Wait for it...

I am introducing a new category here on Linguini on the Ceiling that requires some explanation. It's taken me awhile to come up with what to call this category, since the most concise and descriptive title would be "Movie Moments," which is really lame.

What I came up with is "Wait for it..."

...because these are minor moments in movies that make watching the whole film worthwhile.

I'm not talking about the obvious stuff -- like the sword-wielding guy in Raiders of the Lost Ark going through his moves and getting shot by a slightly-annoyed Indy -- or by Vivian Leigh shaking a carrot to the heavens swearing she will never be hungry again in Gone With the Wind. All effective -- but I don't need to point these out to you, do I?

Instead I'm going to focus on lesser-respected moments with popular movies and memorable moments in movies that most people may not have seen. Some of the movies, as a whole, were not particularly good, but they may have had one line or one moment that cut to the core of truth, irony or poignancy.

If you are a true movie addict, I won't be showing you anything you don't know. But it's always good to reminded about these little flashes of inspiration or creativity.

I will also admit that most of what I talk about are special to me for very personal reasons. That being said, I also think they were very deliberate in their inclusion in the film and, therefore, not as "personal" as I think. In which case, they are my gift to you; we are, none of us, as alone as the evil voice in our brains would have us believe.

My first "Wait for it..." occurs in the classic movie Born Yesterday.

You'd probably recognize the most famous clip they show from this movie; it's the one where Judy Holliday is creaming Broderick Crawford at gin rummy. I love the clip in that it shows Judy Holiday at her funniest, but it does do a disservice to the film. For years I avoided watching the movie, assuming it was yet another story about how ditzy, show-girl types have a heart of gold and are all actually candidates for Mensa.

Needless to say, I was wrong.

To set up the scene, you need to know that Judy Holiday ("Billie") is Broderick Crawford's ("Harry") girlfriend and Harry has hidden a lot of his wealth by putting things in Billie's name, even though she hasn't a clue about any of his dealings. However, everything Harry does requires Billie's signature, which isn't a problem, since Billie doesn't seem to care one way or the other about Harry's business dealings nor does she seem capable of understanding them if she did. She signs what she's told without question.

Harry brings Billie along on a trip to Washington, D.C., where he intends to "do business" with a less-than-ethical congressman. The problem is, Harry doesn't think Billie is up to the social ramifications of rubbing elbows with politicians. He gets a bully's pleasure in mocking her pathetic attempts at socializing with the congressman's wife, even though he shows himself to be a big jadroole playing the Big Shot Host.

Harry hires William Holden ("Paul") to "educate" Billie. Paul is a D.C. political columnist and, while tutoring Billie in sophistication (locals will enjoy seeing clips of the city before there was a Watergate or a Kennedy Center) and grammar, he also gives her a lesson in government.

Knowledge is power, as they say, and Billie begins to notice the way her boyfriend "does business." The next time Billie is asked to sign some papers, she refuses until she reads over what she is signing. Billie refuses several times to sign, first with Harry's lawyer, then with Harry screaming at her.

The scene that follows is disturbing -- but also one of the most empowering.

Harry degrades her new-found knowledge and, when that doesn't work, threatens her with violence, as he has so many times before. This time though, she sticks to her guns.

He hits her.

It's a watershed moment. On one hand, it's almost a relief because you know this is what will finally cause her break with Harry. On the other hand, she tearfully signs the papers, giving the superficial impression that Harry has won and a deeper fear that the violence will force Billie back to her clueless stupor.

The moment is particularly superb because of Judy Holiday's artful ability to show Billie's strength through her painful acquiescence. You cry with her, but you also know that Harry's victory will be short-lived.

Of course, my favorite line the the movie is spoken by Billie to Harry:

"You just ain't COUTH!"

Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with the fact that Born Yesterday is currently on Broadway and am in no way affiliated (as if...). And, while I'm incredulous about the fact that Broadway seems to spend more time on old stuff than on finding new material, I would still love to see it. Sigh.

Picnicking with the Linguinis

You must understand this: We Linguinis NEVER take picnics lightly.

Well...until yesterday...

However, you must understand our background of picnicking before you can truly be amazed at yesterday's excursion to Lost River State Park in West Virginia.

Growing up, there were always several picnic excursions throughout the summer and they were always hours away. My father always liked to be traveling in the opposite direction of the traffic; so, though we lived near the shore, with a beautiful state parks 10 to 30 minutes away, we were always heading "against traffic" to the "mountains" of New Jersey (High Point State Park has what New Jerseyans call "mountains"). This required leaving at 6 o'clock in the morning and dragging in at 9 o'clock at night -- but not a single second was spent sitting in traffic (though Pa would look at the line of cars going in the opposite direction and comment on how ridiculous it was to be sitting in traffic like that).

I realize the purpose of a picnic is to eat -- A. Meal.

One. Meal.

Remember, though: We arrive at 8 o'clock in the morning. So breakfast, lunch and dinner all have to be arranged and carted. There were bags of Mrs. Obco's Donuts and thermoses of coffee (my parents had an official coffee thermos bag specifically for this) for breakfast, deli for lunch with a complete selection of cold cuts, rolls, bread, condiments and salads, and then a variety of meats to barbecue for dinner.

On top of this, were the rare treats of junk food -- this was the one time my mother would buy us any sweet crap the television has convinced us was the end-all in desserts. And she wouldn't just buy a package -- she'd buy an entire BOX; boxes of Twinkies, boxes of TastyKake pies, boxes of chocolate grahams, boxes and boxes and boxes of sugar! (We won't discuss the long-range ramifications of this practice; right now I choose to make this a happy memory...in her heart, Ma meant well -- though when I tell this to my kids now, they're really bummed.)

Okay. That was just the food. Now we had to load the car with things to occupy us for 12 hours, both in the car and at the picnic site. John Boy had his maps and pamphlets, Dark Garden had his assortment of recreational equipment (fishing rod, basketball, swim gear), I had a pile of books, my mother had her crossword puzzles, and Pa had his beer (though, in all fairness, he was the one who took DG fishing, swimming and to the playground, not to mention he did all the barbecuing).

Oh...did I mention the assorted relatives? Grandma, aunts, cousins -- sometimes it spilled over into a second vehicle, particularly since a dog or two also had to be accommodated.

Whenever we'd arrive at the park, if it was crowded, my mother used to moan about there being so many people around that it wouldn't be relaxing. It occurs to me that, upon seeing our parade enter the picnic area, most of the other people were thinking the same thing.

Nowadays, my generation is in charge of the picnicking and, while we've streamlined a few things, it is still and event requiring more planning than the Normandy Invasion. Everything is up for discussion, from the venue to the menu.

JB makes lists and, while I've never actually seen his list, it must look like this: beer, bratwurst, bottle opener.

DG brings all the meat, barbecue stuff...and cleaning products; lots and lots of cleaning products. We always have the cleanest picnic site in the park. No roll of paper towels and damp cloth for him -- no! He's got spray disinfectant and cloths and wipes.

I bring the stuff that has to be cooked ahead -- salads, side dishes and...yes...dessert; one dessert. ONE.

Yes, we've pretty much got this picnic thing down, though I will admit, all the advance planning a prep can get stressful until we decide on everything.

Well, until yesterday...

It all came together too easily -- which should have warned me. We immediately agreed on the venue, we each stated what we were bringing (admittedly, we do turn into the Atkins family on picnics) and we generally coordinated a time (cell phones don't work at Lost River).

