More bird geekery

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him and thought, "A bluebird!"

No. But an Indigo Bunting is just as pretty, huh? The feeder had been emptied by the earlier birds (we're normally cleaned out by noon), so I hope he comes back even though he didn't get food today.

Why we hate Sears

You all know how much I dislike Wal Mart (haven't been in one in almost a decade), but this rant on the part of Dark Garden reminded me also of how much I dislike Sears.

It's a shame, because they used to be a good company. But I can tell you horror stories of attempting to use their service department for services for which I paid good money. Eventually, trying to get some sort of answer from anyone became virtually impossible. We cancelled all accounts and stopped buying from them (we'd quit buying Kenmore products prior to this, since only Sears will repair them).

What is laughable (or not) is that Dark Garden was doing an investigation and couldn't get a straight answer.

Anyway, we're on a spread-the-word campaign and hoping they have a public relations department (they can't possibly) that searches the web for negative publicity. A longshot, to be sure. But shorter than calling their number and attempting to lodge a complaint with someone who can actually do something about it.

Flea pot

As some of you may recall, I've been on the lookout for certain items and I found at least one of them at a flea market this weekend.


I haven't used a drip coffee pot in well over 30 years, so I knew it was going to take a few tries before I could manifest a decent cup of coffee.

First of all -- cups were a lot smaller back in the day; and they were...cups...not mugs. And, if they were mugs, they were small mugs, not big honkin' mugs like I possess. So this 6-cup Wearever pot actually yields two Linguini "cups."

My first stab at using the pot and following the grounds amounts given on the pot gave me a cup of coffee that would peel the paint off the wall. There are those who would say that my usual cup of coffee does that, but these are usually tea drinkers who only occasionally venture into the world of coffee. I do make strong coffee -- but even I had trouble getting this morning's version down without copious amounts of creamer.

Timewise, it took just a little longer to make a pot of coffee, but not much more than usual. That was kind of a nice surprise. I don't like having to wait very long for my morning caffeine hit.

The nicest part of it, though, is that not having a coffee maker frees up precious counter space. Counter space is at a premium around here.

We'll try to keep it down

Yes, here at Linguini on the Ceiling we've always known how to par-tay. And today it's for the now-adult (depending on which law you're talking about) Heir 2.

Whoo-Hoo!

In celebration we revisit some memorable moments in Heir 2's past...

The cute ones:





























Aaaaaaand those awkward years:

The beginning of the Smart-Ass Period:



To looking like the guy everyone wanted to open the door
to when playing Mystery Date*:




Joe: The Man, The Myth, The Legend**,


*Oh, yes. I had Mystery Date -- the original Mystery Date.

**In his own mind.

Birds do it

To the dozens of birds currently on my lawn making spectacles of themselves:

Get a room!*

*Posting a photos** would be kind of creepy.

**Taking photos would be kind of creepy.

Busy work

Spring has finally arrived around here, bringing with it the usual spurt of energy. What this means is, I get lots of ideas which I dump onto Dirtman to manifest.

April 15 was the date that Wildbird Unlimited said the hummingbirds would be migrating into this area, so the feeders needed to be put out. We missed seeing them last year, but we had neither the means nor the inclination at the time (yes, it's been a year). So Dirtman came up with this:


The peonies should eventually spread, grow and hide the PVCishness. Think of it as recycled sculpture...

We planted herbs this weekend -- basil, oregano, parsley, mint (julep!) -- but I'd held back on rosemary. I'd read a book (it was fiction, so who knows...) recently that described a rosemary tree. Apparently, given time, it will grow to be a kind of tree or bush. But any kind of tree or bush that we own has to be portable and, frankly, if I wait much longer to plant rosemary, I won't live to see it reach the bush stage. Thank goodness someone had the foresight last year to throw the large flowerpots onto the moving truck (since, at the time, I was of the mindset that gardening was another of those things that I had lost my privilege to do).

We've placed this not far from the seating area I wanted on the side of the house, facing the bird feeder. With all due respect to the patio out back, it's hard to sit out there on summer afternoons with no shade. So now I'll have the patio for mornings and the side yard for the afternoon. All I need now, Dark Garden, is a laptop so I can work out there. (Because Dirtman discovered Hula and it's hard writing anything when cheesey 70s drama shows are blasting on the other side of the desk.)

Auntie Tam

Yup. Another battlefield tour in another Civil War battlefield.

45 minutes at the Smelly Visitors' Center

I will say, of all the battlefields (and I do mean all) I've toured, Antietam is the hardest to get through, mostly because the land is so vastly different from the way it was back in the 19th century. There are whole forests that are no longer there (cleverly labeled, like they're saying, "Pretend there's a bunch of trees here. Now pretend that you are standing on a rise in the topography that isn't there anymore. Now pretend that when you face east there isn't a honkin' big war memorial blocking your view...")

Corn-dog Jackson
"There he stands, like a Corn Dog."

