In which I blather about books

I love books.

Yes, I love to read. But that's not the same thing. I think everyone "gets" that I love to read and, if they haven't, it would be a subject for another blog entry anyway.

I love the books; the physical board, binding and pages that make up a tangible Thing you hold in your hand and read.

New books are okay. I'm a terrible book defiler -- I make notes and underline things because I'm positive I'm going to reread this book someday and want to leave myself a message about where my head was the first time I read it. I am a book collector's nightmare because book collectors only like pristine copies.

Me -- not so much. I would love to buy a used book filled with notations from someone who obviously has the same literary tastes -- kind of like a book club you don't have to bake cookies for...or wear pants.

Which is why my favorite books are used books...and library books. I'd rather browse ABE than Amazon any day.

Book sellers and librarians are pretty diligent about cleaning up the books in their care, but every now and then something slips by them and my day is made.

They're pretty good about leaving inscriptions alone. These speak to the romantic in me. I want to think the book really was given with love from Winston to Melva. I want to believe that the only reason the book is in a used bookstore is that Melva finally died after 12 years of mourning the loss of her beloved Winston and their alcoholic, good-for-nothing son sold every possession he inherited to fund a wild bender in Vegas with his future fifth ex-wife. Or something like that.

One library book I took out had exclamation points in the margin throughout the book, I assume next to passages some reader had liked. I found a cookie recipe written at the end of a chapter in a book I bought at a used bookstore (a mediocre snickedoodle-type thing, but still...).

I remember reading a string of similar library books for awhile and coming across editing marks on a regular basis. Typos in books are rather common, so that didn't surprise me. That someone would feel it necessary to mark the mistakes, as though there would be points off if he let it just slide by, is a little compulsive. Okay, maybe he was majorly compulsive because he felt the need to list the errors and page numbers on the back flyleaf. I'll bet this is the same type of person who, when you were 13 and had to go to school with a giant zit on your nose, felt they had to point out to you that you had a giant zit on your nose.

But what amazed me was that I was obviously checking out the exact same books as the person with this compulsion.

The best, though, is finding a cache of used books before a bookseller or thrift store employee has had a chance to rifle through them. That's when you find the little bits of this and that people mindlessly stuff in between the pages and forget about. Newspaper clippings, receipts, notes -- I have an old copy of The Big Sleep with a faded note in it that says merely, "Tommy, Eat! M." I love that note; it tells me Tommy liked to read Raymond Chandler, but wasn't a big eater and he had a...mom?...that was concerned about that and she wrote with a pen with blue ink in it.

The note is still in the book, which for now I intend to keep. But who knows where it will wind up when I'm gone.

I kind of hope Tommy outlives me.

In which The Heirs eat elsewhere

When it comes to trying new foods, I'm pretty adventurous. I always thought this was a good thing, since Dirtman loves to bring home the "new products" that come into the produce department at work.

There really hasn't been anything too disturbing; usually a fruit hybrid accompanied by some bizarre, disturbing description: "It tastes like a grape, but has the consistency of an avocado." You have to wonder how boring things get around the horticulture lab that someone suggests "Ya, know what might be good? Let's cross a potato with a watermelon and see what we get."

Anyway, the grocery store chain Dirtman works for has corporate offices out of state and, from there, they sometimes get it into their heads to send entire cases of expensive, exotic vegetables alien to this area, expecting customers to take it on faith that they taste good.

This is how I ended up with a bag of fiddleheads in my kitchen.

Fiddleheads are not completely unknown to me -- they grew wild in my native Pine Barrens of New Jersey. And, while I have been known to avail myself of wild greens in places far, far away from road beds (where vegetation is regularly sprayed with chemicals), it never occurred to me to injest a fiddlehead. Turns out that was probably a smart move, since the Pine Barren variety were probably toxic.

So Dirtman brought home a nice, safe bag of fiddleheads and I followed package directions and boiled them for seven minutes and tossed them with lemon juice, butter and salt. The package claimed the taste was a "cross between asparagus and green beans."

Were we ever in need of a vegetable with a flavor between asparagus and a green bean?

Certainly that was the opinion of the Heirs, who saw no need in their lives for an asparagus/string bean flavor blast, though they were delighted with the fact that holding them upside down turns them into little yo-yos and prompting me to wonder how long after a child has passed his eighteenth year you can stop reminding them not to play with their food.

So Dirtman and I were the only ones who actually ate the fiddleheads, our reaction to which was..........................................................

"Meh."

They tasted like...a vegetable; nothing unique or outstanding. They are, however, visually interesting.

So the next night I decided to put the leftovers into a frittata, figuring I would artfully arrange the coil of the fiddleheads around sliced mushrooms and then pour the egg mixture on top. This way, when I turned the frittata out, the bottom would be the top.

The Heirs, of course, chose to dine elsewhere.



Well, that was the plan anyway. When it came to actually doing it, I remembered that my nonstick pan isn't oven-safe (which is where you finish off a frittata). So I had to resort to my iron skillet where I artfully arranged the fiddleheads and mushrooms and poured the egg mixture on top, at which point I realized that the reason you finish a frittata in the oven is so that the cheese you put on top melts. This was a frittata, not an omelet, and no one was going to see my artfully arranged fiddleheads coiled around sliced mushrooms.

So much for my career in food styling.

The frittata was wonderful, though. Okay...it was wonderful so long as you kept your eyes closed. The fiddleheads turned the eggs gray on the inside. And, again, not a strong flavor.



The final verdict: If I need a conversation-starter at dinner, I'll serve fiddleheads. If doctors discover that fiddleheads cause you to suddenly drop your weight by 10 pounds every week, I'll serve fiddleheads. If fiddleheads go on sale for a dollar a pound, I'll serve fiddleheads. Otherwise..............

Meh.

A Mother of a Day

As some of you already know, I have this love/hate relationship with Mothers Day.

On one hand I'm thinking: "Hell yeah...I spent 596 hours popping you out; you damn well better bring me weak coffee, burnt toast and a wilted flower in bed this morning."

On the other hand I'm thinking this is a sort of life style choice and no one else gets an entire day to honor their lifestyle choice (except, you know...fathers). You know who deserves a day? People who clean public toilets in bus stations. Now those are people who deserve a free dinner.

