everyone involved. Four of the brood, who are going to Europe (I think it really stinks that my puppies travel more than I do…), will keep long tails. The rest will have the usual Aussie wiggle-butts.

See the black tri with the black ric-rac and the red tri? They were born on Dirtman’s lap. Next time you see him, ask him about it. He’ll be telling this story over and over for the next few years. Come to think of it, you probably won’t have to bother with the asking part.

So now you know what we’ve been doing around here lately instead of eating. And writing…

We interrupt our regularly scheduled post to bring you the following announcement...

To hear this vital information, please click this link.

Whew!

One (very tenacious) Heir down...

...one (very puzzling) Heir to go.

Must be the hay fever

This week, as I go about the stuff I have to do, I seem to be very weepy. Making the grocery list, working on the computer, improving my Spider Solitaire score -- all of a sudden tears are welling up and I can't see.

...AND IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE FACT THAT HEIR 1 IS GRADUATING THIS FRIDAY....DO YOU HEAR ME?

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

So don't be giving me those bemused smiles and those quick shoulder squeezes you give to people who just lost their gerbil.

It's probably just hay fever. The pollen count is very high, you know, and I have to take Claritin-D everyday, unlike the Heirs, who take the regular Claritin, especially Heir 1, who takes it even on weekends when I don't put it next to his breakfast plate like I do during the week when I lay it out next to his multi-vitamin, just like I've been doing ever since he was just a toddler, just a short little guy in his fuzzy Pooh-Bear sleeper, who couldn't read or write and relied on me for everything and wouldn't think of leaving his mother behind to start a life of his own where disaster is sure to overtake him...

Damn. The pollen is really thick in here because I'M NOT CRYING, DO YOU HEAR ME?

Holiday on Gnome Hill

Okay, so most of our holiday celebrating revolves around eating... This is not necessarily a bad thing.

Sure, sure. There are families that put up a badminton or volleyball net, but this only detracts from what it really on everyone's mind.

Another activity we stress during our holiday get-togethers is teaching the young people a skill that can carry them through difficult times throughout their lives. We prefer to call them "mathematical manipulation challenges" so said young people don't write their "What I Did Over Memorial Day Weekend" about learning to deal blackjack.



One interesting phenomenon that occurs just about every weekend my family comes over: My African Violet sprouts interesting flowers.

Listen to the Poe Head

Now this is how you do weekends...

This will be the kind of weekend we had in mind when we decided on this house:

People coming and going; Spontaneous acts of cookery; A (legal) casino in the basement; All fridges full; A full range of musical genres on the stereo; No one in charge.

We’ll need every bathroom people keep asking us about. (“Five and a half bathrooms? You only have four bedrooms…”)

I expect at least one of the following will occur at some point from Saturday through Monday:

• Heir 2 and the Twin Progeny will casually saunter outside like they’re going for a walk or something. Shortly afterward we will look out the window to see them putting to use some piece of detritus in a new and unusual way, probably involving unhealthy heights and noxious smells.
• Dark Garden and I will drag out the entire contents of the freezer and refrigerator and come up with an incredible meal which we won’t be able to recreate because we wrote nothing down and now we’ve had too many gins and tonics to remember.
• John Boy will explain the fine points of how to break even at craps and black jack. Everyone will pretend to listen. At the end of the evening everyone will be thankful we don’t use real money.
• John Boy will end the evening attempting to recap all the statistics garnered that night and reading them aloud to everyone. No one will care. He will store these statistics in his Basement of Doom and keep them for the next 30 years.
• Dirtman will spend the weekend holed up in his office, claiming he’s working, but actually watching ESPN. (He will come out on Casino Night to mop the floor with everyone, mostly because he can count cards while carrying on normal conversations, even though he will deny this vehemently.)
• Something will break down. It will be something for which we cannot find the instruction book. Dark Garden will shake his head in disgust and then fix it. No one knows how he does this. It is a gift.
• Dark Garden will throw out my straws and Ms. Dark Garden will yell at me about my little scrubber squares. I will show them the ¼ cup of coffee I can buy with the money I save washing my plastic straws and cutting up my pot scrubbers into little squares.
• Heir 1 will attempt to slip an annoying CD onto the stereo. Everyone will yell at him when they’ve had enough of listening to what sounds like feedback or a moose in pain.

So if you’re in the area, drop on by. We’ll be in – unless I’ve got to make a food run, in which case just find a chair, have a seat and someone will be along with a drink in a minute or two.

(You hear that Blogger Conventioneers?)

So, Linguinis...what have you been up to?

Oh, this and that, that and this.

We went to Strasburg's Mayfest parade to watch Heir 2 march by for 20 seconds.

Then we went to Winchester to get light bulbs.

We went to Costco for cereal, milk and orange juice.

Planted the flower and herb boxes.

Then we pimped out our dog.

You know...the usual weekend stuff.

A minor rant that gives me an excuse to brag about the Heirs, which I won't make a practice of, I promise.

I have mixed emotions about Joe being designated the top male academic scorer in his class (second year running…)

Naturally, I am very proud. How could I not be?

Then, again, the most successful and self-actualized people I know of were underachievers in high school. In addition, I realize that a high grade point average is not necessarily the best measure of intelligence and definitely not creativity.