But I can't 'splain it any better than Darkgarden:
http://releasethedark.blogspot.com/2009/04/battle-of-antietam.html

My favorite part of the day: At the Irish Pub (serving Guiness on tap!)

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!

Focus

Whiskers is staring intently out the window at her version of...

...The Food Network

Facing Facebook

So I signed up on Facebook. I did this so it looks like I'm not afraid of new technology.

Okay, I'm afraid of technology. I'm afraid to click on anything for fear the thing will say "Sisiggy is clicking on things because she doesn't know what she's doing."

Now what?

No, seriously. I don't know what to do about it. I searched through my old high school stuff and none of "my crowd" is there (figures...). So now what?

I only clicked on one "friend" (thanks, Jag) who I knew wouldn't turn me down. Because I'm totally afraid I'm going to ask Dirtman or one of the Heirs to be my friend and they would be joking around and turn me down and they I'd have this entry on Facebook that says, "Dirtman does not want to be Sisiggy's friend," which would be really embarrassing.

...and what is the point of all that, anyway? Do you really care what I'm doing in that kind of detail? Really?

Well, I guess I'd better put a face on Facebook. Or part of a face.

Just a warning, though -- and an apology. If something of mine -- my address or name or URL or account or location or whatever -- showed up somewhere in your meters or software: I'm not stalking you. I just don't know what I'm doing. I may have dropped by, but I didn't know I was there, so I didn't say hello or anything. If I'm annoying you, my e-mail address is in the sidebar and you can yell at me that way.

I know how to work e-mail.

Barack and Kumar Go To (The) White House

Okay, Heir 2 and I were pretty ticked off with House* Monday night, but we knew something was up with Kal Penn since the writers did such a half-assed job of writing his character Kutner out of the series.

Honestly, do we really need Kumar in the White House?

*When you go to the House website, you might think that Kal Penn has died, instead of his character. I'm waiting for Fox to offer grief counseling.

Useless information

This ticks me off. Articles like this.

Oh, not the "money-saving" part. I'm all about money-saving, believe me.

It's that someone got paid to regurgitate this old information -- and it's from Kiplinger. I wouldn't have the nerve to submit an article with such hackneyed tips as calling for cheaper car insurance and cutting back on dining out -- especially to Kiplinger. I was waiting for the paragraph on brewing coffee at home to save on "those $5 designer lattes."

We were so over the designer lattes a very long time ago and, when I say "we," I mean anyone who has read a paper, surfed the net or turned on the TV in the past year and a half. And, just in case the Wall Street Journal or Forbes is cutting checks for writers dishing out more of these recycled no-brainers, just know that we've already put light-saver bulbs in all our lamps, checked our insulation, had our cars in for a tune up, cancelled any unnecessary magazine subscriptions and go to the library instead of purchasing books.

We've clipped, bargained, swapped, thrifted, stretched and reused. And why is anyone still including a tip like, "stop all impulse purchases?"

I don't need some snot-nosed twenty-something with no kids, no mortgage and no life experience telling me to "manicure your nails at home and save on those trips to the salon" or "shop around and get the best price on designer labels." Are you kidding me? I've never had a manicure or a designer label in my life (this last, just on principle) and, if I had, that certainly went out the door when I had to "cancel my maid service" and do my own cleaning.

So, please, until someone comes up with some fresh ideas, let's declare a moratorium on these "money-saving tips" articles; and, while we're at it, any weight-loss article that mentions "smaller portions" and "fill up on fruits and veggies*."

*I hate, hate, hate, the word "veggies." I no longer call blankets "blankies" or pajamas "jammies." So, if you are older than ten, it's "vegetables." Thank you.

Everyone: A collective sigh...

...of relief, that is. Or bliss.

Heir 2's college is paid for with a scholarship as long as he maintains at least a 3.3 average.

We knew he'd be able to attend with financial aid -- and if worst came to worst, student loans (in his name, of course. We'd be no help to him in that department...).

But I know it was important to him that any monetary help he receives, he receives on merit, not because he's got a sob story or because he was "lucky" enough to be born to parents who screwed up (my words, not his).

He's already in contact with his computer professor and it's a little sad to see his high school days winding down.

And as of the end of April, I'll have no more "children" at home.

Not officially, anyway...

Why?

Why does this make me laugh until I cry?

http://humour.200ok.com.au/soap.htm

I think the operative phrase is '15-year-old eighth grader'

Fla. student suspended from bus for passing gas

15 hours ago

LAKELAND, Fla. (AP) — An eighth-grader was suspended from riding the school bus for three days after being accused of passing gas. The bus driver wrote on a misbehavior form that a 15-year-old teen passing gas on the bus Monday to make the other children laugh, creating a stench so bad that it was difficult to breathe. The bus driver handed the teen the suspension form the next day.

Polk County school officials said there's no rule against flatulence, but there are rules against causing a disturbance on the bus.