I have to admit, it was coming together so nicely that all week long I hardly gave it a thought. I did my usual grocery shopping and only threw in a few items that were picnic-related (instead of doing my usual pre-picnic shopping blast I can ill-afford). I did a few prep things the night before, slept in the day of (unprecedented!), and loading the car consisted of one cooler and Zsa Zsa's water bowl and tie-out chain (which we only use if we see park rangers driving around -- I try to spare her the indignity of being in chains when there is no need).

So here is how it went down:

DG was bummed because my nephews both had to work that day and couldn't come. Dirtman was also working, so he wasn't there. Heir2 couldn't make it home from Roanoke for the holiday weekend, so he wasn't there.

No one brought paper plates.

No one brought tongs to barbecue.

No one brought paper towels.

JB blamed it all on the fact that for the first time, he hadn't made a list (he never put these things on his stupid list and, besides, when he makes a list, he always forgets to put something on the list anyway, rendering the list useless).

However (and everyone else may disagree, I'll admit):

I had a wonderful, relaxing time. We had a nice, secluded spot next to a brook. I could sit on a rock and put my feet in the water. It wasn't too hot or too cold.

All the other stuff?

We made do.

Note the dishes made from aluminum foil, the knife doubling as "tongs" and our site-side cleaning system (actually, we only washed our hands in the stream).

The food was great. It was a beautiful day. But, more importantly...

...Zsa Zsa was happy.

Macaroni and...

Every ethnicity has their own version of a fallback meal. I'm sure this is what stir fries are in Asian cuisine and pot pies are in Anglo circles. For us it was the "macaroni and...s."

The dish usually starts with softening up some onions and/or garlic in olive oil while boiling up a pound of whatever pasta you have around (hence, the generic "macaroni" instead of a specific type). Then you throw in whatever vegetable(s) is(are) handy in the crisper, freezer or can, toss in a little of the pasta water and, usually basil and/or oregano. The cheese and grater are, of course, on the table.

These days, I cut the amount of olive oil and rely on chicken stock along with the pasta water for some of the moisture. And I don't cook the living daylights out of the vegetables and pasta like my mother and grandmother did

The dish above is macaroni and cauliflower, which sounds like it shouldn't go, but actually does (a drained can of diced tomatoes is in there too). I've upgraded it with fresh oregano, only because somehow last year's oregano patch that went to seed survived the winter and now we have more oregano than we know what to do with. When you come to my house, you don't get to leave unless you take oregano with you.

There is also macaroni and peas made the same way, only I confess I like it best with a handful of diced pancetta browned with the onion. I'm the only one who likes macaroni and escarole -- mostly because no one else will even taste it. I'm sure at some point my mother or grandmother made macaroni and kale -- but the main reason I married Dirtman is that he had a equally jaundiced opinion of kale and I knew that I would never be forced to so much as smell that horrid weed ever again.

In this house, our hands down favorite is Macaroni and Beans. This is the only time you will find me opening a can. And it is the only time I will insist on a specific pasta. If you make macaroni and beans (the "beans" being dark, red kidney beans) with medium pasta shells, the beans will slip neatly into the shells like little tiny jackets, offering a perfect bean/pasta ratio. We used to tell the Heirs that I did this little trick by hand, hoping to enhance my Martyr-Mom image -- it worked fine until they turned about four or five and realized their mother didn't have that kind of attention span or patience.

Of course you can go to a restaurant and order just about the same thing for eight or nine dollars. So I plated this in my best Italian ceramic pasta bowls and put that little sprig of fresh oregano there so it would look all professional and we can pretend we're dining out -- well, all except for the 75 cents per plate price tag...and Toppergetdown's chin in my lap.

I remember Mama......'s Day

Long-time Linguini readers know the Mothers' Day drill around here now that the Heirs are older: breakfast out and I get to choose the activity for the day.

We've always had a good time, though, on our Mothers' Day excursions, in spite of the fact that antique malls, thrift stores and garden fairs are at the absolute bottom of the list of places the Heirs want to be. But they make the best of it and enjoy taunting me with descriptions of the nursing home they plan to stow me in at the first sign of senility (thankfully, they haven't been paying much attention lately...).

For this year's Mothers' Day, I had to work. Ironically, where I work had a booth at the very same garden fair I've been dragging the Heirs to for the past few years. So, instead of dragging my own sons through the foliage and flora, I got to observe other mothers dragging their sons through the flora and fauna.

Oh, dear.

Not a pretty sight.

You know how at the end of Fiddler on the Roof they show the line of people leaving Anatevka? Well, that's a Mardi Gras parade compared to the sad, despondent spectacle that marched past our display tent.

I had to hand it to the dads, though. It was rather endearing to watch them simultaneously rally the morale of the troops, all the while assuring Mom that she had nothing to feel guilty about (i.e., the Bataan Death March to which she was subjecting her offspring) and that the kids were HAPPY -- HAPPY, DO YOU HEAR ME? -- to give up their day because they LOVE Mommy; and not because Dad told them (while Mom was in bed choking down the burnt Eggo waffle) that if they didn't act HAPPY, he would force them all to use Tracphones WITH NO TEXTING CAPABILITIES.

I must point out one incident that sort of put the whole day into perspective; because, frankly, I was not at all happy about having to work on both Saturday and Sunday, particularly on Mothers' Day, though I totally recognize the need for making hay while the hay is available to be made.

The thing about promoting your nonprofit in a venue where there are wonderful things for sale is that there really is no reason for anyone to visit you other than guilt. It's just easier for them to give a wide berth or "just happening" to be looking the other way as they pass.

On the other hand, being at such a venue on Mothers' Day worked out particularly well for me, as Volunteer Coordinator at the farm. It was all summed up with one mother who marched up to the booth with a very exhausted-looking husband and two very energetic boys in tow.

"You'll put them to work?" she asked as the two boys pushed at each other to get to the front.

"Oh, there's always plenty to do," I assured her.

She smoothly removed our collection jar from the hands of her youngest. "Plenty of HARD work?"

"Well, we try to gear the task to the volunteer," I said. I don't like people thinking we're treating kids like slaves.

"Oh, they've got enough energy to handle whatever you can dish out," she said, grabbing the older boy back from behind our display.

"They do need to be there with a parent, though." I thought this would surely send her running. I get a lot of parents who think we're going to babysit their kids for four hours.

"Oh, I'll be with them." She glared down the two boys, who cowered back toward their father. "We'll get a lot done."

She signed my volunteer roster, snapped up my card and pushed her men back into the stream of pedestrian traffic. I sort of can't wait to hear from her. She was awesome.

Mostly, though, I remember the little boy whose family was perusing the booth next door. Dad came out of the booth with a baby in a back carrier and a girl toddler holding his hand. He was about to make the Wide Berth Maneuver around our display when the boy grabbed his hand and dragged him toward us saying, "Here. I want to see this."

I could tell Dad was reluctant, but his son was insistent. This is where running one of these displays gets a little touchy, especially when the parents aren't behind the idea. So I told him about growing vegetables for the food banks and explained about nutrition, expecting him to zone out once he found out we weren't  founded to ban homework or make enforced bed times illegal.

Instead he started asking questions. I had purposely left out about needing volunteers or money, but he wanted to know what he could do. His dad seemed as surprised as we were at the level of this kid's enthusiasm and began to take interest too.

Made my day, this kid.

Oh, that...and the fact that the Heir1 made dinner and Heir2 made me a cocktail when we got home and TCM was running Mom movies. So I drifted off to sleep with Irene Dunn assuring me in a Norwegian accent, "Is good -- We do not have to go to da bank."

Proud to not be Martha

Turns out I'm a better mother than Martha Stewart.

Last night I was flipping channels looking for my usual nightcap: The Golden Girls*. When The Golden Girls is on, I know all is right with the world and I can go to sleep.

Instead, I encountered a lame talk show featuring Martha Stewart's daughter and her friend -- emphasis on the word "lame." I understand they also have a show during which you watch them watching Martha's show and making comments and, since I haven't seen it, I won't pass judgement, but...really?

Perhaps, though, the "watching the watchers" show was a howling success leading to the snore-fest I witnessed last night. I even stayed with it, mostly out of incredulity (which kind of defeated the snore-fest aspect), but also because I wanted to see how inane and boring this show could get. All I can say is, it must be good to be Martha Stewart's daughter (there must have been some Martha leverage exerted with the Hallmark Channel; like, Martha will agreed to let them carry her show, if they agree to also air her daughter's misfiring attempts at being glib).

That being said, one thing that did catch my attention was when the two of them (don't remember their names; don't care) were discussing what their Easter baskets were like when they were growing up and Martha's daughter said her Easter baskets were those pre-assembled things from the store.

Doesn't that shock you? I mean, wouldn't you envision an Easter basket by Martha Stewart to be hand-woven and dyed, filled with hand-molded Swiss chocolate bunnies and homemade gourmet natural-juice flavored "jelled beans" in glace' bags tied with French satin ribbons?

So, while Martha was in the kitchen folding napkins into fresh floral rings for the benefit of"her dinner guests, she was flinging some gaudy, cellophane-wrapped plastic basket of artificial, cheap chocolate at her daughter.

That makes me Mother of the Year -- by default.

Let me tell you about what Linguini Easter mornings featured.

First of all, see that photo up above*. You can't see it very well, but I made the outfit for the little tyke on his daddy's knee (the "little tyke" being Heir2 and his daddy being Dirtman) -- and you really can't see the hand-embroidered Easter Bunny on the pocket of the romper, nor the self-made piping around all the seams. And Heir1, standing there like a good little nerd? I made his khaki slacks.

I also cut Heir 1 and Dirtman's hair myself.

But, wait! There's more!

That morning when the boys woke up, the Easter Bunny had, indeed, arrived. They knew this because there were carrot crumbs on the floor (I finely-grated a carrot in a path from the door to the dining room table) and he had left them a totally unintelligible note because I've never heard it said the Easter Bunny was particularly bright (I purposely held the pencil between my two palms when I wrote it because...rabbits have no thumbs, of course. Nor do they have a copy of Strunk and White).

And the Easter baskets contained absolutely NO CANDY. Heir1 received art supplies and Heir2 (who was just one year old at the time) had a basket full of homemade, hand-sewn soft toys.

So, okay, for Easter dinner we used paper napkins and my wine glasses didn't match. And I think the dog retrieved most of the Easter eggs hidden by Dirtman. And I'm pretty sure by the end of the day we were all laughing so hard at something stupid because we used those wine glasses extensively in spite of their mismatching quality. And that may have been the Easter Dark Garden taught Heir1 to climb onto the roof of the garage. And someone flushed a battery down the powder room toilet -- I'm pretty sure it was a kid.

So, no...I'm not Martha-perfect. I am, like, on the opposite end of Martha-perfect. Frankly, if I was Martha-perfect, my family wouldn't show up. Or they'd show up and make fun of me.

For instance, the Heirs find it extremely funny that I spent my time knitting these...



...and crocheting these...

My theory is that, to the Heirs, unless they can eat it, it serves no purpose.

Though they do like making the chicks say rude things...

Like I said... my life is SO not Martha...

*Please ignore Dirtman's white socks...

Silly Facial Hair

I don't like facial hair on men.

There.

I said it.

This is a continuing discussion between Heir1 and me. Heir1 comes up with new manifestations of facial hair about every couple of months. We've discussed mutton chops, soul patches, goatees, van dykes and fu manchus.

I file these all under what I call Silly Facial Hair.

Silly Facial Hair is any male facial hair that requires "sculpting" with the razor. It bothers me. Because I realize that, in order to attain the fine lines and shapes of, say, a goatee (seriously, guys -- it even starts with "goat") requires more mirror time than even the most vain woman preparing for her ex-husband's wedding. This is unsettles me.

Silly Facial Hair is the same thing as if we women decided to creatively sculpt our leg hair (I just made some of you throw up a little in the back of your mouth, didn't I? See what I mean?). Like, say, I decided to leave a little divot of hair just below my knee cap (if you're of Sicilian descent you know this is not only do-able, but obvious) or, perhaps I shave just to mid-calf (okay, I admit that when I was single, this was my winter-time strategy. DO NOT JUDGE ME.)

Obviously, full beards do not require sculpting and simple 'staches required very minimal sculpting. I'm not as uncomfortable with those but, still, not crazy about them.

Think...Cary Grant. Imagine Cary Grant with a beard or, worse, Silly Facial Hair. I know...right?

Okay. Dirtman has a mustache. A mustache for which I'm totally to blame. For, underneath his big, furry mustache, are the cutest pair of dimples you ever saw. Dirtman's lip dimples are so damn cute, you just have to wiggle your finger in them and make little mewling noises.

You can always tell when Dirtman is attempting to make up for being wrong in a major argument we've had -- he's clean-shaven. I get a few days of dimple-diving before the craters fill...I suppose I can't really blame him.

Once a year during the winter, Dirtman grows a full beard. He used to call this his "hunting beard" -- which is a valid term for people in this area who, every fall, grow a beard to keep the warm while deer hunting. The important phrase here is "while deer hunting." In the quarter of a century I've known him, Dirtman has gone hunting ONCE...and that was 22 year ago.

Yet, Dirtman's beard is an autumnal perennial around here.

Take a stand, you say? Refuse to shave my legs until he shaves his beard? I. Just. Can't. I did go a few weeks once during the winter and I caved. I'm convinced the only feminists still pushing the anti-leg-shaving agenda are all blondes.

I don't expect anyone to actually take my opinion into account, least of all Heir1, who is currently sporting a sharply sculpted junco with longish sideburns.

I can't imagine why he wouldn't want to take style advice...from me...

Perhaps her Grranimals looked suspicious...

I saw this last night and by this evening it had hit the national press.

I've read about children being frisked by TSA before and I, as everyone else, had my "tsk, tsk" moment.

However.

(Breath)

When you see, raw and unedited, an innocent six-year-old being searched (however gently and professionally), "tsk, tsk" turns into this horrible knot in your stomach that tells you your government has just crossed a really, really obvious honkin' big, red, glowing, flashing line and, with all due respect, needs to ask itself, "What the hell are we doing?"

And before the "Remember 9/11" contingent chimes in, let's remember one thing -- we know what the stakes are now. No one with a box cutter is ever going to take over a plane again. The days of acquiescing to hijackers is long gone. Scissors, screwdrivers, knitting needles, kitchen knives -- as big a baby as I am, I'll risk a boo-boo if it means my plane won't go down. I'm sure an entire plane-load of people would feel the same way.

So we are left with six-year-olds being traumatized for...um...well...a false sense of security for any idiots who might be flying that day and perhaps even for those who honestly think this is making them any safer? Really...help me here -- I'm at a loss.

I would make some kind of ethical stand like, "As long as this practice goes on, I'm never going to fly." But flying anywhere has been off our activity list for awhile now for financial reasons. Let's just say that if I could fly, I wouldn't fly so nanny, nanny boo boo.

Flying has gotten to be such a chore anyway and, even before all the TSA restrictions, was an experience one tiny step up from being a heifer on a 19th century cattle car.

I expect this will be on Jon Stewart tonight, though he's gonna have to go a long way to make this funny.

The Pheebs

When people saw her, the first thing they'd say way, "That cat is still alive?"

Phoebe decided today she'd had just about enough of that nonsense and finally did what we'd all expected her to do 17 years ago.

Truly, she had beaten the odds several times. The first time was when she contracted "something like feline leukemia" when she was just over a year old. That was all our vet at the time would tell us. All I know is I spent two weeks nursing her back to health by keeping her in our powder room and going in three times a day to administer drugs that she was determined not to ingest. For two weeks I looked like I had been picking blackberries with my teeth and her vet bill set us back three months. But she was Heir 2's confidant and friend, so what's a mother to do?

She survived but, the vet-at-the-time said, she probably would only survive a few years.

So we let her have her way. She came and went as she pleased -- mostly outside in those days. Back then she loved to curl up on the tractor seat and sleep the day away. She'd come in at night -- to pee in the toaster. It took us awhile to figure this out -- her aim was that good. But someone finally caught her in the act (four toasters later) and we learned to put the cutting board over the toaster slots. So she switched to the stove -- again, with uncanny accuracy that left no obvious trace until you attempted to use the burner, at which point -- well, I hope you're not eating...

Why did we keep her after all that?

Well, just about when we were ready to drive The Last Mile to the vet...Phoebe would go on vacation.

Two weeks, every June. She'd simply disappear. It took a few years for us to realize Phoebe was double-dipping; somewhere was another family who thought she was theirs. Apparently this was a significantly more successful family, because they went on vacation for two weeks every June -- and sending her to a kennel. They thought they had a cat that they "threw out every night" (like Fred Flintstone) -- we had a cat that came home every night.

In view of the aforementioned vet bill, we got to keep her. Besides, she was only going to last "a few years," right?

And, let's face it -- she was just so darn cute...

As she got older, Phoebe became more of a recluse, finally never venturing further than Heir 2's bedroom. We called her Miss Havisham, not only because she never saw the light of day, but also because she had just as nasty a personality. The only one she adored was Heir 2.

When Heir 2 went to college and Heir 1 moved into his room, he briefly -- under duress -- adopted Pheebs. It didn't last long. Their arguments are legendary and it's a draw as to who was more boisterous -- Heir 1 when she peed on his keyboard or Phoebe defending her actions with her raspy "meows." When she took out his friend's gaming console, she was kicked out.

She was slowing down by then anyway. The most mischief she could cause was to pee in the dogs' bowl or flip a few papers on the floor. She did manage to install 413 shortcuts to a program I didn't even know I owned on to my computer desk top. It was her swan song of subversive behavior.

This afternoon, she slipped away; but not, Dirtman said, before getting in the last word. Before she died she let out a loud, raspy "MEOW!"

Dirtman says he knew exactly what she was saying, but I don't use that kind of language on this blog...

You ain't foolin' no one, Mistah Puh-doo!

Today's "Subject on the Block" would be Perdue Farms and I would offer up a scathing example of commercial slight-of-hand, along with a rant about how our food is manufactured and how the animals that provide that food are treated.

However, I have a soft spot in my heart for Perdue because I connect their commercials with a warm memory from my past.

Some of you may recall one of the old, old Perdue Chicken commercials -- we're talking back when Frank Perdue was schilling for the company instead of his son Jim. This old commercial featured people reacting to the paragon that apparently was a Perdue chicken back then (they were certainly more...um...chicken-sized...).

One of the testimonials was an elderly woman, who threw up her hands and, in a universally recognizable New York accent, exclaimed, "God bless you, Mistah Puh-doo!"

My grandmother thought that was the funniest commercial she'd ever seen. If we had chicken for dinner, you could bank on my grandmother somehow working a "God bless you, Mistah Puh-doo!" into the conversation and then laughing like we hadn't heard this 253 times before.*

So, for old times sake I will limit my tirade against Perdue Farms to this:

You know that Perdue commercial where Jim Perdue brags that his chickens are not caged?

The fact is that only laying hens are caged. Perdue raises meat chickens who never were caged to begin with. He's not doing the chickens a favor -- he's spinning the treatment that already exists as an industry standard.

Meat chickens are crammed into long, poorly ventilated buildings where they are bred to have breasts so large they can barely stand and the ones that can stand trample the ones that can't. So the ones that can't live out their brief lives sitting in their own filth until they are thrown by those self-same broken legs into a truck to take them to slaughter.

Now Perdue is not the only company that does this -- all the large commercial poultry processors do the same thing; only they have the decency to not make holier-than-thou claims about it.

We are not stupid, Mistah Puh-doo!

*She also liked to get up in the morning, shuffle around and mutter, "Gotta go make the donuts..." like the old Dunkin' Donuts commercial. She would do it until everyone in the house had seen it. Do you know how many people were in our house sometimes? You'd see the performance eight or nine times if you were up early enough. Believe me -- it gets old...

The end of the world as we know it (...or at least, television...)

The great thing about the internet is you can hear about things on television and in the media without going through the agony of witnessing them first-hand.

For instance, I've never seen Two-And-A-Half Men, but I know I would have to be under court order to part with a penny of my money to listen to Charlie Sheen talk. So when the 5,100 attendees of Sheen's show in Detroit were outraged at the quality of entertainment they received, all I could think was, "You all deserved to lose your money."

Although this has answered a question that has been burning in my mind for awhile now: What kind of moronic, shallow pinheads keep moronic, shallow reality shows on the air and make inconsiderate, self-centered, self-important people of non-existent or waning talent into media darlings?

Now we know -- they were all gathered for a convention in a Detroit auditorium.

But they can't take the full brunt of the blame. Apparently the Rutgers University administration is peopled with the same moronic, shallow pinheads.

By way of disclaimer, I have seen approximately 10 minutes of Jersey Shore. Since it's filmed in my old stomping grounds of Seaside Heights, NJ, I thought I might catch a glimpse of some old memories. Instead, I saw a glorification of the same skeezes that caused me to press the suspicion button at my teller window whenever they walked into the Seaside branch of the bank I worked for back in the day.

So you all know the story by now: A Rutgers University student entertainment group, who receives funds garnered from a portion of tuition money, hired this Snooki person from Jersey Shore to appear at the school and paid her $32,000 -- $2,000 more than the University is paying Nobel-winning author Toni Morrison to speak at commencement.

If that doesn't cause every brain-functioning viewer to switch off their television, stop buying products advertised on these insipid shows and send little Finster anywhere but Rutgers, then you all deserve the society that is going to be choosing your nursing home.

University reps claim Snooki was chosen based on canvassing students for their preferences.

WORSE!

Yes, I know I go on and on about bad TV and I know there is a bit of the, "I think she doth protest too much" in what bothers me -- and I would agree. It bothers me that, in accepting such incredibly poor programming, our choices are narrowing along with our ability to handle any plot more complicated than the train-wreck lives served up by reality shows.

Obviously, the power-that-be behind television programming know that sensational and shocking plots will draw in more viewers. But, they also know that the more adrenaline-inducing scenarios they throw at the public, the more desensitized they become and the more adrenaline-inducing scenarios will be required to finally satisfy them (sorry- this is beginning to take on a definite sexual metephorical tone...). In other words, the more TV (and advertising) they can make you watch, the more TV (and advertising) they can make you watch.

Let's just say that on the mainstream level (and, truly, I know how pretentious the word "mainstream" is...), "subtlety" is dead; "nuance" is dead; artful allusion is dead.

The Kardashians, however, continue on.

Or, perhaps, because I have only seen approximately 10 minutes of any given reality show, something more goes on after I turn it off? Does a Jersey Shore Guido suddenly have a lucid moment at some point or does a Kardashian suddenly look up and ascertain where lies the true center of the universe?

I would say that's just about as likely as Charlie Sheen completing his 20-city tour.

To blog or not to blog

This November I will have been blogging for six years. There have been a few months of dry spells here and there* but, if you were bored enough with life to go through each post from the beginning, you would have a pretty good idea of what goes on around here in Linguiniland, the whys and the hows and what everyone around here thinks about it.

Back in 2005 I had some misgivings about starting a blog. Oh, privacy didn't bother me much -- anyone can pick up a phone book and find out more about us than they'll glean from my blog. And I knew better than to treat Linguini on the Ceiling as an actual on-line journal or, worse, an on-line litany of my "feelings" and the state of my health.

I've been mulling over the reasons I blog since the day I started. Back then, it really was a great way to stop the "blogging in my brain." It became the outlet for the stories and observations I'd relate if, say, we were having lunch together.

But, every now and then I'd think, "This is really a self-absorbed sort of pass-time." That was a pretty good indication that whatever I was writing was inappropriate for this blog.

I will admit that in the time following our foreclosure and bankruptcy, some of the posts got a little raw and personal. That was a very deliberate decision on my part. While my family was going through all this agony, there were tens of thousands of other families going through the same thing; only no one had the least bit of compassion for these people whose lives were turned upside down. Instead everyone bought into the media short-cut of clumping the economy's victims under the banner of "spoiled, materialistic, over-spenders." It was lazy thinking and, I suppose, gave comfort to those it hadn't happened to: "That couldn't possibly happen to us because we are not like them." There is the illusion of safety in an "Us and Them" mentality -- and denial.

I have been particularly thinking along these lines the past few months and, at one point, even considered abandoning Linguini altogether. Afterall, Facebook gives an adequate snap shot of what's going on around here, if you're really interested. And there are very few people left with the focusing ability to read full paragraphs. But I just can't do it. Every now and then I hit common ground with someone who just happened by and that makes it all worth it. I've made some swell friends through this blog.

C.S. Lewis said, "We read to know we are not alone."

Sometimes we write for the same reason.

*I have no other explanation for my absence during the past few months other than to say I may not be as immune from Seasonal Affective Disorder as I've previously stated. But we have pushed through, thanks to the efforts of my family...and the entire collection of Jeeves and Wooster (thank you, Netflix).

In which I take a nap

A day like this only comes together by some serendipitous alignment of schedules. When they happen, I imagine myself like one of my Jack Russell Terriers when allowed the rare treat of lying on the bed -- they roll around and snuggle in with the pure, physical joy of it all.

Saturdays are half days for work usually followed by cleaning -- not my usual after-work cleaning where I make strange little deals with myself to get out of doing it all, as it should be done in a house with five dogs. No, Saturdays are everything days.

Thankfully, this is a tiny house and, once I pushed myself to get started, it didn't take nearly as long as I had built up in my mind.

And there I was, all alone in the house, having put in a good amount of work, a dusting of snow on the ground and my ABE order that I bought with the portion of my Christmas money that didn't go toward Dirtman's gift or bills. I hadn't opened it, since I figured it was my reward for getting my work done.

And so -- flannel jammies (the infamous FJ with the Popsicles on them that Heir1 considers my Oxymoron jammies), Elizabeth Goudge and...

...what for dinner?

Ohhhhhh....nothing aggressive. This was not the evening for culinary acrobatics. Something simple; mild; comforting -- macaroni and eggs.

I had a beloved aunt who did not know much about cooking. Whenever I went to visit, I cooked or we went out to eat. But during one visit, I came down rather rapidly with the flu and she made me "macaroni and eggs." It was the one dish she knew how to make.

Basically, you boil some sort of pasta (if the kids were still little, I'd have the perfect pasta on hand -- pastina -- which I used to smuggle out of New Jersey when visiting the self-same aunt; we can now get pastina here, but I didn't have it handy -- I used boring old elbow macaroni) but, when it's almost done, instead of draining all the water, you leave a little water in there, toss in some butter and salt; then, just as it's done, you slowly add a beaten egg or two, tossing the whole thing as you do.

And there it is.

The quintessential comfort food.

And so -- the oxymoronic flannel jammies, Elizabeth Goudge ("Pilgrims Inn," for the aficionados), macaroni and eggs, a comfy couch with fuzzy blanket and cuddly cat that makes no more noise than little beeps and rumbles. All I would have needed was Itzhak Perlman to be performing Vaughn-Williams' Lark Ascending in the corner to convince me I'd achieved the ultimate salvation of heaven.

There were no Israeli violinists performing early 20th century classical music, though, so I'm still among the living. But I did read a bit, nap a bit and dream a bit, all luxuries in my book. And that night I slept for an unprecedented nine and a half hours -- I haven't slept for that long since the days when my in-laws would be gracious enough to take my two toddlers for the weekend.

Heir 1 arrived home from staying with a friend at 12:30 in the morning. Heir 2 arrived home this afternoon. Two different genres of music compete with each other from their respective rooms, along with the sounds of video games and laughing friends. All the Linguinis are "in the house," so to speak.

And that's lovely too.

Whooooo are you?Who, who?Who, who?

I've lost track of who's who in Hollywood and, frankly, I'm mighty proud of it.

Clicking around the internet lately, trying to break up a particularly tedious task at work, I realized it was equally tedious trying to find someone I cared about in the entertainment field -- or even knew.

The most obvious reason for this, as far as I can tell, is the glut of "celebrities" who are famous because of reality programs; meaning, talentless. You can go into any select group of people and find a troublemaker, a drama queen and a gossip -- turn on the cameras and let the soap opera unfold. Snore. It helps if they just happen to be sluts willing to give each other Brazilian waxes on national television (...and if their last name starts with a "K" and their dead father made them really rich even by Hollywood standards so it gave the illusion they are somehow important -- and relevant -- to anything...).

Yet, I've come to accept this because the existence of the aforementioned freaks can pull even those in the depths of the deepest depression -- so deep that they actually watched programming featuring the aforementioned freaks for an entire 10 minutes -- out of their beds and back into the world with the hopes of balancing out the imbecile population who are succeeding in keeping the aforementioned freaks in the limelight. I apologize if you are one of those imbeciles -- okay, no I don't. But I figure, if you are one of those imbeciles, this is way too far for you to read anyway.

What is alarming, though, are the amount of "young actors" popping up all over the place, probably because there are now a gazillion cable channels and an equal amount of baby boomer babies to sit around and watch them. Is anyone else creeped out that they all look sort of the same? (I still think Keira Knightly, Natalie Portman and Winona Ryder are all the same person.)