I am of the firm belief that no one's job is more important than anyone else's and income in certainly no reflections of a task's function to society; otherwise those annoying Kardashian people would be living in a van down by the river. (Why are those Kardashian people creeping out of the sewer of inane cable television into places like the Washington Correspondents Dinner? Shouldn't someone set out traps or something to prevent such infestation?)

That being said, I never feel entitled to too much hoopla when it comes to Mothers Day because I'm a little reluctant to celebrate merely doing my job. Mothers Day is like saying: "Hooray! The human relegated to your care isn't dead! Good job!"

So, I'm always happy with whatever is planned in my honor on Mothers Day, lest someone find out I'm not quite as saintly as Hallmark would have you believe. So I have a few confessions to make:

• My kids always had a consistent bedtime, not because I was a good mother, but because I was tired.
• I listened to audio books and knitted during Little League games.
• If we were in the pediatrician's office, there had to be a limb dangling or someone's brains seeping out of their ear; I couldn't see paying a doctor to tell me "it's a virus that's going around."
• All while my kids were growing up I told them that Disney World was a huge, poorly-run amusement park where people stand in line all day long for a thrill lasting a cumulative half-hour; I told them Disney spends all it's money on marketing, which is why everyone thinks it's this great place to go. (In short -- I told them the truth.) Consequently, they not only have no desire to go to Disney World -- they have an active dislike of anything related to it. That's right -- I stole Mickey Mouse from my children.
• I ate some of their Teddy Grahams. Okay, I ate a lot of their Teddy Grahams. Okay, so a few times I ate so many of their Teddy Grahams that they were forced to have toast for a snack (hey -- I put cinnamon and sugar on it...).

So there you have it. And through it all, I still received this yesterday from Heir 1 (it's good to have a kid who works for Panera):



And this from Dirtman (this is one of six):



And was treated to dinner and a movie by Heir 2 (accompanied by Caisee, who was treating her mom, Carol, too!) and a trip to The State Arboretum at Blandy Farm by Dirtman.

Lunch

All this in spite of everything.

So I'm not even angry that I woke up this morning to a sink full of dirty dishes. Well, not too angry...

Gnorm hates spring break

While Heir 2 was home from school, he was pretty involved with getting caught up on homework. So I left him to his own devices.

However, something about Heir 2's presence stirs up Ungnome and gnome-like activity in general.

Target Practice

Hung by the Gneck

Ungnome gets his

Gnomes on a toot

Unfortunately, Heir 2 didn't get quite as much done as he should have.

The gnomes, however, were exhausted.

Curmudgeon Alert: Who are these people and what are they doing on The Oscars?

I rarely watch The Oscars. Dirtman runs it in the background so, if I’m dying to know who won what, I need only listen in.

Given an unlimited budget, I’d be in line for every first run movie. I do love the films themselves. I just wish the people who make them would be a little more low-key. The rest of us somehow muddle through our jobs without a seven-figure salary and an annual televised pat-on-the-back; why can’t they?

This year I sat in front of the television and watched – and even paid attention to – The Oscars. This was no small feat – there wasn’t a whole lot to capture my attention. If I hadn’t had such an emotionally-depleting weekend, I would have opted for something a tad more interesting – like doing my taxes or balancing the checkbook.

Now I realize, as a middle-aged person, most of my curmudgeonly griping will be written off. I also realize I’m not exactly the trendiest of middle-aged people (as my sons remind me on a regular basis). And so I do have a few questions:

Who are these CHILDREN the Oscars are passing off as established actors? And why, if they have impressed the industry so much with their performances, can’t they manage to read a teleprompter without looking like Ben Stein on Seconal?

Another thing: is there some sort of collaboration between gown designers and set designers to see how many vacuous ingénues they can force to walk to their mark looking like they have a load in their thong? If so – good job! It provided the only excitement of the evening.

I must say, it was good of Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin to keep their jokes so lame and stilted that they made the rest of the show look almost riveting by comparison.

The only genuine moments came from the group around the movie Precious. They probably didn’t imagine they’d ever make it to the Oscars – well, at least not until their fairy godOprah waved her magic wand. I was kind of pulling for them, though it’s good to know Oprah doesn’t call the shots on everything in this country…yet.

I have to insert here that, other than Inglourious Basterds (Heir 2 brought his DVD of this home for spring break), I saw none of the movies up for awards. So it’s purely personal when I say I had to be happy that The Dude won for best actor (when researching for my job I came across Jeff Bridges’ website for his foundation for hunger in the U.S. – so he immediately jumped a few pegs in my esteem. And…he’s The Dude!).

I was trying to think of a clever way to end this, but I’ve decided to just let it stop, like how The Oscars end with a bunch of people just milling around on the stage.

Trolling the Past

Heir 2 is home from Roanoke this week (leaves today, as a matter of fact and THAT’S JUST SOMETHING IN MY EYE, YOU HEAR?) and has been cleaning out the storage unit – the one where we tossed everything we had time to salvage during the exodus from the House That Shall Not Be Named.

Needless to say, a lot of bittersweet moments came and went as we unearthed things I thought were gone forever and didn’t unearth things I thought surely had been saved. For the sake of my sanity, we’ll focus on what we kept rather than what we lost. It’s the credo by which I live.

My hardcover copy of Dr. Zhivago with an inscription from John Boy – saved.

My trolls (c. 1966) – saved.

This piece of garbage egg carton and these rusted beach chairs – well, thank God we saved those.





Barbie’s Dream House – saved, if you don’t mind the fact that it’s been providing bedding for mice for the past two years.

THE Tiara – saved. (I KNOW. This is important to a lot of people. It is one of the most important representatives of Linguini silliness.)

The set of Bobbsey Twin books from the 1910s Dirtman found for me – SAVED! CHICK TALK ALERT! ALL GUYS SKIP TO NEXT PARAGRAPH! See, the Bobbsey Twins, Good-n-Plenty, my flannel pajamas and a cat on my stomach is the only known antidote to severe PMS (which I think is totally unfair to still have – you shouldn’t have to be 52 with a reproductive system that thinks it’s 1985).


We haven’t gone through all the boxes yet – most are full of books.

I still hope to unearth the rest of my Barbie dolls. Ken seems to be peculiarly absent – we found his carrying case – filled with trolls and Barbie’s ballerina costume, yet no Ken (which, I guess, would explain why he split from Barbie). I sense Dark Garden’s hand in this, but he may have been too young at the time to remember. I do remember Ken taking a leap out the window with GI Joe – but I’m pretty sure he survived.

It’s been suggested that I can put some of this stuff on E-Bay and make some cash. Anyone want to buy a dusty egg carton?

Mastering the Art of American Whining

I’m probably the last female on the planet to see Julie and Julia.

First-run movies are, for the most part, out of the Linguini budget and anything even approaching a “chick flick” is certainly destined for the very bottom of the Netflix queue. However, Dirtman, in an obvious ploy to get on my good side, allowed this to rise to the top of the list; or maybe it was that it was the one movie I put on the list that depicted people familiar with indoor plumbing.

For the record, it was a good movie. Meryl Streep playing a beloved icon; lots of food shots; Paris and make-believe Parisians being all warm and inviting – what’s not to love? And that’s what I kept saying to myself while I was watching it, “I love this but…”

… you have to put up with that annoying, insipid side story about a morose 30-year-old who is in desperate need for some real problems in her life since, obviously, complaining is her hobby – even more so than cooking. (I apologize in advance to any morose 30-year-olds. But, I’m sorry: When Julie says that “Julia saved me,” I wanted to ask, “From what? TOTAL self-absorption?”)

Up against Julia Childs’ rich and varied life, Julie Powell is nothing but a spoiled, whining Gen-Xer (or whatever Gen she is part of – I sure lost track of which is which). That may not be the truth in reality, but Movie Julie deserves a good ol’ Cher slap on the face and a, “Snap out of it!”

Honestly, though – I really liked this movie.

I will admit to catching just a hint…a whiff…of condescension. Yes, that’s it: condescension. Perhaps it’s just me, but I sort of winced at the movies’ incredulity over the true love affair between Julia and her husband Paul. Almost as if director/writer/producer Nora Ephron were saying, “Isn’t this INCREDIBLE? Two middle-aged people without movie star looks, absolutely besotted with each other! What a hoot!”

I overlook it though, if only for all the nifty vintage eye candy.

And then, of course, there is Meryl Steep’s lovingly elegant performance as Julia Child. I’ve read critics who defend Amy Adams’ inane performance as Julie Powell, saying she didn’t stand a chance when juxtaposed with Streep’s experience. But, let’s face it, this isn’t Adams’ first time performing with Streep, though she faired considerably better the last time.

Stanley Tucci and Jane Lynch (Childs’ husband and sister, respectively) are always treats in every movie I’ve ever seen them in.

A movie completely on Julia Childs’ life would have satisfied even more. Ephron could have spared us Powell’s whiney grousing, paid her some sort of “reminder’s fee” for highlighting Childs’ career, and allowed us to revel more deeply in the story of a strong, vivacious, powerful, inspiring woman.

Animal House

In my mind, I live in a lovely little cottage with a tidy husband, two doting sons and six sedate, well-behaved, quiet dogs. This cottage is draped with all kinds of personally-made items like doilies, sewn ruffled curtains, knitted pillows and crocheted afghans. When you walk into this cottage you are greeted by either the scent of sage, cinnamon, lemon or lavender, depending on the season. In this cottage you never have to check the chair before you sit down to see if there is a soggy, smelly sock toy nestled into the cushion.

Also in this cottage, there is a massive mud room where those six dogs, muddy from romping in a melted-snow drenched yard, are happy to curl up and nap until they are dry and all the dirt has fallen miraculously from their paws and fur. Then they calmly join me in front of the fireplace and sit or lie down calmly in front of my large stone fireplace while I knit; and it never once occurs to them to form a semi-circle in front of my chair and stare me down in some sort of mind control laser-gaze designed to force me into flinging Kraft Singles at them to make them stop.

Did I mention that in my mind, when I'm in this cottage I'm a size 8 and all my clothes are made of fabrics that drape like melted chocolate?

Just so you know how very far from reality is the inside of my mind.

I enumerate all these disparities between what is in my mind and what it in my reality because late winter is the exact time when those two manifestations are the farthest apart -- like the sun is from my hemisphere of the earth.

It's not the snow -- it's the remnants of the snowstorms. It's the mud, the slush, the tire gouges that fill with water; it's paw prints everywhere and it being too hot for the fireplace, but too cold not to run it.

C.S. Lewis called it "this nothing time."

Then there's that whole decor issue. There's been plenty of handmade doo-dads around here. One particular set of pillows served to snuff out a wood stove fire that occurred when Someone wasn't watching Someone Else who thought the fire embers could be revived by opening the stove door and "giving it some air" -- all while the Someone Who Knows to Watch Someone Else Like a Hawk was at choir practice (and we all know the identity of the only person in this household who would have any chance of being in a choir). Turns out Someone Else was right, to the extent that the "embers" began spewing out of the stove and the only alternative seemed to be to smother them with my carefully knitted and cabled -- let me repeat: cabled -- throw pillows...cashmere -- did you hear me? CASHMERE.

Then there was the crocheted afghan that made it to the emergency room during one of Dirtman's many bouts with MSG, but never made it back. Then there was the filet crocheted table cloth meticulously unraveled by a newly-adopted Jack Russell Terrier who had suddenly become "too quiet" while I was in the kitchen trying to master making homemade pasta in bulk.

I said it once, five years ago and I now reiterate: I live in a frat house.

The perk to this is that those I live with ("My Three Sons," as they are locally referred to) are perfectly happy with the way things are. They keep my "prideful" side in check. I've tried on occasion for a candlelight supper (al a Hyacinth Bucket) and spent the meal watching Dirtman and Heir 2 reheat their meat over the candle flames while Heir 1 did his Ray Charles impression.

See what I mean? Frat house.

I just want you to know, though, that in my head I live in that really cute cottage that smells like gingerbread and all the books on the shelf are at least 50 years old (though, sorry -- they still have my silly pencil notations in them because, ya know, I have to have the last word...).

And I know what you're thinking: But -- yes, I would still have six dogs; but they would all smell like cookies.

St. Valentine's Day XXIII

When you're married to a guy who works in a supermarket produce department, any meal he cooks for you inevitably features an abundance of...roughage.

No complaints.

And he's so cute when he fusses in the kitchen. I often wish I still had my old reporters' mini-tape recorder to document the sounds of a man who rarely sets foot in a kitchen trying to put together a romantic meal surrounded by four dogs who are just waiting for him to turn his back on that steak he has sitting on the counter. (By the end of the production, three of the four had been kicked out into a snow drift. Only Zsa Zsa Goody-Two-Paws remained.)


Unfortunately, Dirtman was called into work last minute and our romantic evening was moved up to a romantic lunch and I was the only one drinking wine. Romance is all well and good, but there is nothing romantic about the lights going out when you're not the one who shut off the electricity.

There was time enough, though, even for dessert.

A Large Swath of Insanity

I'm still not apologizing for my love of snow.

Yeah, we got almost 2-1/2 feet, I've had to rely on the kindness of strangers (Well, the kindness of neighbors, anyway. Hardly strangers.) to help plow my driveway and I'm ultimately going to suffer financially for working at a farm that is unreachable during such weather.

I will admit to a bit of a negative attitude last Thursday when the power went out and I hadn't made coffee yet. I can lose my house, declare bankruptcy, endure joblessness, be threatened with homelessness and shed ne'er a tear; but take away my first cup of coffee in the morning and I dissolve into a sniveling, sniffling basket case requiring every dog in this house to circle the wagons. If they'd had opposable thumbs, they would have made my coffee, a danish and supplied me with my own personal rawhide to gnaw on. But all they could do was sit in their signature semi-circle, facing outward, and look noble and protective (except for Zsa Zsa, whose antidote to everything is to lick my knee).


Eventually, though*, Heir 1 woke up (it may have been the wailing) and immediately shoveled a path to our gas grill outside, turned on the gas, lit it and, thumping his chest, declared he had made fire. Finally, thanks to a mortar and pestle (Note to self: place a few pots-worth of ground coffee in freezer, for just such an occasion), I got my coffee and Heir 1 (who, by the way, was in the throes of the flu) had tea. Thanks to a propane fireplace, we had heat. I had plenty of Britta water and, thanks to the abundance of precipitation, we had enough water to flush toilets (not as easy as you would think -- a spaghetti pot of snow yielded barely a pint of water. This was an on-going project. There are those among you who understand why this would be a priority).

Once I got the coffee in me, I began to enjoy myself. I made homemade chicken soup for dinner (with some -- though not as much as this time -- garlic) and snuggled in with my knitting and several books. Power would come back on and promptly go out again, just when you were in the middle of something, so I learned not to take it for granted.

After awhile, I developed a routine and it was almost with disappointment I realized that the power hadn't gone out in quite awhile and it seemed the "storm" was over.



I've yet to get back to work, but I can't help loving how pretty everything is. Dark Garden will probably have something to say about this -- he does not winterize well. In fact, I rather annoy him with my preference for cold weather (you should see the view from his front window). He is counting down the days until he can move as far south as possible; I lament that I will never be snowbound in some wilderness.

Well, I guess this winter is as close as I'll ever get.



*Dirtman spent this entire time at work, sleeping wherever and helping to keep the store open -- hoping against all hope that his diligence will lead someone in the organization to promote him to a Real Job with Real Benefits and a Real Salary. I won't turn this into a commentary on the sloppy work ethic of younger generations and those whose minds are numbed by the philosophy of union dogma, but I am often flabbergasted by the laziness of aforementioned workers who manage to hold on to their positions. Just saying.

You fly back to school, Little Starling. Fly, fly, fly...

Starlings.

They're considered pests around here. Their flocks can be huge and noisy. Sometimes they chase other, more delicate birds away from the feeder. On a cloudy day they are very ordinary-looking; a black bird with a yellow beak like so many other black birds with yellow beaks. They don't sing prettily.

Let the sun hit their feathers, though, and they show every color of the rainbow for those willing to look.

I can relate to the starling. In fact, I think I come from starling-esque stock. Noisy, scrappy, infinitely durable. We shove each other around and bring on the vapors in those of a more delicate constitution. You can try to scare us away, annoy us away -- some have even tried poison; but we keep on.

And in a certain light we show every color of the rainbow.

Be careful what you wish for

On Dirtman's side of the family, the New Year tradition is to eat black-eyed peas on New Year's Day. On my side of the family, the tradition is that the first thing you eat in the New Year has to be herring ("Many different herrings.").

Up to this time we have ignored both these traditions. In fact, I don't believe we even have a New Years tradition. Now that the kids have social lives of their own, we pretty much stay home and stone cold sober in case we are needed. So far, we never have been.

This year we figured, ya know, flying in the face of tradition hasn't gotten us very far; and who are we to argue with hundreds of years of fish and beans? So I sent Dirtman to work with the directive to collect these bizarre talismen.

Well, we are apparently not the only ones falling back on susperstition this year. There was no herring to be found -- sold out, both the herring in wine sauce and the herring in sour cream. He was considerably more successful with the black-eyed peas -- and we didn't even have to resort to dried or canned.

So this morning I went on line to find the least painful black-eyed pea recipe and decided -- in for a penny, in for a pound -- on Hoppin' John.

"Ya know," I pointed out to Dirtman as the recipe emerged from the printer, "if this works and we have a good year, it means every New Years Day for the rest of our lives we're going to have to choke down black-eyed peas."

"We've never had black-eyed peas on New Years Day before?" he asked.

"Nope. I haven't had black-eyed peas on New Years Day since the New Years before I met you," I said casually.

Then I said -- because the realization took me unaware and I blurted it out before I knew what I was saying: "Oh no! I think you are the result of the last time I ate black-eyed peas."

I'll spare you his response.

A Very Boring Year-end Post

The general opinion of 2009, if one can derive such a thing from perusing the internet, is that it tanked big time. In view of recent events, it is my gut reaction to agree. Working for a non-profit, I know I'm not out of the woods yet, but at least I'm in a clearing.

Before we dump the entire year, though, I got to thinking -- rather, yesterday's miraculous save got me to thinking -- of all the life-affirming moments that have happened throughout this year that not only got me through, but made me just a little less cynical than before.

I was reminded of this yesterday when Dirtman arrived home from work toting our usual order of bird seed from Wildbirds Unlimited with an added gift of a snowman seed block, courtesy of store owners Bruce and Dolores Johnson. We were out of feed and Dirtman called to see if they were planning on grocery shopping where he works and could they toss a bag* in their car for us.

Nothing makes me happier than giving my birds a treat.

So, if this is a sappy, sentimental farewell to 2009, it's because of little gesture like that -- like Gwynne sending us suet cakes just when we ran out and couldn't afford anymore (she also sent us ham to feed people -- but she remembered my birds!).

Oh, I don' mean to downgrade the big things that have blessed us this year. We would not have made it without our families helping us out financially while we scrambled to find jobs that just weren't out there. Dark Garden helped us keep our sanity by providing us with a vacation and our neighbor/landlord who never once made us feel like losers when we were late with the rent.

So, no. I'm not writing off 2009. It was the year that took the edge off my cynicism. Turns out I'm not such a tough old broad after all.

*Believe me, we've tried to get cheaper brands, but the birds just leave it there. Wildbird's seed even looks fresher. Cheap seed looks like half of it has already been hulled.

My landlord thanks you too

Boy -- when you guys rally the prayers, you all mean business!

I feel like taking on something big -- like walking into the worst part of D.C. and when anyone harasses me telling them, "Back off, Jack*! My peeps are praying for me."

I return to work Monday.

*I don't know for sure if it is, indeed, Jack who will be harassing me.

A small streak of insanity

I am convinced the world is divided into people who hate snow and people who love snow.

I know of no one who is as ambivalent to snow as they are to, say, fog or even rain. We may balk at several rainy days in a row; but a single rainy day we accept as a necessary part of the natural order of things. But let the threat of a single day of snow loom on the horizon and suddenly everyone separates into two camps: the snow lovers and the snow haters.

Incidently, skiing and snowboarding are taken out of the equation. A true opinion about snow can only be formed apart from recreational activities requiring said precipitation because most people cannot just pop off to Aspen when the weather is conducive.

Common sensically, it stands to reason we'd all hate snow. It wreaks havoc on infrastructure, it's inconvenient, and it can be downright dangerous. On an intellectual level, snow haters are absolutely justified and are, hands down, the wiser of the two groups.

Which is why I think there is a small streak of insanity in every snow lover. Our only argument -- that it is beautiful -- pales miserably in light of what should be our penchant for survival. Yet its beauty overwhelms us to the point that we just don't care. We love it just the same and think snow haters are speaking some incomprehensible babble when they whine about "digging out" or "clearing the roads."

So I present to you my favorite Night Gallery episode which truly separates the snow lover and snow haters. Snow haters see it as a young boy's descent into insanity. Snow lovers are just a little envious of the boy Paul and in awe of the world he's built for himself.

So, as we approach what looks to be a snowy first of the year, enjoy the beautiful (if you are a snow lover)/ disturbing (if you are a snow hater) poetry of Conrad Aikens' Silent Snow, Secret Snow.

Minimal whining and then "Awwwww!"

So, having spent a weekend alternately weeping in panic and pretending there is absolutely nothing wrong, I've resigned myself to acceptance because -- well, what else it there to do?

It's another of those situations where I say to myself, "Now. Now I will have the nervous breakdown." And then I wait around for one and it never comes, and someone asks, "What's for dinner," and there I am, frying the garlic and making jokes and carrying on as usual. Then it's too late for the nervous breakdown because, well, there I am coping already.

So. No nervous breakdown for me. Dammit.

All prayers are gratefully accepted and thanks to all those of you who have already started. This is not something for which I usually advertise so openly (I always figure God has a lot better things to do than save me from my own stupid decisions), but I'm asking now. And I'll leave it at that.

Just to bring things back to normal, here are a few pictures of Abbey and her hedgehog. Australian Shepherds do not fetch, but Abbey will fetch the hedgehog. The hedgehog prevents her from stealing all our socks too. She doesn't chew them; she just...collects them.





















Can you stand the cuteness?

In which Sisiggy actually comiserates with Dolly Parton

Don't want to be a downer and I can't believe that a Dolly Parton song is relevant to my life. I only know this song since Best Little Whorehouse in Texas is one of Dirtman's favorite movie musicals (mostly because of this). I saw it live on Broadway back in the day (a gift from a bank client who couldn't use the tickets). This song wasn't in the original play.

Since I got "laid off" from work a day ago (Merry Christmas!) and, since I'm the only one here with a full time job, this song has been running through my head.



I'm beginning to think I've been too hard on ol' Dolly in the past...

I'm also wondering what it says that I identify with a bunch of hookers out of work...

The condensed version

See, the thing is not so much that I haven't anything to post about. The thing is I can't seem to narrow down the multitude of annoyances about which I could go on and on about.

For instance, last week I started a post about the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I want it back to being a parade and not a three-hour commercial. But somehow, in ranting about the farce that they call a parade, it turned into a rant about car commercials, particularly those presenting cars with big red bows because (to make a long rant short) it is the ultimate warping of the spirit of gift giving.

There was a brief (for me) mention of the landfill fodder churned out by Walmart and its willing accomplices who put their brand names on crap that clueless consumers buy thinking they're getting a top-of-the-line product.

Somehow this led to a portion best labeled "The Price of Your Conscience," which will someday be a legitimate piece I will write just as soon as I find someone interested enough in my point of view.

Then I spent way too many words discussing "designer labels" and how that phrase makes me want to set fire to the hair of every anorexic blond trophy wife in California (believe me, I somehow made this sound feasible and justified, at least to every normal woman in the country not married to an over-paid sports figure or not a "Housewife of...").

Hmmm....let's see....who else did I insult...Hannah Montana (or whatever her real name is) and Taylor Swift (whoever she is, but I keep hearing her mentioned), Disney (is no one else concerned about mind control?), Rita Mae Brown (who I love and don't really want to tick off, but honestly, Ms. Brown, the sign of true manners and breeding is that one does not POINT OUT OTHERS' LACK OF MANNERS AND BREEDING. Just sayin'...), Sarah Palin (she's like dog-doo on the bottom of the Republican party's shoe -- just when they think they've scraped her off onto the curb, her stench makes her presence known), and I think I stopped -- realizing I now had a post inching toward 1500 words -- just short of attacking (God forgive me) Paul McArtney (Please, Paul. Let us keep our memories of four talented Beatles...).

There.

I've just saved you a boat load of time.

My Day As a Slug, Part II

Did I mention this house is really small?

So I came home from work Saturday and I was exhausted. Not because of work, mind you...my "volunteers" for the day -- court-ordered community service -- didn't show. So I worked on our database all morning so that the Washington Post will receive only 25 of our mailings at a time instead of 150 (many people receiving multiple copies). Things like that. Hardly taxing -- but abysmally boring.

Anyway, allergies bothering me, poor night's sleep, etc. Suffice to say I was tired.

I really just wanted to get comfy and watch movies for the rest of the day. And knit. Since I'm knitting a gift, I insist on calling it "doing something," so that when Dirtman asks me what I did that day, I can say "I worked hard knitting so-n-so's such-n-such" and it doesn't sound like I beached myself in a chair and watched movies.

So I said to Zsa Zsa (because, you know, I never talk to myself), "Why not? I'm not going anywhere and Dirtman will be at work until 9 o'clock. I'm going to get in my flannel pajamas, knit and plug in the DVD series known as Movies Only Mom Likes."

(I have one pair of flannel pajamas that are affectionately know as my Oxymoron Pajamas. They're made of heavy, warm flannel, but have pictures of popsicles on them. This amuses Heir 1 no end.)

So I did.

And no sooner did I get myself installed in my comfy chair (All together now: Not the Comfy Chair!) in my baggy flannel pjs and fuzzy slippers (oh, yes. fuzzy slippers) next to the fireplace with my mug of tea and my knitting with Lion in the Winter playing, than Heir 1 and the entire Strasburg High School Classes of 2005, 2006 and 2007 came marching through my livingroom.

Dogs barking, doors slamming. More cars driving up. More dogs barking. Somewhere in all of this is Peter O'Toole screaming, "There'll be pork in the tree tops come morning!" (which is, like, the best retort ever when someone says, "When pigs fly!").

Anyway -- not the most relaxing moment and we won't even go into the loss of dignity of being caught in your flannel pajamas at 2:30 in the afternoon.

I followed up Lion in the Winter with You Can't Take It With You, which should be required viewing of every Wall Street executive, whether they still have a job or not. Meanwhile, more people were cramming themselves in Heir 1's bedroom. (He claims they were all just the same people coming and going.)

I even attempted to get into the kitchen to make brownies, but another wave came through and if being in your pajamas at 2:30 in the afternoon is pathetic, being in your pajamas at 2:30 in the afternoon and making a pan of brownies is just sad and depressing.

Finally I gave up and retreated to my bedroom with Zsa Zsa, Abbey, Whiskers and Topper, who at this point was having a nervous breakdown because he could hear strangers in the house and because he's like the Don Knotts of the Aussie world. (Topper and Salt have the crud again this fall. You regulars remember the annual Topper/Salt crud. It's not pretty.)

So today I have to make up for slacking off yesterday. And make brownies.

Other People's Cookies

You know it’s there.

No one wants to admit they know it’s there, but it is.

I don’t know about your grocery store, but in mine, no one is ever in the cookie aisle. In fact, they make a point of virtuously marching past it; may even snarl something like, “We can skip that aisle” – as if they were selling porn or heroine or cheap romantic fiction down that aisle.

I have fond childhood memories of the cookie aisle (big surprise there, right?) that involve my mother…well, there is just no other way to say this…shoplifting.

Well, not shoplifting, really. Everyone did it. Back in the day, there was always an open package of cookies in the cookie aisle. I don’t know if this was a peculiarity of grocery stores in New Jersey or a courtesy left over from the “olden days,” but there would be two or three open packages from which shoppers would help themselves.

That was back when shopper weren’t afraid to be seen in the cookie aisle.

I do believe that it was actually the grocery manager who opened those cookie packages to entice people down the aisle or to offer a free sample.

We were, as were our fellow shoppers, always very courteous about our treatment of the open cookie packages. No one took more than one per person. Since children were always supervised, there was no danger of a little Finster grabbing a handful of Oreos and sticking them in his pocket.

Can you imagine if they still did that these days? Mothers would be leaving kids in the aisle while they shopped. They’d be demanding the service of juice lest little AshleyBrittneyCaitlin choke on crumbs. And then there is the danger of peanuts and all the liability involved (I’m sure there is a reason – buy why were peanuts never a problem 40 years ago? Have to Google that…).

Anyway – no more shoplifting in the cookie aisle these days. No more nothing in the cookie aisle these days.

I know this because Dirtman sent me there this weekend. Our resident cookie baker (me) HAS BEEN A LITTLE BUSY OF LATE, so I was forced to venture to this aisle – I have to admit – I have purposely avoided. I have no defenses against Mr. Chips Chocolate Chip cookies (the original, please; stop messing with perfection).

Have you been in the cookie aisle lately? It’s like entering an airlock. You can’t hear anything going on in the rest of the store in the cookie aisle. The air is dense, holding the sweet smell right at nose level. It’s narrower than all the other aisles, so there is no getting away from cookies in your face.

And you are always alone. I think this is because, upon entering the cookie aisle, you enter into your own, personal dimension. Yes, the food marketing industry has cornered the market on this technology so you can fill your cart with Nutter Butters, cover them up with bags of Romaine lettuce, and no one will ever know.

So, there I am in the cookie aisle, alone. I grabbed three flats of generic sandwich cookies (representing only three nights of snacks around here…) and was slipping them into my cart when – suddenly – a glitch in the technology.

A woman and her daughter appeared before me. Our eye contact was for only a split second and we all looked away, like we'd walked into each other’s stall in the ladies’ room.

But then I saw the mother look at the cookie packages in my hands with disdain. I realized she couldn’t help notice the cliché of a middle-aged fat woman holding a pile of sandwich cookies. I wanted, at first to be defensive, but realized she was in the cookie aisle too.

I wanted to say, “Those ain’t exactly rice cakes you’re holding, sister.”

Only they were.

I slunk out of the cookie aisle and back into reality, where I promptly marched up to the service counter and complained that their Dimensional Transcendation Manipulator was on the blink. I would not be back to buy cookies until it was fixed.

Fortunately, there are other grocery stores in my area…

It's sort of an animal picture...

...okay is was the first full-price movie we've seen in over a year and a half.

...we had to go.

I ask you: A film comes out called Men Who Stare At Goats. Are we not, in fact, obligated to see it as soon as possible?

Actually, all this came about when I, clicking about the internet and came across the trailer for the movie. I would have bet it was a Cohen Brothers movie -- it's not. But maybe that's because it stars George Clooney and Jeff Bridges (think: The Dude joins the military...).

"We have to see this movie!" I said to...um...Abbey and Zsa Zsa. But I more meant me and perhaps another...human.

Later that day, Heir 1 came home from work and announced that, no matter what happened between then and November 6, there was a movie we were going to see first run --

I broke in and said, "Men Who Stare At Goats?" (Actually, to be honest, I couldn't remember the name of the movie and said something like, "Men and Their Goats," which pretty much sounded like a movie from an entirely different genre...)

Does it make me a bad mother because I went to see the movie on an afternoon Heir 1 had to work? Well, it was the only afternoon that Dirtman and I both had off together and, coincidentally, the afternoon that John Boy offered to pay.

We went to see the movie at this place that just opened up called Alamo Drafthouse. Basically, you take your seat and they wait on you -- snacks, entrees, drinks -- Guiness on tap!!!!! (Guiness on tap requires multiple exclamation points and they don't count against your quota.)

I know they have similar places in more urban areas, but this is a new concept around here.

I repeat: Guiness on tap!

Anyway, the only thing I will say about the movie is that I recommend it. To say anything else would ruin it. Seriously, the less you know, the more you will enjoy it.

Many quotable lines. You know how we Linguinis love those quotable lines...

Too, too Twain

Abbey, helping me to enjoy Mark Twain

There is very little wiggle room in our entertainment budget these days, but I decided that my share of the whopping $30 a month (this includes gas money to get to wherever we are to be "entertained") would be a basic subscription to Netflix.

I'll admit that I really didn't get the concept of Netflix when it first came out and, to be honest, my public library has a huge selection of DVDs -- not this year's (or even last year's) releases but, if you're patient, you eventually get to see what you want. And, naturally, we have video rental places, but even those are pretty much out of the budget range, not so much because we can't afford the rental, but because a per-night rental fee is really not cost-effective.

Anyway, I signed us up for a trial period and was pleased to see how accommodating Netflix is about enabling you to cancel after the trial period (which I'm not going to do). We signed for the absolute lowest cost, which enables us to receive only one movie at a time, return it, then wait for them to receive the return and send us another. What this means is that for approximately $9 a month, we receive two movies a week, plus all the online stuff we want.

How pathetic is my life that this entire arrangement makes me so exceedingly happy that I feel the urge to post about it? When I say all this out loud to people, it sounds really lame. Saturday, when I came home from work and found myself completely alone, I watched all 3-1/2 hours of the Ken Burns documentary on Mark Twain on the Netflix website. I haven't been so happy in a long time (exclamation point excluded due to overuse).

Tonight we're watching Cold Comfort Farm, which I've seen several times (originally at the recommendation of John Boy -- go figure) and has become one of my favorite movies.

Honestly, I do try to keep Dirtman's interests in mind as I add to my Netflix queue, but after a while, I can't help myself. I start clicking on all the Myrna Loy movies, all the Spencer Tracy movies, Cary Grants, Katherine Hepburns, all the pretty-costumes-that-might-possibly-translate-into-everyday-wear movies, all the "I think that too" movies and, most of all, all the "I want to click my heels three times and be inside of this" movies.

Dirtman doesn't stand a chance. He doesn't try.

Dirtman has seen about 15 minutes of each movie picked and promptly falls asleep in his chair -- even the movies he's personally chosen. So I have absolutely no remorse in chirping "Tonight we're watching Henry V!" (Sorry-- I figured I'd have to use the exclamation point with a verb like 'chirping').

I might add that most nights I'm here all by myself, so a steady stream of Thin Man movies isn't going to bother anyone. And -- I might add -- I live with a man who watches Dog, the Bounty Hunter (the mention of which made me throw up a little in my mouth).

I rest my case.

A Benadryl-induced Post

I suppose I'm writing this into the ether. There can't possibly be anyone left out there...

I have no burning issue to discuss. I only offer this by way of an update.

It almost hurts to come back here, to this blog where I've mostly expressed my adventures in being a homemaker and mom. Perhaps I came across as smug about my roles, it was unintentional. Yet, I must have. I have a few people who have more or less told me "So there -- now you know what it's like to have to work for a living." Because -- you know -- frugally maintaining a home and raising two boys to be assets to society is totally not work...

I notice a lot of people when their circumstances change this drastically start a new blog with a different tone or stop completely. Besides, blogs are rather passe' these days, what with Facebook and all. (I'm afraid I'm a little too wordy for Facebook, though I do have a page.)

Instead, I will continue on with Linguini -- if only to keep myself honest. So I won't edit my past by deleting what I was, though life these days bears very little resemblance to the future I thought I was aiming for five years ago.

Believe me, the domestically-inclined, introverted Sisiggy is still here. Only she's been dragged out of her nest and forced to pretend she's a perky extrovert. And she's waiting for the much-talked-about moment when "acting like" becomes an actual part of her personality.

Ohh -- this became way darker than I intended.

Let me just say that I do have a very good job and I work with very nice people. The Volunteer Farms continue to be on the up-and-up ethically and financially and, while I might not quit (can't afford to), I would not be sharing its links and "friending" the organization on Facebook if it were otherwise.

Okay. Enough. So on with the newly-updated Sisiggy, the working woman; the (gulp) perky extrovert. This Sisiggy is forced to use lots and lots of exclamation points! She has cornered the market in exclamation points used in e-mails! Because she is an extrovert! And she's very, very perky!!!!!!

Who's in charge?

So here’s the thing…

Whenever I’ve started a new job, I always seem to come in on some sort of crisis situation.

Naturally, no one lets on about this until I’m signed and committed to the position. During the interview it’s all peace and harmony and everyone is smiling.

When I was hired, the development director was also hired. Shortly after this everyone else with the company went on leave. Well, a lot of them anyway. My boss will be back next week.

Needless to say, it’s been a trial by fire. This weekend we found ourselves with 50 willing volunteers and no idea what was ready to be picked and no way of finding out. Fortunately, among the numbers were two Unitarian Universalists who volunteer regularly and they knew roughly what to do, making me love the Unitarian Universalist Church, even though for all I know they could worship cauliflower and advocate the eating of puppies (not, of course, the two UUs who helped me out – it couldn’t be…)*.

I guess I should explain that most of our volunteers come from churches, so we tend to refer to our groups by their denomination. I know enough about the various Christian sects to get me into trouble if I talk about it too much, but the Presbyterians get points with me for laughing when I took their picture and told them to “Smile and say ‘predestination’!”

Other than that, the job is pretty low-key, though I’m constantly forced to talk on the phone and in a perky voice at that; because we want our volunteers to know we’re ECSTATICALLY HAPPY to hear from them. And I am, actually, seeing as it’s my job to keep them happy and eager to come back and do more back-breaking field work for us. But it’s a little hard to muster that enthusiasm every freakin’ time that phone rings.

Oh, and by the way: I don’t want to talk about okra anymore, okay? We grow it, we send it to the food banks and that’s going to have to be the end of it. Please – please – when you see me, avoid listing the people you know who love okra and all the recipes you can think of that contain okra. This has the same effect on me as the guy in Forrest Gump listing all the dishes you can make with shrimp. I repeat: I do not want to have an okra conversation.

*I do know enough about the Unitarian Universalists to know they would find this funny.

I don't know why you say 'goodbye,' I say 'hello'...

I’m trying to rid myself of that “just been run over by a bus” feeling.

A quick rundown of what occurred this week, for those of you not keeping score:

1. I started a new job.
2. Heir 1 started a new job.
3. Dirtman started a new job.
4. Heir 2 headed off for his first year of college.

This last in particular has us reeling, more than we expected. That he seems to fit in so comfortably at Roanoke College; that his move-in was a breeze made possible by several Roanoke upperclassmen (and women), who descended upon us as soon as we pulled up to the curb and had him unloaded in a matter of minutes in spite of a torrential downpour; that the college fed us to the gills; that he and his roommate are so perfectly matched, it’s eerie (the clincher came when we went out to his parents’ car and it was the same as ours…); that his academic advisor is perfect for a freshman math geek – knowledge of all this was still not enough to prevent that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I might add that all this emotion is all due to our missing him and not a bit about being worried. He’s had plenty of freedom at home, while we were his safety net, and he’s proved himself over and over has a guy with enough common sense to stay out of trouble, but enough self confidence to try new things and accept others’ differences. He’ll be absolutely fine.

Us – not so much. But we’re getting there.

I don’t know what to say about my new job, mostly because I’m still adjusting to everything – both at home and at work. I know I like my co-workers, which is half the battle right there. But I come home exhausted, probably because of that adjustment period, and not much use to anyone and especially not able to tackle housework. Since I could be working six days a week, this is something I’m going to have to force myself to do when I get home or things will be going downhill fast – and taking my mood with it.

But I’m giving myself a few weeks, especially in view of everything else that is going on.

A brief update

Just poking my head up briefly to update everyone -- I'm sure you've been spending the last few days worrying about me because that's all anybody had to do...

The troops have rallied 'round and I come home to dinner cooked every night and the house as clean as three guys deem suitable. Dirtman cooked the first two nights and last night Heir 1 put together a huge meal -- with some help from Heir 2, who breaded pork chops.

It's been wonderful to be able to focus on getting used to the new routine and not have to worry about everyone else. This is more self-inflicted guilt, I realize. Therefore, everyone is forced to work all the harder so that I don't feel guilty about slacking on a job that I'm not doing. Anyway -- it makes sense in my head.

Time to head off to work.

Wednesday is Spot-On Day

I'm not quite as depressed as this week's column sounds, but I'm surprising myself with how much dread I'm feeling about Heir 2 leaving for Roanoke College a week from Saturday.

Really, I tell myself, it's not like he's all that far away. And he's surrounded by friendly souls.

He's in no danger whatsoever. I'm confident I've taught him how to deal with every crisis he is likely to face, though I'm sure as the time draws nearer I'll think of the stuff I forgot to teach him.

No, I'm afraid all the negativity is pure selfishness on my part. I don't want him to leave because...I don't want him to leave.

Avalanche. We never discussed what to do in case of avalanche.

My Day As a Slug

It's not like I didn't announce it ahead of time.

When Heir 1 decided to schedule his family birthday party for Aug. 8, I announced to all who would hear me and listen that, on Aug. 9, TCM was having an all day salute to Cary Grant and to forget I exist and forget the living room exists. Both would be off limits that day.

It started out well enough. The marathon offered me a chance to sit for an extended period and get my gift knitting done with minimal interruptions. I'd already seen several of the scheduled films before, so it was like visiting an old friend to have a nice chat and do some knitting.

Then it suddenly occurred to Dirtman that there were entirely too many cucumbers around here and that bread and butter pickles* had to be done today.

How long have I been lamenting the cucumber dilemma? How many weeks? Suddenly it has to be done -- on TCM Cary Grant day.

Anyway, I told Dirtman that I'm sure Cary and I wouldn't mind if he made bread and butter pickles, to which Dirtman harumphed, "Okay. I will." So there.

Well, there were sighs of exasperation. There were pots banging. There were inane questions. There were cooking buzzers buzzing to empty rooms without a Dirtman in sight.

I persisted, though. (I might add, I hardly ever get to use the television in the living room. It's just a given in this house that it must be available to Dirtman at all times of the day so that at any given moment he can watch Dog, the Bounty Hunter. I can't tell you how much I hate having to admit that.) I didn't even respond when, upon walking across the kitchen floor, my shoe stuck to the floor where pickle juice had landed in a puddle and dried there.

Of course today I'm paying for it since, for the fourth time this week, the kitchen floor has to be scrubbed. Still it was worth it.

I had my day and Dirtman has six pints of pickles.

*I'm not sure whether pickles as a side dish is a Southern phenomenon (like ambrosia) or a Protestant phenomenon (like Jello molds).

Heir 1's Four-Days-After-His-Birthday Party

This cannot end well...


See what I mean:



More photos here.

Wednesday is Spot-On Day

Nothing thought provoking or controversial this week. My brain has been steamed with canning water.

After all, "...the things I write are only light extemporania..."*

Give me a break -- sometimes I just don't have an opinion on anything.

No.

Really

*Ben Franklin in 1776

Heir (twenty) I

It's one of those rituals that a mother may not attend -- a 21st birthday.

Saturday the family will trot out for a BBQ in Heir I's honor and we'll offer him a legal beer or something. But today is for him and his friends.

Of course we've talked. Don't be stupid, we said. Use your head, we said. Realize the head you use when you've drunk enough is not the head to use, we said. Call us, we said. Call a cab, we said. Designate a driver who will not drink all evening, we said.

All the time we are saying this, we know that, in the end, it's only good character and a deep-set sense of responsibility that will prevent him from becoming a danger to himself and others behind the wheel of a car.

So I've stopped saying anything and I will rest easy.

Happy Birthday, Charley*. I'm so proud of the adult you have become.

*You will notice I did not once call you...oops! I almost said it. You'd really be mad at me then, huh? You know. if I slipped and called you...oops! There I go again...