The teen said he wasn't the one passing gas.

Whether he did it or not, he might have gotten off easy. A 13-year-old student at a Stuart school was arrested in November after authorities said he broke wind in class.

Information from: The Ledger, http://www.theledger.com

Copyright © 2009 The Associated Press. All rights reserved.



Ya know...we try to keep things high-brow around here...

You just gotta see it

Even if you are not a Dog Person or a Herding Dog Person, this is amazing (found via Cathy Santarsiaro The Christmas Corgi blog, which is a wonderful read, even if you are not a Corgi Person):



I don't know why this made me tear up.

Perhaps it's the rough, tough shepherds festooning their sheep. Perhaps it's the idea of them sitting around planning to festoon their sheep...

...and the dogs that helped them do it...

I want my own show

I was in bed half asleep and Dirtman was watching the president on The Tonight Show.

Leno and Obama start talking about his bowling skills and, in an offhand remark, the president compared his skills to Special Olympics.

"Uh-oh," I moaned.

"What?" Dirtman asked.

"There's gonna be hell to pay in the morning."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"The Special Olympics thing. There's going to be an outcry."

"Awww -- no one really heard that," Dirtman insisted.

"Mark my words," I said sleepily. "I want credit for calling this one."

And this morning? Oh yeah.

If he had asked me, I would have been able to advise the president on the groups it's okay to diss. For instance, he could have said he bowled like a fat person.

And, while we're on the subject: Lighten. Up.

Jeanne Jackson: Political Pundit, Advisor to Presidents.

The AIG Hearings Drama Awards

And the award for Best Posturing of Outrage in Order to Get Plenty of Sound Bytes to be Played In His/Her Home State goes to:

(drum role)

Rep. Stephen Lynch of Massachusetts!!!!

Rep. Lynch delivered a loud, obnoxious diatribe accusing AIG CEO Edward Liddy of every offense ever committed since The Flood, stopping only briefly to ask a requisite question ("Have you anything to say for yourself, Sir?"). Liddy calmly explained that he did the government a favor in taking on the crippled company back in the fall and hadn't been the one the to bring it to its knees or manifest the contracts giving the ones who did lavish bonuses; at which point Lynch launched into a reiteration of what he'd said before as though he hadn't heard a word of what Liddy had said.

Out of context and with Liddy's reminder edited out, Lynch sounds like a Defender of the People. In context, he sounds like an idiot*.

*With apologies to those who may have voted for Rep. Lynch. He may be a wonderful representative in many other ways. I merely speak of his behavior at the hearings.

"Not involved in Bob Dylan's toilet"

Thank you, Reuters. After a day of watching spineless posturing and listening to lame excuses from the House Subcommittee and AIG CEO Edward Liddy, I needed to read something like this:

Bob Dylan's toilet smell blows in the wind

03/17/2009 3:00 PM, Reuters

Bob Dylan has sung about wind many times -- winds of change, the "Idiot Wind," and the winds that hit heavy on the borderline.

But some of his California neighbors on Tuesday were singing a new tune about what is blowin' in the wind from his Malibu toilet.

A family living near the 67-year-old folk and rock icon's house in the posh California beachside community of Malibu have complained to city officials about an outdoor portable toilet, which is apparently used by guards on Dylan's compound.

Cindy and David Emminger say the toilet wafts fumes from waste treatment chemicals, and that the smell carried by breezes from the Pacific Ocean makes their family feel ill.

"It's a scandal - 'Mr Civil Rights' is killing our civil rights," David Emminger told the Los Angeles Times.

A helicopter from a local television station hovered over Dylan's property this week, capturing video of the offending toilet.

But Malibu Mayor Andy Stern said other neighbors report smelling nothing from the toilet, and that he has left the matter to the enforcers of the city's code on objectionable odors.

"I really have not involved myself in Bob Dylan's toilet, and by the way I haven't involved myself in anyone else's toilet in Malibu," Stern told Reuters.

A spokesman for Dylan did not return calls.

Dylan, whose latest album "Together Through Life" is due out on April 28, was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1988. His hit songs include "Like a Rolling Stone," "All Along the Watchtower" and "Blowin' In the Wind."

(Reporting by Alex Dobuzinskis; Editing by Jill Serjeant and Cynthia Osterman)

There's a job title for you: Objectional Odor Code Enforcer. I'd love to read the job description.

At the bird feeder and the wisdom of Eight

This is absolutely the best time of year to have a bird feeder.

The goldfinches and house finches are starting to color up. The mourning doves have paired off, if they hadn't been already. The grackles strut around on the ground, puffing up their feathers to show off their virility.

And the starlings -- ah, the starlings. They have no inhibitions. It a starling orgy out there when a flock flies through.


Poor ol' Danny Kaye, though. Every time he attempts to get something to eat, he is chased away by the mockingbird. He finally grabbed a couple of bites today, shielded from his tormentor's view by two dove couples. I can only hope the mockingbird is in it's nest when Danny's mate comes out to eat at night.

I have made up an entire drama in my head about what's going on at the birdfeeder. We'll keep it there lest my sanity come into question*. Again.

*I confessed to Heir 2 the other day that ever since I was a little girl I gave numbers personalities and relationships to each other. While he agreed that One really needed to get over itself, we disagreed about the personality of Eight. He thought Eight was evil, but I assured him that Eight is the wisest number of all. This is probably the point at which I lost him. I think it was when I said, "Eight is the Ben Franklin of all the numbers."

I just remembered...

Fun Potatoes

I was a grown woman with children before it occurred to me that my mother made up the name of this "recipe."

Recipe for Fun Potatoes:
Peel potatoes
Boil potatoes
Put potatoes on plate
Tell your kids a big fat lie about how much fun these potatoes are.

Once the potato is on your plate, the "fun" begins. You cut the potatoes into bite-sized pieces and salt them. You get a pat of butter. From that pat, you take a tiny amount to be eaten with the bite of potato. Isn't that fun!

Da Bros. and I all agreed! Fun Potatoes were fun! Mommy would say in a chirpy voice, "We're having Fun Potatoes, Kids!" and we'd all cheer "Oh goody, Mommy! It's Fun Potatoes!"

For years I kept this nasty little secret that not only did Fun Potatoes annoy me because you could never really get the butter/potato ratio right and even when you did, they never quite mixed properly in your mouth; not only that, but I strongly suspected Fun Potatoes were really Mom's Too Tired To Mash Potatoes. And for some reason, Fun Potatoes only showed up as a side dish to two meals: liver and onions and once a year on St. Patrick's Day with the corned beef and cabbage.

I held my tongue for years, unwilling to spoil this precious memory for Da Bros.

Then one year around March 17, we were reminiscing about my mother's St. Patrick's Day celebrations, usually involving some sort of green dessert (the best was a pistachio cake with cream cheese icing; the worst was lime Jello with goo on top).

So, there we were, reliving fond memories when someone -- I'm pretty sure it wasn't me -- said:

"fun potatoes"

...in just the tone of voice you would use to, say, announce you have a cold sore or a festering boil that makes it hard to sit properly.

And so I fessed up: "Guys, I gotta tell you; I really hated Fun Potatoes"

"Me too!" John Boy effused. "I was afraid to tell anyone. Everyone seemed to be so excited to be eating them."

"I hated Fun Potatoes," Dark Garden growled, knocking back his beer. That's what Fun Potatoes do to you, even after 35 years.

It may take me a few more years to share with them that I think the entire concept of Fun Potatoes was born of laziness on my mother's part. I don't want to traumatize anyone too quickly.

You know how boys are about their mother's memory.

The never-ending quest for college money

So how did Heir 2 do in his scholarship quest on Friday?

Well, we won't know the big picture until mid-April. But he felt good about what he did and arrived at lunch beaming.

It seems the interview portion of his test (or whatever) was done by the professor in his major -- the professor he met with last fall. The professor wants to take him on through the Undergraduate Research Assistant Program, a really neat system where he gets to work on real-life research projects, present papers (a recent URAP student presented his paper in Italy, according to Heir 2 -- I'll try not to be bitter) and work one-on-one in his field. That's the part he's excited about. We're excited that it offers some scholarship money plus a stipend he can use for pocket money.

I can't tell you how much he deserves all this good luck. He'll tell you he's "cruised" through high school. And there were a few times he chose sleep over turning in a perfect paper or achieving 100 percent on a test. But he's maintained straight A's and he's done it all even when his world was crumbling around him. He's never complained about having to buy things for himself that we were able to afford to buy for Heir 1 and for awhile there he was the reason we could have dinner every night.

We did sit through a presentation for Roanoke's honors program, but neither of us was very impressed. The first thing he said on the way out was: "Couldn't you just smell the smug in that room?" So, though he qualifies (as a mother, I've just got to let you know that...sorry if I sound so...SMUG), he will not be participating in the honors program.

Today he's at the long-awaited forensics tournament, where his goal, he says, is to get it over with without embarrassing himself (his words, not mine). As you recall, he sort of fell into this to fill out the team numbers last-minute as a replacement for a team member who couldn't make it and then ended up coming in second. So, though he gotten a little bit of coaching since then, he's quite certain he knows just enough to get him into trouble.

When he gets home, he's going to bed -- if I have to nail his head to the bed, he's going to go to sleep.

A Major Error

She has taken to stomping on my keyboard and causing the strangest reactions from my computer. Through some combination of footwork, twice she has caused it to fail to boot up. Dark Garden has taught me how to pull the system from this precipice, which I had to do myself this morning for the first time. When, at last, I brought the system back up, it greeted me with the message: "This system has recovered from a major error."

We just call her Whiskers.

Heiring out

We head to Roanoke College tomorrow: Heir 2, Dirtman and I will be leaving around 4:30 a.m. and heading straight for...

Handymart for Dunkin' Donuts coffee...

...and then to Salem, Va.

Heir 2 will be submitted to a series of tests and interviews, the point of which is scholarships. The top scholarship would pay for everything -- and that, of course, is a long shot. But there are smaller scholarships and, since he's qualified for this step, I believe he already gets a couple thousand (in addition to the $17,000 he got in September).

He's been up nights this week filling out all kinds of scholarship applications, some requiring 1,000-word essays; some requiring -- eerily -- his photo (I have a suspicion why they require this that I hope isn't the reason, so I'll keep it to myself...); some require several letters of recommendation (he owes his teachers big time -- they're really pulling for him).

We'll drive on back tomorrow afternoon. Then Saturday Heir 2 drive back down south, only an hour and a half further for the forensics regionals which he stumbled into.

I honestly don't know how he keeps up with it all.

Oh, and for those of you who have known me awhile: Remember how I used to joke around about being anxious to shove the kids out the door when they go to college?

I'm beginning to rethink my position. I'm going to miss my daily evening Battle of the Heirs, that usually ends with me having to say things like, "One of you is going to have to wash the gravy off the dog."

Good times.

My own kind of blue

Maybe it’s a late-winter slump or maybe it’s coming out of one. Maybe I’m just feeling the teasings of spring; you know how those 70+-degree days make you feel, even if it is followed by a string of days in the 40s?

Whatever it is, lately I go around annoyed by all this doom and gloom everyone has so easily fallen into. As if the season itself weren’t depressing enough, everyone feels this need to gear every conversation about the economy and the how it is going to bring about the end of the world as we know it.

Look, no one has more reason to be pessimistic than we here at Linguini on the Ceiling. Three out of four of us have no steady job -- only sporadic “projects” that keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. The industries wherein lie our expertise have been decimated and there are (at least here in the valley) hundreds of applicants for every low-paying, entry-level position. I could go on and on with the suckiness of the Linguini situation, but that would be doing the very thing that irritates me.

See, there is also this other thing. In a way it’s a good thing because otherwise last year when we lost two houses and the bank seized every penny we had, I would have done the logical thing and had a nervous breakdown. I could have spent those following painful months in a nice, quiet psych ward, drifting in a mist of valium. Oh, I would have emerged six months later to a family divided, bitter and in ruin, but it would not have been my problem because my delicate condition would exempt me from blame.

Believe me, I tried to have a nervous breakdown. But my brain is a survivor. It always, always, always manifests hope.

Hope. Every time. I don’t know how or where it comes from. There I am, on my way to a perfectly justified emotional meltdown – and – oh, look! A bluejay.

And because of the bluejay – or whatever catches my eye at the time – there’s the hope.

And, honestly – at the time it makes me really, really angry because insanity by contrast seems so peaceful, so much easier than duking it out with life.

My point is, when you approach me with your furtive looks of impending disaster, I’ve probably got the bluejay on my mind; I’ve probably got a plan that is seeing me through, even if there is a slim chance of it working. And you, you’ve read something or watched something or talked to someone and now you feel the need to share your feelings of disaster, not only as it applies to your life, but also, as a bonus, how it applies to mine.

Well, knock it off.

If not for me, for your own sake. Knock. It. Off.

Because here’s a secret that no one seems to get: We are the economy.

The economy isn’t “out there.” It’s us and what we do and how we feel. When we felt competitive and materialistic, the bloated economy reflected that. Now everyone is scared and expecting disaster and – guess what?

So, for Godsake, people, just live your life. I am as frugal as my personal economy dictates, but who I am is not my personal economy. I have other things to talk about, like books and writing and dogs and...

Look! A bluejay!

At the bird feeder

Some new arrivals:

Red-winged blackbird


Mourning dove pair

An old friend:

House sparrow

And a good scrubbing:

Flea market list

Okay, it's time to hit the thrift store and flea markets. I have some very specific needs and they can't be met by merely typing my wishes into Google.

I want a manual drip coffee pot. Metal. Nothing that can break, nothing to plug in. Simple. I have battled coffeemakers for thirty years and they are undependable. One stupid thing goes wrong and you're buying a new one. I want a coffee pot to grow old with (okay, older).

And a cake plate -- a small one that fits into the fridge. So it's not out on the counter with a cake on it when I forget to set the aussie mousetraps. So Toppergetdown doesn't try to eat a two-layer white cake with strawberry filling and whipped cream icing. And succeed. And thereby break my depression glass cakeplate.

I'm watching some stuff on e-bay. But since I'm going to actually use this stuff, I'd really like to check it out first hand.

Oh...and I need a muzzle. And someone to slap that self-satisfied grin off Toppergetdown's face.

R.I.P. Fluffy

199? - 2009

Poor ol' Fluffernutter; the Fluffenator; the Fluffmeister.

Beloved mother of Whiskers; antagonistic half-sister of Phoebe (we think).

Mother of minions (before we could catch her and get her fixed).

Provider of Gifts of Baby Snakes.

Mighty Mouser of the House of Squalor.

Fearless hunter of the House That Will No Longer Be Named.

Phenomenal napper of Where We Are Now.

Whisker's personal pillow.

Fluffy.

Toasty Gnorm

First time out

Sunday we put Hokie and Dirtman's conformation classes to practice at a match in Herndon.

Matches are fun, low-pressure versions of regular dog shows. It's great for getting a new puppy acclimated to the show ring and for learning how to show a dog. Though the judging doesn't have to be done by an actual AKC judge, clubs usually try to find judges among their membership to handle a group. It's a really great tool for getting fresh pointers and seeing what someone out of your usual advice loop thinks about your dog and your handling skills (or, in my case, lack thereof...).

The photos I took of the event really stink, but it's as good as they're going to get since I have to stand far away from the ring, hiding behind posts and other people, then try to catch a shot while Hokie isn't looking in that direction. Otherwise, he pitches a fit.

Hokie came in second. But, more importantly, the judge took the time to tell Dirtman how much he liked him over all. (Actually, when I saw Hokie and Dirtman get in the ring with a female junior, I kind of knew we weren't going to place first...not that that would ever make a difference...I'm just sayin'...).

I have my own theory -- and, if you look at Hokie he looks rather alarmed himself.

What is he alarmed about?



Dirtman's footwear of choice for the show ring.

Our changling child

Sometime in Heir 2's babyhood, we are convinced he was abducted by aliens who removed his serviceable-but-ordinary Linguini brain, added some extra connections to it, slapped on the Brain Supercharger 3000 booster pack, put his brain back in and returned him to his crib.

Either that or the Gnomes sprinkled him with magic dust.

Here's the proof:

Heir 2's girlfriend Caisee is a member of their high school forensics team and last night was the district finals in Madison, Va. Though we have encouraged Heir 2 to participate in one of the academic teams, even Caisee's participation would not induce him to join. He always said he needed to offset his academic record with sports, so that he doesn't get a reputation of being a total geek.

So yesterday afternoon we get a phone call from Heir 2 asking permission to go to the forensics district finals -- as a team member. It seems two of their members couldn't make it and they needed someone to at least fill out the roster. Later I found out that they'd asked him specifically because A.) he's smart; and B.) he's great at b.s.ing.

I wasn't surprised he agreed, because it meant a long bus ride with Caisee and an evening spent with her, even if it meant he was clueless about forensics.

So he comes home. . . with a silver medal. He placed second in the district in "impromptu speaking" and will advance to regionals in March.

Who is this child?

This, of course, reminds us all of this:

Everybody got the fever

The flu in February. Is this to be an annual thing?

I intended to do a Spot-on column about having the flu, only when I looked through my archives, I realized I'd done one already -- and posted it exactly one year ago. In it I mentioned that during the past 20 years, I'd only gotten the flu twice.

Now it seems to be an annual event.

Today is the first day since Sunday that I'm not running a fever, but now it's settled into being just a bad cold. This I can handle with Benadryl and Robitussin (I can't use any of those multi-symptom cold meds because it conflicts with my thyroid meds). And garlic soup (moaning from the ranks).

Zsa Zsa, my nurse, insists the only cure is to lick my knees. And put her head in my lap. And nudge my arm.

The rest of the canines around here are taking advantage of the fact that I'm not running the show. I woke briefly from a fever-induced nap to realize I was scrunched into a corner of the bed with dogs and cats curled all around me. Yesterday afternoon I caught a peek into the livingroom and there was Toppergetdown sprawled on my chair.

Well, Da Mama is back and I will be returning order to Linguiniland.

Well...as much order as there ever was in Linguiniland...

My funny Valentine

I know what everyone says about Valentine's Day: it's a Hallmark holiday -- which it is, sort of; unless you're in a relationship, it's just another day, only more painful -- which is really a matter of personal choice, really.

Honestly, I had my share of lousy Valentine's Days before I met Dirtman. I was the lady who babysat for couples or who worked the extra hours (on salary) so my co-workers could leave early to prepare for their "big night."

So I've put in my time, so to speak, and feel no guilt about sharing fond Valentine memories. If you are lonely and bitter over Valentines Day, I will offer this one insight before relating this year's experience: Mr. or Mrs. Right very rarely arrives driving a cool car, sporting perfect hair and flouting the perfect body. Usually they say stupid things when you first meet them. They might be a little scruffy. They will be flawed. Here's a news flash: so are you.

Give me a diamond in the rough anytime over a slick player.

As for us two diamonds in the rough (I'm quite sure we'll never be anything but), this is one of those holidays that over the years has become a sort of passing nod to what already exists. Past years have featured events requiring major planning and/or considerable cash. The story of our meeting and proposal is here, for those of you who haven't heard this ad nauseum already. What I didn't add to this post was that when we got home, after Dirtman's proposal ad ran, my paper did a feature on us that they sent out to the Associated Press. This resulted in our 15 minutes of fame -- that was quite enough for me, thankyouverymuch -- and our story appearing in some tabloid opposite a photo of a woman wearing a macaroni hat.

So, really, these day less is more. Dirtman found a good price on a couple sirloin steaks but, really, these days it's a treat if the meal features any meat whatsoever. The Heirs don't ask what's for dinner anymore; they ask if there will be any meat at dinner. They will cancel plans if there is meat for dinner. They find other things to do on bean and grain night.

With a little planning, this was actually a very frugal meal, but I couldn't have asked for more. Sirloin steak on the grill (just briefly, thank you) (Take that, PETA!), baked potato, salad with spring greens, grape tomatoes and feta cheese -- all cooked by Dirtman and not using every single pot in the kitchen. And he did the dishes.

Let me repeat that: He did the dishes.

While I knitted. And began sniffling. It had to happen. The hacking a snorting that has been going on around here all week had to hit me eventually and, as the evening wore on, I began to feel worse and worse.

NOTE: I have to mention here that at night, Dirtman usually watches television in the living room by himself. The reason is that he surfs around so much, you end up watching everything on a half screen all night. Plus I usually watch what I want, then turn it off and read, rather than continually searching for some inane broadcast to waste my time. (Ahem).

So we sat and watched The Hallmark Channel. Dirtman started watching the Hallmark Channel over the past Christmas season and every now and then, amidst the sound of football games, car screeches and bombs exploding, comes the noise of cheesy music over women weeping that is the trademark sound of the Hallmark Channel.

I might add that I strongly dislike the Hallmark Channel. But I had my knitting, so I wasn't focusing too much on the formula plotline and trite dialogue.

I know better than to commit to any program while watching with Dirtman. True to form, five minutes later we're watching Pushing Tin on a half screen. I've now hit the sneezing, hacking, wheezing and moaning portion of the flu. The King and I flashes briefly on the screen -- obviously an error since Dirtman hates all musicals except Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and 1776 -- and I'm fading fast. Back to Hallmark where women are weeping and violins are screeching.

It's 9:30 p.m.

I put down the knitting and get up. "I'm done."

"Goin' to bed?" He sounds relieved. I can't blame him. I was probably drowning out the TV.

And so it goes, my friends. We're a wild bunch here at Linguini on the Ceiling.

Ornithology Linguini style

It was just for a second.

I didn't even have time to aim my camera.

But I saw it at the feeder.

Finally. A Bluebird.

And...for those of us desperate for the arrival of spring -- a robin. Just one, and only for a moment.

But there they were.

I know, I know. Bird geek. A very, very happy bird geek.

Medieval Help Desk

Found this at the website of a great used bookstore Dirtman and I found in Winchester (Va.).

Is it bad I totally relate to the clueless monk?

Linguinis and the Blustery Day

Did I mention Dirtman loves weather extremes?

So he was in his glory yesterday when the winds around here reached hurricane force. Even when the shingles started coming off the roof*, he ran about gleefully collecting the debris and taking pictures, running in now and then to report updates.


I'll let him tell you the tale of mayhem and destruction on his blog.

Me? I cleaned the living room and then -- because this is precisely when we need it -- I used this to bake this:

Heir 2 had dragged himself to school Wednesday and Thursday because of a class he didn't want to miss, then came home yesterday with yet another raging temperature. I had to put my foot down and forbid him to go today. The fact that he didn't fight me speaks to how very miserable he is.

And now Heir 1 has it also, though his is more cold-like than flu-like.

I might add that all this illness has not affected their appetites one bit.

*There is something in the attic of this house that, when a really strong gust hits it, sounds like the house has flatulence. Naturally there were the inevitable jokes that only a houseful of men can deliver. But it does seem to make that noise right when someone is trying to make a point about a controversial issue. This has been no end of amusement around here, which probably says more about our life than anything else.


Now go count some birds!

Wednesday in the Park with Hokie

For a few weeks now I've been trying to get some photos of Hokie and Dirtman at their conformation classes. This is where dogs and handlers learn how to behave in the show ring.

Unfortunately, we've determined that, at least for the first several classes, it's best if I'm not there. No matter where I try to hide, Hokie yanks on the leash to follow me. So it's best for me to not even be in the building. I head to Borders across the road.

We try to get as much done in Winchester as possible when we head that way, so there are plenty of photo ops prior to the actual class. This week, for instance, we had to order the trophies for our kennel club's dog show in July. Since the place closes early and the class isn't until 7:30 p.m., we wound up with a huge gap of time on our hands.

So we took Hokie to a local park that has a lovely fishing lake, complete with ducks and geese -- which he decided were not where they should be.


We're not sure where he wanted to herd them to, since he was leashed and we pulled him off. But he was definitely not satisfied with where we left them and he followed Dirtman begrudgingly and in a huff.

Even with the jaunt around the park, we were still early for class. So we sat in the parking lot for awhile while Hokie behaved himself like a good boy, sitting quietly in the back seat and never attempting to come up front with us.



Do you see how hard it is to enforce discipline around here?

Ain't no mystery about it

Fountain of Mysterious Dust Found

space.com – Tue Feb 10, 5:16 pm ET

The universe is not empty. The space between stars and between galaxies is permeated by gas and dust.

In fact our solar system is currently experiencing a cosmic dust storm with at least three times as much dust passing through compared to just a few years ago, owing to a periodic weakening of the sun's magnetic field. And sometime in the next 10,000 years, we'll plow through the G-cloud, a region of dust more dense than the one we're in now.

Astronomers have struggled for a conclusive answer as to where all this dust comes from.

"We not only do not know what the stuff is, but we do not know where it is made or how it gets into space," said Donald York, a professor of astronomy and astrophysics at the University of Chicago.

York and his colleagues have now identified a fountain of dust that appears to be just the sort of culprit they have been looking for.

Cheese it, Topper! I think they're on to you!

Watchin' Westminster

Or, rather, watchin' Heir 2 watchin' Westminster. I'd made some caramel popcorn for the event, so it's more like watchin' Heir 2's bowl of popcorn while watchin' Westminster*.

Heir 2 came home from school running a fever and was resting on the couch (threatening Dirtman with bodily harm if he appeared in any photo). Otherwise, he is usually ambivalent about dog shows.

Ironically, this coincides with having to post my response to PETA on Spot-On. PETA is not an organization you want noticing you personally, as is the case, I suppose, with any sort of fanatic. But when a fanatical fringe starts insinuating itself into the Constitution, it's time we all start at least talking about it.

Humorously, their "call to arms" for Westminster fell flat. They put out a call to their membership that they were going to set up a fake registration table so that people would think they were registering to show and then would find out they couldn't. I hope lots of them flocked to the Garden only to find out that you don't register to show a dog at the venue; that it's done weeks in advance to be sure of the dog's status on the AKC registry.

So they had to be content with their lame Ku Klux Klan demonstration and their pitiful little pamphlets, giving them the status of, say, the Moonies pushing literature on you at an airport: give 'em a wiiiiiide berth.

*If you're looking for Abbey or Hokie (or, as we refer to them around here: the Katzenjammer Kids), they spent Westminster drying and flaking off, having found a wonderful mud plot to roll in.

Tasty interior decorating in a snap

I love the colors mint green and chocolate brown together.

And that's totally why I made these devil's food cupcakes with mocha icing. It was purely a matter of interior decoration.

Though, ya know, in these hard times it's a sin to waste food.

Oh, in case you're wondering how we can have the luxury of food out on the counter...

This is what our counter usually looks like*.

...For the benefit of Abbey and Hokie. When they set one off, they're not really scared, but they do try to act like nothing happened -- like it is so out of the realm of possibility that an Australian Shepherd would counter surf and certainly not an Australian Shepherd who lives in this house.

*Don't worry -- they never get snapped by the actual trap. The trap just makes a loud noise and jumps up in the air (usually landing in the very food we were trying to protect). Believe me, I'd never do anything to hurt my dogs. I've already got PETA on my tail for something I wrote on Spot-On. I don't need any more aggravation.

Linguini 54, where are you?

If you are wondering where I’ve gone, know that the answer is not very dramatic.

It seems we have internet problems. Whether this is a server problem or something on our end, we can’t be sure. Having dealt with this provider for over a decade, we know that a phone call asking if they are having problems will always – always – yield a negative.

The first time this happened we threw all kinds of money into the problem, since we were told the problem was at our end. Almost $500 later, it turned out to be the server problem which they only admitted to us (and their other thousands of customers) after they’d solved it.

Lesson learned.

The next time we had problems we again stupidly called the server, thinking that if we pointed out to them their previous infraction, they would come clean.

I know – fool me once, etc., etc. This time, though, we waited it out, though it took weeks and – lo and behold – suddenly our internet was working snappily again and yet another “apology” on the server’s web page.

Now we’re once again being kicked on and off the internet. We’ll be buzzing along for about three minutes at which point it claims our internet connection is not working, followed by a claim that our internet is working, we just have an invalid address, after which it will partially reload the page and then quit and then, finally, after about five to ten minutes of this, give us the page we want.

Yes, we’ve check all the connections. We have defragged and removed the spyware. We’ve called in the Heirs.

At any rate, posting has become a nightmare of staring at error screen after error screen. I’m supposed to be researching something and it’s taking what would be a 2-hour task and making it into a week-long ordeal.