Snow in Virginia

See that? When does that ever happen? See all those people running around with snow on the ground?

I’ve lived up and down the east coast of the U.S. and it’s my experience that as soon as there is even rumor of a flake falling to the ground, people start running around and panicking. They clear grocery store shelves of milk, bread and toilet paper (what, exactly, do they plan to do for the duration of the “storm?”), disappear into their houses and don’t come out until the transportation department plows a personal path right to their door. (Ironically, they all own SUVs.)

Yet over and over again in on Christmas cards there are people actually walking in falling snow! They don’t look harried or anxious about the white stuff they’re standing on or about the fact that more is falling from the sky. They’re chatting on street corners; they’re strolling to a big white church that’s all lit up as though the parish finance committee hadn’t put a cap on utility spending; they’re waving to people in a big lit-up Victorian houses as though they’re friends of theirs, even though the owners wouldn’t have them in dripping slush all over their oriental rugs and polished pine floors; they’re walking right past deer and happy little woodland creatures gazing at a star in the night sky and not even considering how great they’d look dressed and roasted on their table; they visit cute little shops that are actually open at night (it’s always night, or dusk) and in the snow!

Where is this wonderful place where people go outside in snow?

I realize this is probably a regional thing. I’m sure up in Michigan or Wisconsin, certainly Canada, things are different. Hey, I saw Fargo. (Yes, I know Fargo is not in Michigan or Wisconsin…or Canada…Yes, I know it’s in North Dakota…)

I also know people who are used to snow don’t actually like it and think people who do like snow just like it because they never get it. That’s why we see so many Canadian cars on I-95 heading south.

Actually, though, when I was growing up there was always snow from December to March. Only I didn’t have to deal with it, only play in it, which I suppose accounts for the idealized opinion I have.

On the other hand, around here we have this:

Ice. All over everything.

It’s pretty for a few hours, like everything is dipped in glass.

It won't scrape off the windows because it's a quarter-inch thick. But it won't last

Then it all melts into a dirty mess.

And that’s what we get to walk in.

Maybe he's a plumber...

A few days ago Heir 2 and I attempted to make the usual press butter cookies using the same old press I use every year, that every year I have to patch together to make work.

Like me, the thing was an antique (my mother used it while I was growing up) and finally, half way through the cookies, it broke for good.

Dirtman, ever diligent (and eager for cookies) overnighted a new cookie press from Williams-Sonoma. Along with the same presses the old one had, there were some new -- um -- improved ones, including this:


My snowman has a butt crack. That's sick!

Having the Neighbors In

This weekend, were we in our new house, we would have been hosting a Christmas party.

This is a practice that is alien to me. Oh, the family get-togethers are old hat to me. But having someone not related to you come to my house and not get paid to do it is a new concept.

Only once while I was growing up did my parents host a Christmas party. My parents decided to “have the neighbors in.” These were people we knew vaguely. They waved when we saw them outside. Some of their children had briefly been our playmates. But by and large, they were total strangers to us.

My brothers and I were given strict instruction on our part in The Christmas Party: We were not, under any circumstances, to show our faces. This was an Adults Only Christmas Party, which sounded kind of sleazy to me. We were to pick a place in the house and stay there. My younger brother, only three or four at the time, would be in bed. My older brother and I opted to stay in his room because we could get to the bathroom from there without anyone seeing us.

All this was fine with my older brother. He had no interest in what was going on, no desire to meet anyone or for them to meet him.

I, however, was dying to see what was going on and why, exactly, it was so important that we not be there. I wanted them all to see me and how glib and advanced for my age I (thought I) was. Besides, who did my parents think they were, locking us away like we didn’t exist? Like the Kirbys in Topper.

Even our German Shepherd wasn’t allowed around. Like the Kirby’s dog, Neal, only Neal came with his own – uh -- fortification.

I could only hold off for about an hour. Then I had to sneak out of my brother’s room to listen in the hallway.

Suddenly my little brother sneaked by me, barely tossing me a glance. Just before entering the living room, be began rubbing his eyes and yawning. Having negotiated the hallway just fine, he stumbled into the living room.

“Look who’s here,” I heard someone say. He was in trouble now!

“Wha-What’s going on?” my brother said sleepily. Give me a break…

Squeals from the women in the room. “Isn’t he adorable!”

Yeah, yeah. He had those pretty curls and all and his hazel eyes always match the sleeper he’s wearing, a sleeper he put on himself because it’s a new sleeper and my mother didn’t use the new sleepers that were for hospitalization or death, only the old sleepers with the holes in the knees and he has those cute curls because my mother refuses to cut his hair because he has cute curls and you just think he’s not smart enough to stage this whole “the-noise-just-woke-me” thing, but I know better because he’s smart enough to take over the world – or at least my part of it – and stop encouraging him because I’m the good one who listened to my parents and never showed my face and he is the evil spawn who wasn’t that sleepy when he walked past me perfectly awake 30 seconds ago.

Well, two can play at this game. I knew “cute” to be beyond my abilities, so “competent” would be my tack. Like Princess on Father Knows Best. She was the Good Daughter,

as opposed to the evil spawn younger daughter, Kitten, who everyone thought was so cute.

I entered the living room timidly and said softly, “Excuse me. I’m sorry. I’ll take him back to bed, Mother.” My parents looked at me, speechless. Mother?

I reached for my brother who clung to Ma with an emphatic, “No!” (He’s smarter than I thought…)

“Go with your sister.” My mother said this with through clenched teeth and my brother knew better than to refuse (heh-heh!).

Then she gave me The Look.

Holy Mother of God, The Look!

In the hallway my brother yanked his hand back and stomped into his room. I returned to my older brother’s room, where we passed the rest of the night playing Stratego or something (just like Muldur and his sister in X-Files, only without the alien abduction.).

The next morning I expected at least a lecture or a list of work that had to be done in retaliation for my transgression. Instead my mother, probably tempered by my father, sneered, “Well, you held out longer than I thought you would.”

My younger brother stared into his cereal bowl. He’d obviously already been dealt with.

And then my older brother walked in. My mother’s gaze bespoke admiration and pride.

Then I realized. He was John Boy Walton.

That made us, my younger brother and me, minor Waltons, ones whose name no one remembers; ones who were rarely told good night. They always said goodnight to John Boy. But if you were a minor Walton, it was a coin toss whether anyone would say goodnight to you. Maybe in one episode. But it was always, "Goodnight, John Boy." (Harmonica chord)

Naturally this is why all the minor Waltons hold homicidal thoughts for John Boy and it's a wonder he can sleep at night, with all the minor Waltons sending him evil thoughts.

But that was a long time ago The minor Waltons We’ve all grown up and realize that my parents just didn’t want little kids interrupting the adult talk and, also didn’t want the neighbors to bring their kids.

Festive Holiday Decorating

I have a confession to make.

This year, for the first time in my life, I broke the cardinal rule in cookie baking: I used a mixer. My mother is turning in her grave and yelling at me in my head.

But Ma…

This is how big the Christmas cookie is:

In this house, they don’t place the cookies on a plate and sit down with a glass of milk like we used to. No! Cookies are grabbed by the handful and tossed back like a bunch of peanuts. It doesn’t matter if the mixer made them tough. It doesn’t matter how they’re decorated. Heck, it barely matters that they’re even cookies!

So, sorry, Ma. I used a mixer. It’s just quicker and I don’t experience pain when I see an afternoon’s worth of baking disappear in less than 10 minutes (allowing three minutes to get the tin open.).

I guess I should have informed Heir 2 of this decision before he did this:

Yes, those are tweezers.

But before everyone gets a soft spot in their hearts for a 14-year-old who would put such care into cookie decorating: Heir 2 found out one of the red decorations actually bled when baked on the cookie. Having instructed me to press a cookiesheetful using the “dog” mold, he is shown here placing “bullet holes” in the cookie sides and I’d rather not discuss his creative use of chocolate jimmies. Fortunately, you can’t hear his evil chuckle.

Heir 2 will not be decorating cookies to take to the kennel club Christmas party.

In other Christmas decorating news: Dirtman and I did indeed go out and buy a tree, lights and ornaments this weekend. Sadly, in view of the fact that everyone else has planned properly for their holiday season, there were no tree toppers available at Tarzhay.

I do not shop at Walmart (and that is a manifesto), so until I can get somewhere else, Heir 1 has thoughtfully loaned us this for the top of our tree:

This is Raziel, a character from one of the Heirs’ video games who had become a regular in Linguini Christmas tableaus. Raziel is a vampire angel who seems to wander around talking to himself quite a bit. He has all kinds of existential dilemmas over the fact that he is an angel, yet still required to fulfill his needs as a vampire. I get the impression that this is somehow supposed to make us feel sorry for him even when he’s sucking people’s blood, but I mostly feel sorry for him because he has no stomach which presents all kinds of physiological questions.

Last year Raziel was “Hark!”ing over the crèche and I’m not certain the shepherds were all that pleased to see who was bringing them glad tidings of great joy. So this year he’ll sit on the tree and, perhaps, solve some of his philosophical and psychic problems.

I choose to see my sons as “creative,” not warped. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Socks. Yeah...Socks.

I present to you the contents of my sock drawer and, hence, a dilemma.

First off, what's up with none of the black socks matching? How is it possible that out of four pairs of socks, only the mate disappears? Why not one complete pair?

Ah! But this is a question that has baffled philosophers since the dawn of – er – socks. The problem is, what to wear with black slacks and a red shirt.

Now, before you answer, look at this:

See? The red does not really match either.

Wait, wait! I only want to hear from females. No, I’m not sexist, only experienced. I presented this dilemma to the Linguini males. Heir 1’s answer was totally unacceptable in that he could not understand why this was so important. We threw out that answer. And we threw out Heir 2’s suggestion that I wear the white socks, claiming white goes with everything, and tried not to call him a dweeb. And Dirtman’s suggestion that I wear one black and one red has slightly sinister overtones to it, like he was daring me.

Besides, why should I listen to a man who went to see The Chronicles of Narnia last night in freezing temperatures with no socks at all. The socks were probably festooning a lamp.

The only males left after this were, I’m afraid, the dogs. Neither terrier was interested, seeing as the socks are neither diving under the bed or good to eat. And Topper just sniffed a few times, grabbed the sock and took it for his collection on his chair….

Oh.

Never mind.

Excuse me. I have laundry to do.

(Editor's note: Thanks to Heir 1 who, in spite of questioning the validity of a blog post about socks, still agreed to take the picture. It was either that or I take the picture and he wears the red shirt...Naaah.)

Mustering that ol' holiday spirit...

To avoid being the evil mother ripping her poor child from the home he so dearly loves (gag), we are staying here in the wolverine den for the holidays.

In light of our housing situation, I had suggested to my family that we flee somewhere really neat for Christmas, say a ski resort in the mountains or a nice country inn. I figured everyone would jump at the chance to leave our current residence, which is deteriorating faster than we can get the new one up.

Imagine my surprise when with great big cow eyes, my street-savvy, tough-talking oldest son said with incredulity, “But this is the house I grew up in.” This is what I’ve heard from him about “the house I grew up in” since we started building the new one: His room is too small, he has to share the one bathroom with the rest of us, the basement is like a fetid sewer, and a strange mold has started growing on the dining room ceiling.

And so from somewhere I have to whip up a whole lot of holiday spirit very quickly because we all know that around here, the “man behind the curtain” pulling the levers to make Christmas happen is a woman with a lousy attitude because she can’t have her way – that being me.

And So:

Today Dirtman and I will venture out to get a tree and decorations. We will become fanatical about sending the Parson Russell Terriers outside on a regular basis because, as the book says, “never trust the bathroom habits of a PRT,” and a large tree in the living room is a huge temptation for any breed. Except, of course, for Australian Shepherds, who are perfect.

The cats will become part of the tree decorations, mostly to get away from the terriers. The tree will tip over at least once during the season at which point Dirtman will threaten to get rid of the “%&!#@ cats.” I remind him the %&!#@ cats kill the %&!#@ field mice and the %&!#@ snakelets from the black snake lurking in the basement that watches us do laundry.

Tomorrow I will start Christmas cookies, which everyone will eat tomorrow night. Then the next day I will make more Christmas cookies, which I will hide and we will subsequently find five years from now when we finally move. The day after I will make more Christmas cookies that may actually make it into tins before Topper counter surfs and knocks enough off to satisfy the whole pack. I will continue making Christmas cookies every day until at least one batch actually makes it to Christmas.

I will play Christmas music, which Heir 1 will declare as “lame,” but now I know is a requirement. I will have the grace not to mention this.

Heir 2 will chase the dogs around trying to decorate them with garland. To get them truly hyper he will wrap the garland around Gaspode’s cow. And this is how our garland ends up in pieces.

Dirtman will scold me for “going overboard on this Christmas thing” because it’s “just another day,” and I will call him Scrooge and threaten to take his presents back. He will get a look of panic in his eyes and spent the rest of the night on the internet, paying exorbitant shipping fees to make sure things get here on time.

And finally, I will spend a day writing Christmas cards and explaining to everyone why the return address is the same one as last year, when last year we announced that the house would be up by summer. I’ll just give them the URL for this blog.

It’s quicker and I’ll cry less.

(Editor’s note: Please hold off on the pity parties for Sisiggy. We would remind you she has a swimming pool contractor, rendering any complaining invalid. Save your sympathy for someone with real problems and we will try to contain her whining. Thank you.)

RUN! You're on Candid Camera!

My brothers and I are well documented. Photos, slides, 16mm film, every stinkin’ awkward moment of our childhood is set down in glorious (almost always) color. And nothing is more documented than Christmas.

Our very first appearance is on a huge 16mm film of my older brother’s first year. No one except my mother has actually made it through the entire reel without nodding off. Let’s face it, he’s a baby and he’s under a year old. It’s like an hour and a half of watching a wheel of cheese take a bath and go to the zoo.

I do not appear until the second reel, a vastly smaller film attesting to diminished funds due to parenthood. We like to refer to this as the abuse documentation. It features a Halloween where my mother chases me around the livingroom with a leopard mask on her face and my brother races back and forth through the frame dressed as a cowboy and shooting at me with a cap gun. This segment ends with a close-up me crying in terror.

The Christmas scene doesn’t improve matters any. That was back in the day when, if you wanted home movies you had to light the room with a bank of glaring lights. On Christmas morning from our darkened bedrooms this had the effect of making the living room glow, kind of neat when you’re convinced something magical happened the night before. But then you have to actually enter the room – from the darkened bedroom and hallway. The result was five minutes of watching us squint our way into the room, bumping into the tree, tripping over gifts and walking out of frame, only to be ushered back by my mother. She tries to put a doll in my arms and I look like Patty Duke as Helen Keller, feeling the face and body to determine what I’m holding: “D-O-L-L. It has a name!”

The reel ends with a scene in our backyard wading pool (Easter having been documented on photograph recording my brother plastered with so much Odell that if he fell, he’d break his hair, and me scowling in some evil-looking crinoline). My brother, as I remember, hated getting his face wet. So, of course, my mother starts splashing him as he is standing there, a good vigorous woosh to make sure it gets all the way up to his face. Only he moves out of the way, leaving me, sitting quietly behind him, to bear the major brunt of the wave. This segment ends with yet another close up of me crying.

The films taper off by the time my younger brother shows up and the medium of choice is now slides. By this time my mother has given up any pretension that her offspring are going to give those cute little Mouseketeers a run for their money. I appear for my Christmas morning close up in curlers and my older brother’s pajamas have holes in the knees. My younger brother is dressed in a sleeper that has seen better days when it was first on my older brother, then on me. This is a trend because for most of the slides my mother has obviously abandoned the idea that I was Shirley Temple and has opted for the more unisex look in children’s clothing. I appear in clothing my brother wore in the old 16mm days.

Only my father is undocumented during these years. He was the only one who knew how to work the camera. The few pictures that do exist feature a man sitting stiffly in a chair, obviously delivering instructions out of the corner of his mouth. Same chair, same position every time. Only in one someone has put a beer mug in his hand. In another my brothers and I are propped on the arms. In another, slightly fuzzy version, my mother stands over him. Pa becomes one of those die-cuts of political figures you can get your picture taken with on the Smithsonian Mall in D.C.

These days anyone can take a picture with digital camera and you can keep taking pictures until you get the one you want, ditching the rest. Holidays tend to be underdocumented since it get increasingly harder to make that same stinkin' tree look "interesting" every year. And how many times must the dog endure the Santa hat?

Because of the freedom digital photography affords, we take a lot more day-to-day photos. Each of us specializes in their own particular brand of embarrassment. I, of course, specialize in the dogs. Dirtman is fond of unflattering pictures of people doing absolutely nothing. Heirs 1 and 2: people attending to their toilette, most specifically, each other.

Chillingly, I realize this will be our legacy. Dogs and ugly people standing around, brushing their teeth and blowing their nose.

Sounds about right...

I feel vindicated!

Dirtman says I lack a sense of humor, says I'm too uptight to laugh, too "Yankee" to appreciate the subtleties of Southern humor to realize how truly great it is.

But now I am vindicated. Netscape's poll proved that the most irritating holiday song is:

GRANDMA GOT RUN OVER BY A RAINDEER

Everyday is Zsa Zsa Appreciation Day!

Well, Dahlings, things around here have certainly been deteriorating. I mean, I don’t think my servants truly appreciate The Zsa Zsa as is her due.

For instance, my former servant, had the decency to aid The Zsa Zsa in her morning abolutions and breakfast at a decent hour of the morning: 4 o’clock. Then she had the good manners to get out of my face for the rest of the day until it was time for The Zsa Zsa’s dinner. The Zsa Zsa could come and go as she pleased without having to make a formal request. And all day long were all the minor Aussies praising and worshipping The Zsa Zsa and telling The Zsa Zsa of her magnificence. And The Zsa Zsa was a beneficent ruler, for The Zsa Zsa let them exist!

But now, this woman sleep until six o’clock in the morning. And you should hear her should The Zsa Zsa make the tiniest suggestion that it is now Time For The Zsa Zsa! And that other person, that male person, is even worse. He positively bellows, as if The Zsa Zsa had no right to suggest Time For The Zsa Zsa begin at 4:15 a.m.

And now – now – The Zsa Zsa has found out when it snows, Time For The Zsa Zsa can be as late as 7 a.m.! How can they wait that long to touch The Zsa Zsa? Aren’t they, even while sleeping, pining to stroke The Zsa Zsa's soft, fluffy fur and feel The Zsa Zsa’s warm breath on their faces?

Well, this morning The Zsa Zsa showed them. The Zsa Zsa bestowed the honor of monitoring The Time For The Zsa Zsa to one of their puppies! Oh, how happy and honored was Puppy 2 (how cute they look at that age, stumbling around on their two legs, trying to bellow just like their father!). I’m sure Puppy 1 was disappointed that, because he had shut his door, he missed out on being with The Zsa Zsa at 4:30 in the morning!

Poor Puppy 2, though. He was afraid to tell that woman of how The Zsa Zsa passed her by to bestow such an honor to her son. He never mentioned it to her until she thanked the puppy for tending to The Zsa Zsa after attempts to drag her lazy butt out of bed had failed. Puppy 2 was so afraid that he claimed not to remember the incident, though how could he be anything but ecstatic at opening the door to the snowy outdoors to see The Zsa Zsa emerge and frolick among the snowflakes? Such is his terror and so I do not even mind that he forgot, young pup that he is, to present The Zsa Zsa with her breakfast.

(Sigh) As The Zsa Zsa said, The Zsa Zsa is a beneficent ruler.

And all day long The Person is here, just hanging around The Zsa Zsa’s palace. But does she look constantly to The Zsa Zsa? NO! Does she spend her time in constant praise of The Zsa Zsa? NO! She types and types and types, only acknowledging The Zsa Zsa every now and then. She even gets downright snippy should The Zsa Zsa render a gentle nudge – okay, two gentle nudges – three tops – reminding her that she is supposed to be here for The Zsa Zsa.

And to be assisted to the outside – frankly, the woman should be fired. The Zsa Zsa must perform The Dance of the Wiggling Body before she takes the hint. Poor thing. She’s used to that dimwit, Topper, just crashing headlong into the door when he wants to go out. She is unaccustomed to anticipating The Zsa Zsa’s needs. The Zsa Zsa should be delivered to the outside before even The Zsa Zsa is aware of it. That is the way of properly attending to The Zsa Zsa.

The Zsa Zsa is aware of yet another snowfall coming up this week. Just to spite that woman, The Zsa Zsa will go to Puppy 2 first. And the kid better remember the breakfast this time!

After a football Sunday...

Dirtman and I are a pretty compatible couple, on the whole. I say this because I do know of couples who keep it together only because they never actually interact with each other and one is reliant on the other’s medical insurance. But Dirtman and I have based on relationship on more stable ground. For instance: We both hate kale.

Oh, and there’s that love thing…

Imagine my surprise when, as a starry-eyed soon-to-be-bride, I found out this glaring difference in our personalities, one that has slapped me in the face daily for the past 18-and-a-half years: Dirtman likes sports.

In fact, Dirtman used to be a bona fide part time sports writer, which, I have to admit, was the only way we could make ends meet, back in the day. Even back then when we were gathering dew drops off the leaves to keep from dying of thirst (only kidding. I threw that in for my brother, but we were pretty low on the financial ladder), Dirtman’s annual Christmas present was money to be in a fantasy baseball league. Our autumns are scheduled around Va. Tech football games, whether on TV or attended live. I think the greatest day in his life was when Heir 2 learned to talk (he was three months old, I think) and he had someone with whom to trash talk, seeing as I was never particularly good at this:

Dirtman: Oh look. What a surprise. The Phils are in last place. Can’t you pick a real team to support?

Sisiggy: No.

I am not particularly competitive (Dirtman says this is because I did, in fact, grow up going to Phillies games). I find rabid fans of any team loud, annoying and pretentious until they lose, at which point they become downright unsportsmanlike.

But we have found ways to compromise. Every Orioles game has to feature a side trip to Little Italy, more specifically, Vaccaro’s Bakery, which I need like a hole in the head. But, hey, this is nine innings at a minimum, not to mention how many games back when the kids were little I had to get there early so we could watch Cal Ripkin warm up. We did, in fact, see Cal warm up. At least I’m pretty sure it was Cal. There was something moving on the field around third base and it was taller than the other things, so I’m assuming it was Cal. But, since these were the buy-at-the-last-minute nosebleed seats, it could have been Bozo the Clown down there for all we knew. We told Heir 2 it was Cal Ripkin.

Now Virginia Tech games are another story. I have recently been banned from attending these, a goal of mine for years. Tech games always sell out, so if you sit there reading a book, attendees get a little cranky, thinking of all the loved ones they left home in bitter despair whose seat you are occupying. I have diligently worked at the banning ever since I attended my first Tech game and when, three days before the game, we parked and still had to walk 535 miles to get to the stadium. When asked who got to park in the empty spaces right next to the stadium, Dirtman informed me this was for people who donated big money. “To the University?” I naively asked. “To the football program,” he replied, as if connecting Tech football to the annoyingly academic university was beyond conception. Anyway, during our pilgrimage to the stadium we had to pass various outposts of drunken mayhem where grown men had spent more on tailgating equipment than on their kids’ four-year tuition. That I couldn’t help commenting on these ironies during the actual game, thereby putting our lives in jeopardy, is the reason why I am no longer invited to join Dirtman at games in Blacksburg.

I am still required to drive him down there and back. This leaves him free to instruct me to pull up to other vehicles bearing Va. Tech detritus so he can lower the window, wave and shout, “whoo, whoo,” with vastly more enthusiasm than I am typing with. This is supposed to be accompanied by me honking the horn, which is usually what the person in the other vehicle is doing. Unless we are driving home and Tech lost. In this case, fans are delivering their own personal monologue about biased referees, using a low grumble that can be rather disturbing.

I hear there are spouses who are better sports than I am, no pun intended. They tolerate the nattering of ESPN all weekend long, actually watch and make attempts to understand the games, they honk the horn for their spouse and “whoo, whoo” out the window and do all these things without requiring their spouse to sit through an entire opera. A nice heavy one. Wagner, all the Rings. Requiring a suit and tie. And dinner. With wine. Imported wine. Did I mention the stadium was 535 miles away?

Linguini nature photography

"Oh look, Harold! In the tree! A cardinal! They're so pretty this time of year, their bright red feathers against the dismal landscape! Get the binoculars!"



"A cardinal, Blanche? Here. Maybe we should get a picture."



"Why, Harold, that's no cardinal. It's a visitor from 'da hood! Oh, go get the camera! It's so rare to see them during migration! Quiet...maybe we'll hear him sing a rap song for us!"



"Here little Home Boy! Don't be afraid little Home Boy! Quick Harold take the picture!"

"I think he's onto us, Blanche."



"Oh, he's going away, Harold. Oh, we missed it. Come back to your crib little homey! Oh Harold, why didn't you snap the picture while we had the chance..."

Deck the Boxes with Boughs of Packing Tape (no dogs here either...)

Sooner or later I have to address this festive Christmas season issue.

Honestly, I am usually a Christmas pest. I start cookies in October and when you’re baking Christmas cookies, Christmas music is a requisite. The crèche goes up the day after Thanksgiving, and the tree that weekend. I even have festive Christmas earrings. (I do not, however, indulge in sporting large Christmas images all over my ensemble. It’s not a manifesto like the teddy bear thing. Just recognition that I do not have the body to wear them: Picture an Oompah Loompah wearing a sweater with a large Christmas tree on the front…Sorry. Now try to burn the image from your brain…)

This year, however, the Christmas spirit is sorely lacking around here. All the Christmas decorations are stored behind 5,000 tons of new furniture that was supposed to be in the new house we were supposed to be occupying 80 years ago. Not that there are a lot of decorations either because, other than the sentimental ornaments and a crèche that was more an investment than a purchase, most of it was getting pretty shabby. There was a garland that had broken up so much we just used the pieces like tinsel (an interesting, though somewhat tacky, effect). Then there was the wreath we’d hang in the dining room that would shed several branches if someone’s tread was too heavy. So it all got pitched.

Buy new, you say? What fun, you say?

Well, we’re having trouble deciding what goes with our current décor, which is -- um – late…uhhhhhhh…UPS warehouse.

Intellectually, I have guilt over my lack of holiday spirit, realizing how very, very lucky I am and how very very spoiled I’ve become. But I want my new house and my fireplace with a mantle and my bay window INSTALLED with a wintry snow scene glowing in it and my big, long dining room table loaded with food cooked on my gas stove that heats the entire bottom of the pot, not just four inches in the center, and a tree in the living room with a piano in front of it so Dirtman can begin playing and we can sing “White Christmas” together while he uses his pipe to ring the bells on the tree while Danny Kaye and Vera-Ellen tap dance on the patio and Clarence gets his wings and Ralphie gets his Red Ryder BB gun with a compass in the stock and the Bumpus’ dogs steal our turkey. AND I WANT IT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Editor's Note: We recognize several errors in the above rant. First of all, please do not construe the fact that Sisiggy wants to sing "White Christmas" with the Dirtman to mean we are encouraging any vocal attempts on Dirtman's part. He should just sit there, mouth words and look like Bing Crosby. Also, there is not a single Linguini who can or should play the piano. And we are fully aware Sisiggy just wished for dead people to dance on her patio, which would be cool in late October, but is kind of creepy in December.

(Editor’s Note II: We realize a brief reference to dogs was allowed to remain in this post, but since they are not, specifically, Sisiggy’s dogs and they neither talk nor make illegal offers over the internet, we feel confident non-dog people will accept this as the pop cultural reference it is and move on. Thank you.)

It's okay, non-dog people. You can come out now. The dogs are gone...

I promise: There are no dogs in this post.

It’s Holiday Function time again, Dirtman’s favorite High Holy Time.

The Dirtman loves a good holiday function. He can work a room like nobody’s business. He remembers names. He remembers events. He remembers the right names connected to the right events, not always to the participants’ delight.

The Dirtman really shines in the area of small talk. He could pull a conversation from a light pole. And he is capable of ending a conversation and moving on. Hence, Dirtman is never stuck in a corner next to someone describing their irritated bowel syndrome because they took the question, “How are you” literally.

Dirtman’s only problem during High Holiday Function time is me.

I hear “Holiday Function” as “High Potential for Public Humiliation.” First there is the whole wardrobe issue. High heels look nice, but since they are rarely worn, falling over is a real consideration. Flats look frumpy, especially when you are five feet tall and people tend to look over your head anyway. Then the decision: pants or dress. If you wear a dress and do fall over, modesty demands you adjust everything before rising, which can be a time-consuming practice. With pants you can just pop up and try to pretend nothing happened. Or that you meant to do that.

See? I haven’t left the house yet and I’m already into a full panic attack.

Now we arrive and, God help me, there is food. Little tiny food on little tiny thin paper plates, and, oh crap joy, punch. Okay. Plate in one hand, punch in the other, my purse – on my shoulder (come on, I’m not an idiot). Now: Walk. Across. The Room.

(At this point I revert to my Roman Catholic upbringing and begin chanting the “Hail Mary” to myself, much like Robert Redford in A Bridge Too Far.)

A burst of laughter comes from across the room and Dirtman is in the midst of it. He has managed to snag that prime real estate at every function with tiny food on tiny, thin paper plates: a sideboard. That’s where all the socially adept are hanging out, having staked their claim while I was juggling punch cups and deciding which food was least likely to wind up on my blouse.

So I head for a place to stand, somewhere by some safe-looking soul who won’t jostle me too much. There’s someone who caught my eye and they are smiling. Do I know them?

Where do I know them from? I don’t get out much so how hard can this be?

I smile back. “Cold enough for you?”

Did I just say that? What kind of lame opening comment is that?

Unfortunately, it works because I have managed to find the one person in the room who knows in detail what about the currents in the atmosphere have come together precisely at this time to make it cold enough and what was different at various times over the past, say, three centuries to make it not cold enough.

And there I am, sadly, for a very long time because Dirtman like to close these functions down. In fact, the event itself isn’t enough for him. Oh no. Dirtman is no snob. He likes to stick around and talk to the staff, maybe even help them out a bit.

“Well,” he sighs contentedly as we settle in the car, “that was fun. You and (insert name of someone I’ve never heard of who, of course, Dirtman grew up with) were certainly deep in discussion. I’ve always though he was a little boring.”

It occurs to me at this point that he could at least show a modicum of jealousy. I’m always tempted to say in a low, sultry voice, “Maybe we weren’t talking about…the weather,” but these attempts always end in laughter on his part and humiliation on mine.

And then, to cap off the evening, the question that brings on a cold sweat and sets my pulse racing: “So, what’re you wearing tomorrow night? It’s a little formal, so you should wear a dress and heels.”

We've finally run out of dogs

Oh, all right then. You win.

I’ll let the other Aussie post something. After all, The Zsa Zsa realizes it’s the holiday season, the spirit of giving and all that.

But you may be building up the other Aussie’s blogging capabilities beyond what he is able to deliver. But, then, don’t say I didn’t warn you …

So now, Dahlings. (Sigh) Here’s Topper.

Topper here. Pet the Topper. Topper good boy. Topper like Snausages.

Topper like da bones. Da Mama gets da bones. Topper takes da bones, all da bones. Take Salt bone. Take Pode bone. Take Zsa Zsa bone. All bones for Topper…

****************

Excuse me, a moment. Move over you big ape.

Now. See what I mean, dahlings.? Do you really need to hear anymore? No? Good! Have at it, Topper!

****************

Topper back. Topper has an itch. Topper scratch. Topper happy now.

Topper go outside. Go outside get the bones. Topper bury the bone. Happy Topper bury bones.

Time go inside. Jump on door. Topper jump on muddy door. Lot of Topper mud on muddy door. Let Topper in. Topper good boy.

Find the Salt. Chew on Salt. Topper chew on Salt. Da Bones! Topper go outside! Topper get da bones! Da Mama let Topper outside get bones. Oooo, da Mama yell at da Topper. Say, "In or out, Topper." Topper say, "Yes!" Topper go outside get...

*****************

Now that is why I didn't let Topper on the blog, dahlings. Next time listen to The Zsa Zsa. The Zsa Zsa always knows what's best.

Pssst....

Over here…shhhhh…

Down here.

SSSSSHHHHHHH! Enough with the “Oh look at the cute little doggie in the glasses.” I’m a little nearsighted, okay? I just don’t want Her Majesty to hear us, okay?

‘Cuz if she catches me talkin’ to you, she’ll be over here pushin’ me off the chair and talking in the third person and acting all la-dee-da about her “admirers” and her “dahlings.” What’s with this “dahling” business? She was born in this country, just like the rest of us.

I’m Salt, the other Parson Russell Terrier and I thought I’d offer yous a deal.

Ya see, I’m probably the only one who knows the score around here. This ain't no palace and she eats her food in a bowl on the floor just like the rest of us slobs.

See, Da ‘Pode and me, we’re rescue dogs and we’ve been around a lot longer than those ridiculous Aussies and their dog shows and parading around without tails sos no one can grab them just when they’re about to nab the juiciest plumpest rodent…(ahem) Well, like I said, Da ‘Pode and me, we’re just dogs who came from breeders who were, let’s say…uh…from the other side of the tracks, so to speak, Ya know wad I mean?

Sos here’s the deal. I’m in a position to have certain information, ya know wad I mean? And that information just might be – um – shall we say – for sale.

Oh, you think I don’t know stuff? You think I’m bluffin’? You lookin’ at me an’ sayin’ I’m bluffin’? Okay, listen to this:

Ya know that "close male relative" Her Highness likes to think no one knows is really her son (And any idiot can tell you if there’s one, there’s a few more)? Let me ask you this: Have you ever heard of a Mister Zsa?

Ah-hah! See? I got tons of stuff like that!

How ‘bout this: There’s a certain other Australian Shepherd around here who won’t be waltzing with Matilda anytime in the future, if you catch my drift. Ya know wad I mean?

Okay, okay, Da ‘Pode and I aren’t exactly – umm – potent anymore (ahem). But we’re not the ones running around here acting like they’re Her Majesty’s arm candy either!

Sos ya see, I got some valuable information here. And what’s your end of the deal?

Well, Da ‘Pode and I have come across a -- uh -- lucrative business opportunity and we just need a little – um – fuel, ya see, to start the engine. Nothin’ big. Whatever yous can spare.

See Da Pode and I, we’ve been watching this whole dog show thing and we says to each other, we says, “Hey, ain’t we dogs? How can two mugs like us get in on this fancy schmancy dog show thing?” Sos we meet this guy, Sam, ya know, and he’s got this really great – uh – business offer if we can make the front money initial deposit.

Me? I'm gonna run the business end of things and Da 'Pode, he's going to be a sort of negotiator. I guess you've noticed Da 'Pode's brain ain't runnin' on all burners, so to speak. But he's okay, really. Unless you're from UPS. Or you take his cow. Or he doesn't know you. And you move. Other than that, Pode's just fine. Really.

All yous gotta do is let me know in an email (in the subject line, type in, “I am Mrs. Obuto Mubawee from Nigeria.” I notice Sisiggy always trashes those without reading them) and I’ll have Sam come pick up the – uh – investment – and he’ll give you the information you want.

Oh, and if you want to use our services, just look for a guy at the dog shows in a really shiny suit. That’s our bud Sam. Talk real quiet ‘cuz he scares easy. Tell ‘em the Salt Dog sent you. Sam ‘ll take care of you.

But good.