Even Joe points out that the main reason he gets good grades is more a matter of compliance than brilliance (you can see how overjoyed he is by the lower picture). That he recognizes this makes me very, very proud.

His brother, for instance, is also very smart. But compliant? Not so much. He excels at what he excels at. But he won’t give time to something in which he has no interest.

While most school systems are preprogrammed in favor of the Joes of this world, I can see merit in both. Joe will draw the lines for Charley to color outside of. They’d be brilliant in business together, if they don’t kill each other first.

Attending this reception, though, left me with an unsettling feeling. All these kids looked very…tidy. Not a hint of rebellion, not even a whiff of original thinking.

Joe, I might point out, was not particularly tidy. But, then, I don't dress him anymore. I think this is a good thing, actually.

Where were the Heirs’ friends whose humor is sophisticated enough to make adults laugh? The kids I know are reading technical manuals that make my head spin or advanced philosophy books they dissect over coffee weren’t there either. Where were they?

Oh. I know. They got a “C” in gym.

St. Sisiggy of Flushing Meadows

I’m rather cautious about my expectations on Mothers’ Day, as some of you may already know. We mothers have a little sideline of guilt-inducing martyrdom going on that I’m not all that sure is justified.

So I don’t like to be too demanding. All I ask is that for this one morning, someone else let out and feed the dogs and make the coffee. I figure I do it every other morning…see how easy it is to slip into guilt-inducing martyrdom? Oh, just nominate me for sainthood and get it over with.

So once I have my extra half hour of sleep – or as much sleep as you can get once the dogs have wolfed down their food and now want attention – I’m pretty content. Just leave me alone the rest of the day and feed me dinner that night. Anything else after this I consider gravy.

Dirtman, however, is convinced that I will slit my wrists or something unless my perceived “sacrifices” for the sake of my family are duly acknowledged by the Heirs in the form of attendance at whatever activity I choose. So around 9 o’clock every Mothers’ Day, he can be heard rousing the Heirs from sleep with phrases like, “It’s the least you can do” or “You go down there and tell your mother you’d rather sleep in than acknowledge her day.”

So we embark on what begins to look like a forced march through antique malls and thrift shops, an activity Dirtman and I usually engage in by ourselves.

It’s not that the Heirs don’t observe Mothers’ Day. Heir 1 has established the tradition of giving me a CD he mixes featuring songs he thinks I would be interested in that I wouldn’t come across myself. Heir 2 prefers to offer work hours instead. So for the week he’ll clean my cat’s litter box for me or tackle a large chore I’ve been putting off.

We’re all cool with this. Except for Dirtman.

I might add that shopping anywhere with the Heirs walks a thin edge between hilarity and embarrassment. It gets even more treacherous when indefinable antiques enter the picture. If they can’t figure out what something is, they will make up a use for it, usually involving a disgusting bodily function.

I’d like to say they’re discreet about it but, then, they wouldn’t be Linguinis, would they?

So this year was no different and, while surprisingly few Shenandoah County antique stores and flea markets were open (what’s with that?), I did manage to find some impressive items: a random china cup to use as a planter; ice tea glasses to go with one I already have and a mother lode of vintage handkerchiefs, most of which are really tea napkins ............... except for this one which will never really be used for the purpose pictured

I am Zsa Zsa's maid servant

Zsa Zsa's been at it again...

He cleans up nice when properly motivated...

Charley and Tori on prom night. Tori did a mighty fine job with our scruffy and usually recalcitrant Heir 1, not to mention managing to look stunning herself, two tasks I have never heretofore been able to manage.


Oh...

And never ask Charley to show some emotion...


(I'm still paying the orthodontist for that smile...)

It's that weekend again...

The weekend of the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival, where, once again, I won't be going.

It's also the weekend I say, "Next year, though, I'm definitely going to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival."

But it's always something....

You will note that last year I said in a post about the Apple Blossom Festival that I would be heading for Maryland instead. But it never happened because we ended up at the House of Never-ending Construction dealing with some last minute emergency.

As a matter of fact, it's been over a decade since I was able to go to the Sheep and Wool Festival. The list of reasons has been varied:

Little League (Heir 2's team always had a Saturday and Sunday game. You'd think in 7 years, just once one of those days would be free...)

Parades (once he outgrew Little League, Heir 2 began marching band. There is always somewhere to march around here on the first weekend in May.)

Gold Cup (when I was a reporter for a local weekly I was required to cover Gold Cup like I had a clue about Steeplechase)

And this year's reason:

Prom

(where Heir 1 will make his first appearance in a tux, we hope a tasteful tux...if his girlfriend Tori picked it out, we're safe. If not...can you say "Lounge Lizard?")

Next year Heir 2 will be eligible to go to the prom and, since that will be his junior year, the next year also.

There was one magical year, though. It was back when the Heirs were toddlers. We met Da Bros at Charles Town Race Track for the Kentucky Derby (vicariously on the television, but they have mint juleps in commemorative glasses on Derby Day) -- always a great place to take the kids -- and that night went on to Frederick, Md., to a Holiday Inn Express that took dogs and had free breakfast (for people). Then we were able to get out early the next morning to hit the Sheep and Wool Festival before all the yarn was gone. (deep, nostalgic sigh.)

This year, though, Dark Garden insists we need to go here. Go ahead and ask me why....

Because he wants to see Him: