At this festive season of the year...

And now it's on to good news and no more whining until they cut off the internet connection and cart me away, which we all know won't be happening because the Universe will not allow the silencing of the Linguini.

So...Christmas. As despondent as we should have been, we somehow managed to put out own special Linguini deranged twist on this festive day. My sister-in-law Beth came up with the idea that instead of buying more clutter stuff, we instead draw names and buy "gag gifts."

Naturally, those of tender years received their visit from Santa, who is getting old and has drastically reduced the load he's willing dump under the tree. Nonetheless, the Heirs did not do too shabbily: Heir 1 has been wanting an acoustic (Thank God...) bass and Heir 2 earned his letter jacket last year so Santa was a year overdue (Who is this child who earns letters in both sports and academics? I'm convinced he's a changeling. Somewhere there is a geeky, clumsy 17-year-old 8th grader wondering what he's doing in a family of doctors, lawyers and Olympic medalists.)*

So anyway, on to the rest of the gifts:

Dark Garden was anxious that Progeny L begin opening his gift first.

But after two layers of wrapping, we decided to move on. We'll come back to Progeny L.

John Boy, who pulled Dark Garden's name, wins the prize for having traveled the farthest to buy his gift and for getting the...ahem...most for his dollar:


All from the exotic locale of Atlantic City and all purchased for under $7! Such a bargain!

Meanwhile:







Progeny L gets the award for Gift We're All Eternally Thankful For because he got it for Dirtman:

(You'll have to click on the picture if you want to read the tube. We'll leave it tiny for the faint of heart.)








And still:







There was a definite war of the alma mater, with Dirtman lowering himself to purchase a Rutgers t-shirt for John Boy and Heir 2 gifting Beth with a Virginia Tech banner that he'll be extremely hurt if she doesn't display at all her WVU games (like that's going to happen).

And off in a corner:






And Beth gave Heir 1 a t-shirt that probably speaks for us all:


I do wish Dirtman had managed a picture of Progeny T eating his gummy haggis and chewing his squirrel gum, because I am so indebted to T for my gift (we drew each other's names). See, Progeny T thought he was insulting me by making a comment on my short stature. But...he didn't so much give me a step stool as the gave me a yarn swift...



...and kitty tent.

We rounded out the holiday with rousing games of Balderdash; only, since there were only six markers we had to find other pieces to move around the board. Heir 1 decided on this, which he had been loaning out to the nativity scene to watch over baby Jesus:



So now everyone has gone home...oh, except for...


(I bring him toast now and then, just to keep his strength up.)

And, since this is already overloaded with annoying family photos, I give you Abby and Hokie:



*I'm perfectly aware that I surreptitiously inserted a motherly brag in there while pretending to be self-deprecating. Give me this crumb.

I knew this was going to happen

Ya know...

I held off saying anything about our situation until we were sure it's what we had to do. That way you aren't forced to say things that end up not coming true.

Well, wouldn't you know that immediately after we decided to "go public" with the news that we would have to move from the House of Never-ending Construction, our brains kicked into gear and suddenly options appeared to us. Or, rather, it turned out that ideas I had conjured and thought utterly ridiculous and beyond the comfort zone of all involved, ended up being first a possibility and then, ultimately, the solution.

So, yeah, things around here will be a-changin' (well, not here specifically, but around Casa Linguini), we are here and, if all works out as planned, always will be.

I can't tell you how this has changed the atmosphere and I wish we'd have thought of all this before we spent an absolutely dismal Christmas saying heart-wrenching things like: "We'll never see the crabapple tree get big;" or "What do we do if the new people won't feed the birds?"

We had demonized the people we figured would buy this house (opportunists who would offer us way under appraisal because they could smell the stench of fear, panic and despair on us; greedy money-grubbers who took one of those get rich courses they advertise on paid programming at 3:30 in the morning that tells people to hunt down poor slobs drowning in debt and weed them out of the financial gene pool by offering a ridiculous amount for their property). We were quite sure they not only wouldn't feed our birds, they'd shoot the mourning doves, put a foozeball table in the library and not house a single gnome.

Yes, there is much rejoicing right now, but the real work lies ahead. The House of Squalor must still be rejuvenated, though the five-acre parcel it sits on is the real value of the property. And our extra lot next door will go up for sale.

But the Hill is still of the Gnome and so it shall remain. And the crawdads will still roam free.

Say Hallelujah; say Amen.

A sad state of affairs...perhaps...

This may be the hardest post I’ve ever had to write. And, no, it’s not the end of Linguini on the Ceiling, just to get that out of the way. But there is no denying Linguini has suffered over the past year or so and this may give you an insight as to why.

K. Here goes.

The Linguinis are high-tailing it back to the House of Squalor and the House of Neverending Construction is up for sale.

There. I said it.

Those of you who have been with me for the past two years know the ramifications of this statement. You know of the anguish and waiting and disappointment we went through to get here and know what a kick in the stomach it is for all of us to have to give it up.

But we’ve had to circle the wagons this last year, so to speak; pull up the drawbridge and try to cut our losses. We really thought the housing industry would have at least leveled out by now. We knew the glory days were over and didn’t expect them to last forever. While the glory days were what built this house in the first place, we figured the usual income from the industry was all we needed once we dealt with the initial outlay.

We probably could have survived the total annihilation of the housing market if that was all we had to deal with. Dirtman had, in fact, begun to move into less market-dependent areas of the industry and that would have suited us fine. But we couldn’t absorb the onslaughts from other factors on top of housing going bust.

The one thing Dirtman and I agreed about when he decided to go into business for himself was that we were going to maintain our integrity. No exploitation of situations, no undermining the competition, no backstabbing – all pretty easy to do when the market is good and there is plenty of work for everyone; but not so easy when things start getting competitive. We were totally unprepared for (read: naive) the lengths our “friends” would go to and still be able to justify betrayal. Frankly, Dirtman is usually the trusting one, but even I was taken in and that really pisses me off.

Needless to say, the embarrassment factor is quite high right now. Dirtman wants to hide. I just want to get it over with and start a new chapter. I don’t like the role of “victim” and need to shed it as soon as possible. But we know there is an element among the people we know who have been salivating for something like this to happen and, while they will make all the right sympathetic noises, they will not be able to keep the tinge of smugness out of their voices: “Well, that shows them. I would never find myself in this position. Of course if they lived their lives just like me this wouldn’t have happened. That’s what they get for being so uppity.”

(As an aside: We all know people like this, of course; people who are quite sure there is only one way to live and it’s their way. But what I want to know is: when they make their snide remarks and digs, do they actually think they’re so glib that we can’t hear how rude they’re being? Do they actually think they are so intellectually superior that, just because we’re too polite to call them on it, we don’t realize? Just wondering.)

So we are quite unsettled right now and feeling just a little bruised. But okay, really. Because we made some decisions before things got desperate, we have choices and control over how this is done – in other words, this is not a foreclosure situation, but a decision that Dirtman and I made over other options like working our tails off seven days a week to maintain a house we’re never home long enough to enjoy (not the lifestyle for us).

So, with the help of Dark Garden, the Twin Progenies and the Heirs, we will be putting the House of Squalor to rights so that I can inhabit it without getting sick. We will be paring down significantly, which, to me, is almost a relief.

And, really, I wonder if this wasn’t what we intended for awhile now. When we moved here a year and a half ago, it was overwhelming. I can’t deny how wonderful it was to have heat and water that was reliable; to not have to climb up and down flights of stairs to do laundry in between high and low tide in the basement; to not have to share a bathroom with the Three Stooges.

That being said, I had begun to explore concepts of sustainability and getting closer to the things that I need to live and this house really is not conducive to any of that. There’s no denying that, for the most part, I’m heating or cooling three floors for four people, not to mention that I’d have to relocate an entire field in order to have a garden.

So, to me, this is the first step of a new life. Dirtman isn’t there yet, so tread softly around him.

This is my gift to the smug among you: go forth and gloat.

To the rest of you, my friends, thank you in advance for your support.

I like my coffee like I like my men...

Bitter and murky.

You are a Black Coffee

At your best, you are: low maintenance, friendly, and adaptable At your worst, you are: cheap and angsty You drink coffee when: you can get your hands on it Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

I haven't disappeared, if any of you are still with me. I will explain in time and soon.

And I'm not cheap...I'm frugal. Look at all the cash I've saved on plastic drinking straws and plastic bags alone.

Is it just me? Tell me honestly.

This is what comes of forced TV viewing, this feeling of incredulity and frustration. Honestly, people – is it just me?

Due to an illness…condition…problem…whatever (since resolved, but at the time disconcerting and downright terrifying, but okay now so we won’t go into it and please, for the love of God, don’t ask what the doctor said because that will open up a whole new can of worms I don’t need crawling around just now so just know that I am healthy and normal now), I had to spend three days just sitting. I could read for short periods of time, but long term focus so close sent my head spinning.

The long and short of it was that the only thing to do was – gulp – watch television. A lot of television (and knit washcloths that I don’t have to look at much while I knit, but that’s neither here nor there).

Okay – Oprah. Explain Oprah to me, someone, please.

The show was about a woman who was addicted to hoarding and shopping. The advertising was for crap to buy for Christmas. The ads for upcoming Oprah shows were about Oprah’s favorite crap to buy for Christmas. Meanwhile, on the show, they’re talking about how Americans have too much crap and we’ve lost meaning in our lives. And Oprah is acting all bewildered about people who are addicted to shopping – the woman, who already has everything under the planet twice over and who required a Paris department store open after hours just for her, is amazed that other people are addicted to shopping?

Honestly, people – is it just me?

Then the car commercials: I was under the impression that a car was a means to get from point A to point B. Intermittent wipers are kind of a neat perk, but really it’s a motor with wheels. Then why the ad like “When you get in your car and turn it on, does it return the favor?” How screwed up do you have to be to rely on your car for existential fulfillment?

And why are people so obsessed about the smell of their houses? I love to go into people’s houses and smell what they had for dinner. Why is that a bad thing? It means you live in your house. I can’t believe a company can make money spending millions on advertising for a candle.

Okay, okay, okay…I know I’m old and I know I’m not the most technologically savvy person on the planet. But someone please explain to me why a cell phone can’t simply be a cell phone? Is there something about our surroundings so vile to hear that everyone has to be walking around with their own personal soundtrack?

(Oh, and don’t suggest I get that Jitterbug thing – it looks like the Playskool version of a cell phone. I’m not that hopeless. Dirtman, maybe. But not me. And is anyone concerned that the “skool” part of “Playskool” is misspelled?)

And when did everyone suddenly develop digestive problems? For God’s sake people: FIBRE!

And another thing: it’s “jew-el-ry,” NOT “JEW-LER-EE.”

And why are “Titanic” and “Independence Day” on all the time? I was just wondering about that. I don’t mind or anything. I’m just curious.

Thank God that little stint is over. I resolve to take better care of myself forever more so I don’t have to go through three days watching FREAKING INSANITY!

What's the big deal? What?

Scene in kitchen and living room. Sisiggy is in kitchen, Heir 1 is sitting at the kitchen table. Just beyond in the living room Dirtman is watching television.

Sisiggy: Look, I need some help in here.

Dirtman: What now?

Sisiggy: The dog pen needs to be cleaned and Hokie needs to be tended to.

Dirtman: Okay...so?

Sisiggy: Do you want to clean the poop or soak Hokie's boil?

Heir 1: None of my friends have to put up with conversations like this!

Sisiggy: Shut up and eat.

A day late...

I suppose I could back date this, but since I'm not officially blogging everyday anyway, I figure it's no big deal. Sundays are massive meal days and everyone comes here and eats stuff. So that's where I was yesterday.

All this blogging going on reminded of something I read on the internet by someone who did not want to be called a "blogger" because "bloggers" assume their lives are so interesting someone else wants to read about them. Apparently this person didn't agree that someone else's life/opinion was interesting, only his/hers. It made me wonder who was truly the most "self-absorbed."

When I started this blog two years ago, it was sort of like casting a line out into the ocean: Here's what I think. Anyone else think this? Am I alone in this? Can someone talk me out of this?

I've had one rule that I've stuck to since then: I never delete a comment, unless it's an obvious ad or at the request of the commenter (I think that happened once when a comment inadvertently posted twice). I don't claim to think in absolutes and I don't require total agreement.

Of course, I've never had anyone get really nasty. The few trolls that have stopped by have been immediately recognized and summarily ignored. They've never come back as I can tell.

I know a lot of people just hate the word "blogger," but it's just a matter of semantics to me. I yam what I yam. As in anything, there is good and bad and it used to be the same for the term "freelance writer." I remember going on a job interview and the interviewer making the snide comment that "at least you weren't a 'freelance writer.' That's just another way of saying 'unemployed.'" Instead I had a laundry list of jobs that had absolutely nothing to do with the writing job for which I was applying and which I subsequently got because he apparently thought that, since I could make a bank balance at the end of the day, I could put together a column. Yet he would have turned down James Michener because he was 'unemployed' (...and dead...).

So call it what you will. If you are threatened by the fact that there are people out there sending words over the internet that are trite or cloyingly cute or too personal or grammatical disasters and those people are called the same thing as you with your well-organized, sharply edited prose -- well, get over yourself.

I'm rather glad there is a venue for everyone to express their opinions. Because I think eventually the only opinion you will hear out of the mainstream media will be Barbra Streisand's.

We're posting, we're posting, we're posting...

I'm a little late in trying to post everyday, so I don't qualify for this. November sneaked up on me and here we are at the third. But it's good exercise anyway.

I suppose I could bore you with more puppy pictures and maybe I will tomorrow when I take more puppy pictures. Today I'm attempting homemade pasta and the two activities are incompatible. Even I know that.

Anyway, the usual question: What have I been doing, since I've obviously not been blogging?

I've been flour-obsessed. I'm trying to get to the point where I can conjure up loaves of bread without a second thought. It's loaf after loaf after loaf.

We are expecting a rough week, though. The last four puppies are heading to Europe. Even though they're getting to be a real chore to deal with (it brings us to ten dogs) and keeping them reasonably quiet and contained is a daily challenge, I'm going to miss them: Laid back Ringo, drama-queen Sadie, always happy Nanook and -- I think most of all -- gentle, sweet Breeze.

But then we still have our Blabby Abby and Hokie Doke to deal with here and they're getting big -- can't just pick them up and move them where you want anymore. At least not without hurting something.

I'm done. Leave some for tomorrow.

A whole lotta hot air

I shudda known better.

I hate crowds. I hate standing in line. I hate poorly executed music played too loud. I hate paying too much for too little.

So what was I doing at the Balloon Festival at Long Branch this Sunday? In the past we have wisely found a spot somewhere in the county (usually on our way to or from something else, to be honest) because the balloons go up in the air and you don’t need to pay $10 a person to see it.

I figured, since there were wine tastings featured also, the “family groups” would be weeded out and it would be, like other wine festivals in the area, low key. People around here are pretty well-behaved at wine festivals by not treating it as a fraternity kegger. (picture me hitting my palm to my head.)

No, it wasn’t Animal House. But it was far from low key. And apparently the venue had thought to provide for all age groups because there was a merry-go-round and a kids’ folk singer competing with the sad attempt a blue and jazz by a live band and the 70s retro music blasting from the Johnsonville-phallus-on-wheels.

The ten dollars a person was just to watch the balloons. The wine tasting – which is, to me, advertising for the vineyards – cost an additional $5 per person to buy a glass to taste. Still, in terms of wine festivals this is not outlandish and, advertising aside, you just accept that it is what it is. But for $15 I want to do more than stand in line for 20 minutes to taste some of the most mediocre wines in this state.

Believe it or not, Virginia does produce some lovely wines. Some of them were even represented at Long Branch. But not a whole lot of them. In fact, the number of vineyards overall was pitiful and probably the reason why every stall resembled half-price day at Filene’s Basement.

We Linguinis are normally a pretty flexible bunch, but this certainly snapped our sensibilities. Dark Garden refused to play the game and left, leaving me, Dirtman and John Boy to tough it out. The goal, we decided, became to buy a bottle of wine to drink while we watched the balloons go up without having to pay the $5 tasting fee (seems you had to have a wrist band and a glass to taste, thereby forcing you to buy their commemorative glass).

But we were not daunted. So we decided to buy soda elsewhere ($2) and use those cups to drink our wine. Not exactly the aesthetic method of enjoying wine but the lines to buy the good wine were another half-hour wait and, frankly, what we ended up drinking was perfectly at home in our foam cups…and other drinking vessels. And – hey – we saved $9 overall. So there.

I suppose it was interesting to watch the balloons being prepared for flight. A bit difficult for the crowds, particularly my “favorite” crowd element: the family that thinks this whole festival is being stage just for them. There were a lot of them there, stepping on each other (and us), getting in the way of each other’s photographs (“Could you 150 people move out of the way of the entire hot air balloon so I can get a picture of Finster pointing as it fills with air?”).

It occurred to me that this is perhaps the only time you can get people to pay to watch people with too much money indulge in their hobby.

So, having seen up close a few of the balloons float away, we had to agree Dark Garden had chosen the best solution.

I got home and watched From Here to Eternity on TCM and knitted. It was the best part of the day.

You lookin' at us?

Oh, yeah?

You'd look stupid too if your ears were glued TO YOUR FACE...

One of those moments

This is Heir 2's third Homecoming weekend, but his first driving himself. I guess it makes it a milestone for us both (sniff -- I'm not crying.)

So I'm in the kitchen baking cinnamon raisin bread. He is in the backyard washing his car for The Big Night.

"Mom! Mom! Come quick! Bring the camera!"


"Did I angle it right? Will the rainbow come out?"

Later I'm in my office and again hear him yelling:

"Two things: My car looks sexy! And your bread smells awesome!"


I'm getting sappy in my old age.

Shhhh...(again, with the 'shhhh'?)

It's Dirtman's birthday and this is what he likes to do best, only he's not doing it because he thought his birthday was yesterday and scheduled a full day into night for today.

So we're actually celebrating his birthday tomorrow, which is neither his birthday nor when he planned for his birthday. But it's a day and there will be cake.

...and lots of puppies.

Shhhhh...

It's one of those gnome things in the trees! Let's sneak up on it and surprise it...Shhhh.

Shhhh...
SURPR ----------AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! (screech, screech, screech)

(Don't worry. All was well in the end.)

Oh No!

The puppies have learned to type!

Linguini on the Ceiling proudly presents...

The 20th Anniversary Memorial Gnome!



In his own gnome outhouse!

Festooned by Heir 1...

I somehow doubt this will be the last time he's going to be messed with...

I wonder if he didn't have something to do with yet another fungus.


This may be a jack-o-lantern mushroom, in which case, the underside apparently glows in the dark. Or maybe you just think it does if you are dumb enough to eat it...actually, it's poisonous. I'll have to check it out tonight -- whether it glows, I mean.

That's two decades and counting

Twenty years is the blink of an eye. Take it from me.

It seems that, as of today, Dirtman and I have been married 20 years.

I remember when I was a teenager, “20 years ago” seemed like the “olden days.” Twenty-year-old pictures looked so old and the people dressed so differently. Now twenty years ago doesn’t seem so far in the past, which explains why women my age have no problem trotting out our shoulder-padded blazers with the push-up sleeves and think we look current.

Twenty years married impresses most of our peers and anyone younger. Divorce became mainstream with my generation, a phenomenon that has its good and bad aspects. I’ve known plenty of long-wed couples where the abuse of one party should have ended the union long ago. So longevity doesn’t impress me much.

On the other hand, I’ve watches marriages fall a part simply because that initial wash of hormones wore off and suddenly life was merely…well…ordinary.

I’d like to say that Dirtman and I are still together because each of us is the paragon of what a husband and wife should be. But we aren’t. I can be vengeful, spiteful and biting when cornered. I’m no picnic to be with when I’m tired or hungry. I have to have coffee in the morning – taupe, not beige. And I hate talking on the phone and go to great lengths to force other people to make calls for me. Dirtman misses the hamper all the time.

So we’re two flawed people. And life is ordinary most of the time. I guess we happen to be two people willing to accept that. Are we always madly in love? No. But I love what one woman said was the reason her marriage lasted 75 years: Neither one of them fell out of love at the same time.

But I’ll admit there are very specific reasons that I, for one, stuck around for twenty years. And they’re very basic reasons and, if you must know, mistakes I see men make with their wives constantly; mistakes that eat away at any foundation to the relationship that had been built.

For one thing, never, at any time, no matter what weight I was, what my hair looked like, what my clothing looked like, has Dirtman ever made me feel ugly. I never felt I had to lose weight for him, dress for him, cut my hair for him. Women know when they don’t look good and the last thing they need if for the one person on the planet who is supposed to love them unconditionally making their appearance a criteria for affection. We say it doesn’t matter or we “appreciate the honesty.” But what we want is to be looked at through the eyes of love, not judgment.

Dirtman has never criticized anything I wanted to do, and I’ve had some pretty out-there schemes. He put up with my nuclear holocaust/economic collapse/Y2K hoarding and never once laughed. He supported me through my homesteading phase and put up with a totally useless goat I made him pay too much for. He doesn’t give in to everything, but he doesn’t make me feel like an idiot. I can do that all by myself, thank you.

He learned to love my dogs and never, no matter how broke we were, accused them of being the cause. He learned to love Italian food. He took in my father when he was ill and accompanied me to every hospital bed I had to stand by or funeral I had to attend.

He yells – a lot. But never at me. He has never insulted me or degraded me or called me names. It goes without saying he’s never hit me or threatened to hit me.

And he’s always made me feel safe, even though that’s not even his job. But he knows that’s important to me, so he does.

Now, as to why Dirtman has stuck with me for twenty years? I guess you’d have to ask him. Perhaps he just had nothing better to do.

Happy Anniversary, Sparkey, from your Sicilian Gnome.

Zsa Zsa and her puppies...

...because I realized I talked about them running free in the back yard and then showed a picture of them in a pen.

And because they're just so darn cute.

And so it goes...

Many apologies for letting almost a month lapse, but Ms. Zsa Zsa has been sick. Scary sick.

While she's still not out of the woods, she is much better, thank you, and I'm no longer spending the day between her and the puppies, medicating, cleaning up and watching over.

The Puppy Formerly Known As Penny (last puppy on the left) has gone on to her new home in Maryland. I would have been as upset about it as I was when Sarge left if I hadn't seen the fuss her new owners were making over her. They arrived with several sizes of lambs wool lined dog crates, a snappy new collar (green to set off her red fur), and a huge basket of toys and treats. Her new name is 'Becca and last I heard she was dictating what she wanted to eat and when she wanted to eat it. Yeah. She hit the puppy lottery.

And now the puppies can run out in the yard unattended since now they are too big for a hawk or turkey vulture to swoop down and carry away. This means I no longer have to spend hours hosing down a run. But it also means when I go out the back door I am greeted by the entire pack who always hold out hope that I'm harboring Snausages or cheese.

I don't want you to think I've been neglecting the family in favor of the puppies. Things have settled into their usual autumnal rhythm, only this autumn I'm not driving Heir 2 back and forth to activities because HE HAS HIS OWN CAR!!!!!!!!!!!!! He's been saving for this since he was 12 years old and required only minimal help from Dirtman and me.

Sadly, this also means that I have my car back and I now have no excuse to not come down off my little hill. If it were up to me, I'd have groceries and supplies air dropped so I never have to leave.

Heir 1? I think he lives here. There are dishes in the sink in the morning and all our leftovers disappear. Laundry appears in the washer, then the dryer and then disappears. There have been sightings and rumors. But I can't be sure. I'm pretty sure he lives here because every now and then someone calls and asks for him and when I put the message up on the dry erase board it mysteriously gets erased.

Oh...

As for the last remaining unspoken for puppy?

You didn't actually thing Dirtman would let go of a puppy named Hokie that was born on his lap, did you?

Here at Gnome Hill Kennel

...we believe discipline is the only way to train dogs to live among humans. Coddling, babying and pampering only results in spoiled neurotic dogs who do not know their place in the family hierarchy.

So we establish firm boun-dar-ees an' lee-mee-tashuns. As leaders of our own special pack, we maintain our position as alpha of the group by our no-nonsense approach and --














never mind

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...