Now that I think of it, why wouldn't they all look alike? In this day and age where trends and tastes are so closely monitored, of course you end up with what will please the most people. Hollywood has always had it's stable of "types." Types have their place, so you don't end up having to do character development for minor characters. Unfortunately, it's come down to there being nothing but "types" so the audience doesn't have to work their brains too hard or...focus.

I think that's why the reaction I have to my lost summer is guilt over having wasted so much time watching so much television; you know, that slightly guilty feeling you get when you promised yourself that, if you bought the pint of Starbuck's Coffee Ice Cream, you'd dole it out to yourself in sensible, half-cup portions over the course of four days and then end up scarfing the entire pint in one sitting. Because Starbuck's Coffee Ice Cream is expensive and, probably after the first half-cup, your tastebuds were so frozen they weren't really tasting the ice cream anyway -- yet you couldn't make yourself stop and basically wasted the rest of the pint. And this summer was wasted on something even more tasteless and unhealthy.

Oh, I know, I know: "Stop yammering on about the television, Sisiggy. Just turn it off and leave the rest of us alone."

And, honestly, I would -- if the trend wasn't creeping into other areas of my life. Movies (please, somebody, revoke Disney's license to make movies); Broadway (please, somebody, revoke Disney's license to make musicals); music (does everything have to sound like a revival of Riverdance?); and even food (let's ban the word "chocoholic," for instance. Yes, there are times only chocolate will do, four days out of the month in particular. But, other than that, there are so many other flavors and STOP ADDING CHOCOLATE TO THEM!).

So, while we think we have a variety of choices in all we do, the types of choices we have remind me of going to Golden Corral for a meal: It looks like there are all different kinds of things to eat, until you actually taste the food, at which point you realize all the savory stuff tastes about the same and all the sweet stuff tastes about the same and, really, by the looks of everything, it all should have tasted really good. Instead, though you are stuffed and bloated, you don't remember actually enjoying any of it.

I'm just afraid that pretty soon Golden Corral will be all there is because Golden Corrals make money for the franchise while making customers think they're getting a great deal -- and they are, if they're not picky about things like...well...taste.

Did you honestly expect anything but a food metaphor from me?

Waiting for the last ball to drop

I can't remember a year I didn't watch the ball drop in Times Square. But this is the first year it dawned on me that I could barely see the ball for the tower of advertising. In fact, the path the ball travels has been shortened so much by the advertising, they have a problem doing the countdown before it hits the bottom -- which really isn't the bottom or anywhere near it anymore.

Overall, ringing in the New Year on television has become an all-around depressing proposition. I was one who stuck with good ol' Guy Lombardo to the bitter end; none of that new-fangled Dick Clark's Rockin' in New Years Eve for me! My last memory of Guy Lombardo at the Waldorf Astoria is of watching the ancient couples, dressed to the nines, crammed on the dance floor. There was a bittersweetness about it that sort of summed of the idea of New Years Eve.

But Guy, the Royal Canadians and their audience weren't ... uncomfortable ... to watch -- just outdated and just a little goofy. With all due respect to Dick Clark's past accomplishments and his battle to overcome the debilitating effect of his stroke, even the brief time I saw him last night was painful (I was, after all, focusing my evening on the Marx Brothers over at TCM).

In the end, Dirtman encouraged me to switch over to NBC where the countdown was being emceed by people I didn't recognize, but who seemed to think, in the last minutes before the New Year, we wanted to hear about their irrelevant (to a national broadcast of an worldwide event) life stories.

Then they all counted backwards from ten while most of the screen was taken up by flashing lights trying to sell me Japanese electronics.

Next year, I'll just use my cell phone. Happy New Year, every one; may it be as commercial-free as possible...

New Year's Day . . . and beyond

This is not among my favorite holidays. All that forced celebration is almost too maniacal; the pessimist in me knows that, in spite of the "New" moniker, we are also mourning a year that's gone.

I rarely hear anyone wrap up Dec. 31 by saying, "Wow! That was a great year!" It's always something along the line of "Good riddance!"

I won't belabor the fact that you have the same assurance of a fresh run of 365 new days on June 30 as you do on Dec. 31. We love milestones and that new challenge of remembering to change the number at the end of the date every time you write a check. And -- hey -- any excuse to run a 40 percent off sale at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

My mother used to make a big fuss over New Year's Eve and even New Year's Day. I think it was her attempt to extend the holiday season as much as possible and I wonder, in retrospect, if she didn't suffer a bit from Seasonal Affective Disorder -- I do remember her sighing sadly once and mentioning, "Now comes the post-holiday blues." I don't recall her ever acting depressed, but hers was a generation that wouldn't have "acted out" their feelings.

I will admit that January is sort of a blank time these days. There is nothing to anticipate -- even gardeners are relegated to merely perusing seed catalogs. We're not preparing for anything or anticipating anything but the end of it. Even beastly February at least features Valentine's Day, Presidents' Day white sales and mattress discounts, and Lent (okay, Lent is probably not an eagerly anticipated event and one that, when I was a Catholic schoolgirl, I never quite "got." I knew I had to give something up, so I usually chose something I didn't really like to begin with -- like liver...or kale). You have to travel to experience Mardi Gras and, frankly, every day in the South is Fat Tuesday.

January, though, is 31 days of a blank slate. To me, that's terrific. I have 31 days for which nothing is expected; 31 days where whatever I do is gravy. I can get in some groundwork for times when I will have an obligation...or not. Mostly, I can pick my project and my deadline. So much power!

I remember saying last year that 2009 had been so horrible, I was glad it was over. I was ready to say the same thing about 2010. But, ya know...even though both years held their terrors, they also held a certain beauty of painful, but necessary, growth and poignant moments that only gut-wrenching misery can manifest. I doubt I would have ever witnessed my children's strength and compassion or my brothers' fierce loyalty had this year not happened.

So, thank you, 2010, for what you brought. And I'll even welcome you, 2011 -- in my own, quiet way.

Cookbooks and Candy

My family knows me...

...and they like to eat.

After a brief 24-hour break from cooking so we could whittle back some of the Christmas leftovers, I couldn't wait to get back into the kitchen today to play with the new toys I got for Christmas.

Today it was the Cranberry Apple Cake from Ina Garten's book (or "In the Garden," if you're my brother...). I kind of owed this cake to Dirtman, since I'd put cranberries in the freezer to make for Thanksgiving and then promptly forgot them. Dirtman loves cranberries and the rest of us love apples, cinnamon and orange*. And...it's cake -- it won't see a new day.

This went together very easily -- perfect for a day I had three loads to hang on the clothes line to catch up on laundry. The wind gusts are pretty strong, which is good for drying clothes as long as you anchor them good and tight. I have nightmares of my bras flying about the neighborhood, causing traffic pile-ups.

*Yes, Heir 1, the cake is for us, not for the Dog People. (Heir 1 claims whenever I make something good, it's always for a kennel club function.)

Not for The Dog People

Just wait until next year...

Well, true to form, my ambitions for the holiday kick in about a month too late. Let's see...what was I doing a month ago? Oh, that's right -- apologizing for not properly preparing for Thanksgiving.

At least I've waited until three days before Christmas before berating myself for the stuff I didn't get done. There was I time when I began writing off this year's holiday on December 1.

Those were the days when I'd plan all sorts of handmade fabulousness, from a hand-sculpted Advent wreath to a set of matching hand knit sweaters for the entire family. I still hang on to a cross-stitch pattern for an Advent calendar in 22-ct. gauge (that's teeny-tiny) -- I still tell myself I'm going to get it done (keep in mind, the Heirs are now in their twenties -- not the age where they jump out of bed with excitement each morning to see a picture of sheep behind door number 14...).

All this planning usually happens the day after Christmas when I swear, "Next year will be better. I'll start now...today." I may even go so far as buying the supplies.

Then New Year's Eve comes and goes and I'm so over Christmas I have to leave the house while Dirtman deals with the dismal job of undoing and packing away all the glitter and glamor that seemed such a good idea at the time. By January 1, I want to think of nothing but the coming spring. Hand-sculpted Advent wreath? Plenty of time; right now I'm all about pastels and minimalist decor' accented with fresh flowers.

I know this, yet even now, as I'm typing this, I'm saying to myself, "Yeah, well, NEXT year really WILL be better. NEXT year I will be disciplined, organized and energetic."

I'm thinking hand-needlepoint Christmas stockings for Dirtman and the Heirs and hand-sewn cushions for all the dogs and cats...

For Dirtman

I've been waiting a long time to post this video. I found it way back in June and almost posted it then.

This is for Dirtman, in particular -- our resident bowl of mush. But, honestly (swear you won't tell anyone), I can't get through it without gritting my teeth and draping my arm somewhere, trying to look casual and blase'.

What amazes me is how long this commercial is. With the 15-second commercials flashing in front of us, an ad this long is almost an info-mercial.

So, make sure you are at maximum tissuage or can easily blame your watering eyes on allergies.

Merry Christmas, Sparkey. I saved the best for you.



*Oh, God...I just realized (I haven't seen this commercial since the 80s) the little boy's name is "Charley," the name of my oldest son. Forget everything I said about looking cool and blase'.

Razzleberry Dressing

Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol was not our favorite version of the Dickens classic, but it was requisite and quoted extensively.

Mr. Magoo in his natural state was ...well ... very politically incorrect. Basically, it was a cartoon making fun of an almost-blind old man. To make things worse, Mr. Magoo had a Chinese houseboy named Charley, complete with buck teeth, pigtail and "l" and "r" speech confusion ("Mistah Ma-gloo!")*.

There is no Charley in Magoo's Christmas Carol (not even in the "set up" song, "Great to be Back on Broadway"). And there is very little of Magoo's vision problems -- mistaking a coat rack for a visitor and, of course, the butcher's belly for the giant turkey Scrooge sends to the Cratchitts ("bwoot, bwoot").

So, Merry Christmas, John Boy and Dark Garden. May it be filled with razzleberry dressing.



*This led to a particular embarrassing moment for my mother. I had adopted "Charley's" version of saying "hello" and used it for everyone: "Heh-roh!" We moved to Maryland during this time period and I needed to change pediatricians. My mother was mortified when I greeted my new doctor -- Dr. Yim, a Chinese-American -- with a hearty "Heh-roh!"

A brief respite from being dragged down Memory Lane

By now everyone has seen the flash mob Hallelujah Chorus, so I'm not going to imbed it here. Follow the link if you haven't seen it.

Oh, and make sure you are at maximum tissuage*.

A few things that struck me after watching it a (ahem) few times. I wonder how many people we see singing aren't the ones who practiced for the event. I, myself, could have sung any of the parts, having worked out a simplified, four-part version for kazoo that was to be performed one Christmas Eve a very VERY long time ago that never came to pass because of the refusal on the part of Dark Garden some people not to practice and the inability to find someone to play bass kazoo.

Anyway, this time of year, every church tries to whip its choir into shape enough to wow the Christmas Eve crowd with a passable version of the Handel classic and, thereby, inspire the once-a-year folks to sign on for the duration. So I figure there had to be a few church choir members in the food court crowd who, upon seeing the spontaneous outbreak of a piece they knew, stood and joined the singing.

Then there is the standing thing. I've seen a lot of comments on the internet about how rude it was that so many people didn't stand. Standing during the Hallelujah Chorus is a tradition, not a sacred rite. If this had occurred at my local mall, the lack of standing would have been the same. Most men don't around here don't bother to remove their hats during the Star Spangled Banner either.

It made me laugh to see the people in the background actually fleeing the area, as if they were terrified they'd be charged for listening to Handel without having to choke up a "love offering."

What did touch me, though, were the parents with children. I got a little weepy watching parents make some gesture or sign to their children telling them to pay attention -- "this is special; this is a moment." Watch how many parents reach out and touch their children in some way; they're so aware that this mundane shopping day suddenly became a gift that would never leave either memories.

I have to admit, if this were to occur in our local mall, while Dirtman and I would enjoy the performance, just about every other Linguini would be heading for the door. John Boy would be afraid a sing-along was about to break out. Dark Garden would balk at the idea of sacred music being inflicted upon him while he was doing a chore he hated in the first place. As for the Small Assorted Cratchits (which is what we call the Heirs and the Twins this time of year), duct tape over their mouths might be be wisest course of action.

In stark contrast to the organized and grand version of this perennial classic that is sweeping the web, I offer this older, more rustic version by the Roches (whose Christmas performance in Northern Virginia I swear I will attend one day when I grow up). It's not quite as full-bodied as a mall full of singers, but mesmerizing by its own merit.



*"Tissuage is a word because I say it is.

Those holiday specials were...ummm...special

Here is my dilema: There are certain things I love but I'm not sure I love them for what they are or for the memory they induce.

For instance: There is a song in my Playlist by Julius LaRosa called "Eh, Cumpare." Bluntly, Placido Domingo will not be performing it anytime soon at the Met. It's a campy song, but I love it. I love it because I have a very specific memory from when I was five or six of that song coming on and my mother, grandmother and two aunts singing and miming along and laughing so hard they couldn't breath. I'm pretty sure there had to be Old Fashioneds and Martinis preceding the performance (for everyone but my mother, who didn't drink but had no problem acting like she had). From then on whenever that song was played, the entire Linguini assembly would begin singing and miming and laughing. (This was obviously not only a Linguini thing -- if you watch Godfather III, they have a similar -- though certainly more organized -- reaction to the song).

So, for what it's worth, growing up I absolutely loved Christmas specials. Not just the ones for kids, though. During the Christmas season, I was permitted to stay up past my 8 o'clock bedtime (that's right -- through my sophomore year in high school I had to go to bed at 8 o'clock...) and see all the Christmas shows that ran throughout December; and everyone had one -- Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Red Skelton (who ran the same one every year -- Greer Garson; I loved it), Dean Martin, Andy Williams, and any other celebrity who had a "variety show" (TV Guide designation) on the air at the time.

I see clips of them now and part of me cringes. The writing was horrible, the "special effects" were embarrassing (and not even done ironically) and the music was canned. But -- what was it? I couldn't look away.

Well, of course it was that I was warm and comfy on the sofa surrounded by relatives (oh brother, was I surrounded by relatives...), safe, secure and convinced that this whole "living" thing was a breeze. And, of course, there were cookies.

To this day, I hear Bing Crosby sing and my whole stress level drops.

And, so, for those of you who have forgotten how wonderfully horrible they were or for those who have not experienced the "specialness" of the 1960s Christmas Special:





Or, of course, you could just go to Branson...

How many more sleeps 'til Christmas?

It's pretty safe to say that every Linguini can quote most of Dickens' A Christmas Carol from memory. Bits and pieces of it creep into our lexicon this time of year, but each line has it's own particular source depending on the situation, speaker and gravity of what we are really trying to say.

John Boy, Dark Garden and I grew up with six versions: two records (one featuring no less than Laurence Olivier), the 1951 movie with Alastair Sim and the 1938 version with Reginald Owen, the musical version from the 70s and the rather bizarre version starring Mr. Magoo (more on that at a later date). Dark Garden was quite young when the musical movie came out and he probably has the fondest memories of that -- seeing it at Radio City Music Hall at Christmas time was our reward that year for good report cards in the first semester (I wore my very fashionable maxi-coat that was gray and John Boy said made me look like Sgt. Schultz from Hogan's Heroes -- but I digress...).

Since then, there has been a flood of Christmas Carols (and I'm not counting every sitcom's obligatory Christmas episode that always seems to be a really stupid variation) and each with it's own merit. We have our personal favorites of course, though I like different ones for different reasons -- sometimes just for one line.

It stands to reason that a little of this would rub off on the Heirs and I wondered which of version they would take to heart. I figured the musical version if just for Albert Finney's muttered one-liners or maybe even the Patrick Stewart version because it's Capt. Picard from Star Trek.

But, no. This is the Heirs' favorite version of the Christmas Carol. I have fond memories of the two of them cuddled around me while we watched this.

I never cried over commercials until...

Christmas commercials don't make me cry anymore. I doubt they make anyone cry. They're loud and crass or, worse, deliberately and heavy-handedly sentimental. Jewelry commercials are the worst and don't get me started on car commercials that even hint that a car is an appropriate Christmas present.

I was never a weepy person. Oh, the opening of Lassie always had me swallowing hard, but that was about it. I had a friend who always exited gooey movies in tears and I'd be rolling my eyes.

Then life happened -- I had kids and troubles and turmoil and that all changed. Now I cry over everything. Heir 2 can't leave for college or come home from college that I'm not I'm blubbering in the driveway. I just have to hear a dog whimper and I tear up. I even found myself crying while watching Charlie Chaplin and Jackie Coogan in The Kid.

When I was a teenager, though, I was a rock; except when this commercial came on. I was fine until the veeeeeeeery end -- the kid's reaction...you'll see what I mean.





See? See? Am I right?

With apologies to modern animation...

I get sucked into a sentimental vortex during the Christmas season, so you will have to bear with me while I drag family members kicking and screaming down memory lane.

Happily, just in case you thought that some childhood holiday trauma memories have been permanently lost with the decay of time, there is always some kindred victim soul who managed to preserve it for you.

And so we have today's first offering. Thanks to YouTube, my brothers and I are seeing this for the first time in color.

When I found it and watched it, I was surprised at how much of this cartoon was ingrained in my head -- we used to do Grampy's "Hmmm.....hmmmm.....hmmm....I got it!" all the time (when we were little, I mean -- it would be silly to do it now...). And that song; I'd forgotten where it had come from.

For those of you who don't remember, Grampy used to show up in Betty Boop cartoons.

The Long and Winding Road

I travel it twice a day, five -- sometimes six -- times a week and I've been doing it for a year and a half. You'd think I'd be numb to it by now.

The road between my house and the farm where I work is so phenomenally beautiful you would think it was deliberately laid out just for aesthetic purposes; like someone directed, "Put the mountain here and that little foothill there, a broken down barn right on the road, sprinkle a few sheep there and there and -- oh -- have that light come in from the east at just this angle to light up this, but not that...and a cow -- there must be a cow!"

Actually, it is never the same day to day or even hour to hour. The seasons change, the weather changes, the light changes and even the residents initiate change. Yet there is consistency also. The housing boom and subsequent bust had very little affect on this road -- there is only one vast empty field accessed through an elaborate stone archway festooned with now-tattered flags announcing, "Homes!" "Lots for Sale!" The sign with contact information has been knocked over and broken in the ditch for over a year now.

Naturally there is other evidence of the housing crisis cropping up here and there; but there is an overall stability also that speaks of a privilege peculiar to this part of the country -- properties are not sold, so much as passed down to relatives. There is a lack of foreclosures along this road because few of them carried mortgages.

So it is comforting to know that there is a rhythm on this road that I can count on; the plowing in spring; the foraging trails of deer during the winter that on any other road would be a catastrophe; sheep shearing; calving; and even skunk mating season that results in a minefield of putrid-smelling roadkill.

It isn't all boring regularity, though. There are those bizarre little minor events not important enough to remember to relate at the dinner table, but that are funny in their rural, bucolic context. For instance, there are several poultry farms near here and one day someone must have left their turkey pen open. Driving into town to make a bank deposit I saw about a dozen turkeys on the side of the road, apparently conferring with each other over which direction to take. On my way back, maybe 20 minutes later, they were still there. I decided they were waiting for a bus.*

I'm rather proprietary about life along this road, as if my mere presence ensures that life will continue. If a tree falls along Back Road will it make a noise if Sisiggy isn't driving by to hear it? I think not. I am convinced that on my days off the little man who takes a walk everyday just to the end of his vast property and back stays indoors and the lady who walks her Beagle just ties him up in the backyard and sleeps in.

On a sharp curve is a huge, tidy farm with sheep and cattle. Many times when I drive by in the early morning the owner (at least I assume he is) is on his front lawn with his cup of coffee, surveying his good work. Two border collies sit obediently at his feet, awaiting their orders. I wave to him and his return wave is practically a salute. There is no sign of a female presence on the property; no flowers appear on the porch in the spring, nor any other decorative indication that one season is any different from another. The only vehicle in the driveway is the immaculate early-model farm truck. The outside of the house if devoid of a single bush or border and the white paint is renewed regularly. He is in control of his land; a tight, iron-grip of control.

I have decided I like this man but, like the ex-wife I've conjured for him, doubt anyone could ever live with him. By now he's convinced himself he likes it better this way and, were he a talker -- which he is not -- he would tell you so in a firm tone that would prevent your disagreement.

I have built stories like this for each of the houses I pass. The ramshackle farmhouse where a little old lady regularly hangs out her laundry, rain or shine; she's a little addled, but she makes due with regular visits from old friends. There is the young family who live next to a tiny country store; I'm positive the oldest boys is recruited to make regular trips next door for milk and, in my mind, he's always barefoot and in need of a haircut. I've made up an entire medical history for the little man who walks to the end of his property each day.

Even the mountains have a story and I try to picture what this valley looked like when those mountains were as big and craggy as the Rockies and here I am, a tiny speck driving through in my little Subaru Anachronism.

My very favorite thing is finding old road beds and trying to conjure what this area looked like before this nice, convenient road cut off the maze of small country lanes. You can still see the shadows of the old paths, especially when you come across a very old house that has been modified so that its back is now its front.

I get a little annoyed when I meet up with another vehicle on what I consider "my road," especially when they pull behind me and want me to drive over the limit because they're in a hurry. Their heads usually have that sideways tilt, letting me know they're on their cell phone because, you know, it's been an entire three minutes since they dropped off little Finster and his his status may have changed. (What is it with people who can no longer drive without a cell phone attached to their ear? Are their families that inept?)

Sometimes...more times than I like to admit...my drive is the best part of the day...unless, of course, there's something good on TCM...

*Don't worry -- since I was unable to determine which farm the turkeys were from, I called the sheriff's department, which had already been informed (several times over) of the wayward turkeys and were dealing with the problem at that very moment. I considered heading back to the site to watch the turkey round-up, but decided to leave the sheriff's department with their dignity intact.