The Others

Hello Dahlings! I thought she would never get off the computer! I kept nudging and nudging and nudging her hand away, but she’s so dim she could not take the hint. I guess that’s why they’re called dumb animals…

So, it has come to the attention of The Zsa Zsa – moi – that there is interest in hearing from the other canine Linguinis. Really, the Zsa Zsa wants to know: What other canine Linguinis? There is only the Zsa Zsa, there should only ever be The Zsa Zsa. The Zsa Zsa is the end all of Canine Magnificence. Anything other than the Zsa Zsa is just a….a…Mongrel.

Oh, you don’t mean…surely you can’t want to…No! You can’t want to hear from The Other Aussie?!

Instead of the Zsa Zsa?

You do know he comes from Bayshore, just down the road, whereas the Zsa Zsa is imported from Michigan! The Zsa Zsa has papers! And, look, The Zsa Zsa has diamonds!

So I ask you: What more do you need than The Zsa Zsa?

Oh – and for you ingrates wondering about those…those…Parson…Jack…Corpuscle…things…those annoying white rats…those flea-bait, rodent-chasing, attention-deficient yapping PESTS – well, there are none here that I acknowledge…OW! ...There are only Aussies…SHUT UP!...Not a single terrier here that I can see… OUCH! KNOCK IT OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF….

I’mGaspodeItookmyownpictureandthenIputitonthe’puterandnowI’m
typingtypingtypingthisisGaspodetypingcuzIliketotypeandtypeandtype
andtypeandplaywithmycowthrowthecowthrowthecowthrowthe
cowTHROWTHEFREAKIN'COWandnowI'mtypingandtypinandtypingcuzI’mthe’Pode
theGreatGaspodewhocantypeandtypeandtypeIsthattheSnausagelid?
didsomeoneopentheSnausagelidgimmeetheSnausagegimmeetheSnausage
'cuzI'mthe'PodeandI'mtypingandtypingand...AAAAH….

SHOVE OFF TAIL-BUTT

As The Zsa Zsa said, there is nothing but The Zsa Zsa, Dahlings. No terriers here.

When the rain comes, they run and hide their heads...

Okay. I’ve been very patient. I haven’t said one word of complaint. For the past two days I have been gracious, tolerant, polite and accommodating.

But this is the third day of rain and someone needs to find something else for Dirtman to do and make sure it can be done somewhere else. It’s either feast or famine around here, in terms of time spent with Dirtman.

Mornings in a string good weather:

Dirtman (racing out door): Took $200 from the ATM. Don’t hold dinner. Who is that big kid sitting there? The babysitter?

Sisiggy: That would be Heir 1. We haven’t needed a babysitter in five years. Did you grow a beard?

Heir 2: Mom, who was that?

Heir 1: Can I have some cash?

Mornings on a rainy day:

Dirtman: Looks like I’m staying home today. What’s for breakfast?

Sisiggy: Homemade scones, eggs and bacon. Here, let me pour your coffee. How lovely that we’ll be spending the day together!

Dirtman: I think after I finish some paperwork, I’ll spend some time with the boys.

Heir 2: Golly, that’s swell, Dad. (Editor’s Note: Parts of the previous sentence were edited to maintain our family-friendly standards.)

Heir 1: Can I have some cash?

Morning on the third rainy day of the week:

Dirtman: Looks like I’m staying home again today. What’s for breakfast?

Sisiggy: Breakfast? I haven’t seen the stove since two nights ago. It might be somewhere under those soil maps or perhaps under that pile of topos or pile of faxes. Are you ever going to shave?

Dirtman: I think Heir 2 needs a haircut. And I think you should change the entire bookkeeping system for the business. Oh, and the filing system? Really stinks. Let’s renumber everything from 2004 on.

Sisiggy (Sinks to her knees and begins to weep.): For the love of God, when is it going to stop raining?

Heir 2: (Editor’s Note: The entire previous sentence was edited to maintain our family-friendly standards.)

Heir 1: Can I have some cash?

I would send him to our building site, but we’re down to the last contractor who will actually show up and I don’t want to alienate him (the contractor).

So now I am three days behind on office work and THERE IS NOT A CLEAN GLASS IN THE HOUSE. What’s up with that? Why can’t the glass be reused or rinsed and reused? And socks. The socks are everywhere. Only they don't match and I never see him actually wearing them. And why can’t the trash be put in the trash, not NEAR the trash, NOT IN THE VICINITY OF THE TRASH, BUT ACTUALLY IN THE RECEPTACLE FOR WHICH IT IS MEANT…

(Editor’s Note: Sisiggy will be unable to finish her post for today. When last heard from, she was mumbling, “Every pencil. He couldn’t sharpen the one he was using…no…he had to take a new one every time and drop them and then get a new one and drop it and get a new one and drop it and…”)

Reasons Why Your Mother Is Not As Big a Dweeb as You Think She Is

Heirs 1 and 2 need to be reminded of this every now and then.

First reason: The total lack of teddy bears in all aspects of her life

I have never worn a garment that had a teddy bear on it, at least not since I was 8 years old. This includes anything featuring a character conceived in the mind of A.A. Milne.

Additionally, I have never used teddy bears as home décor for anyone except a child under 5. I have never felt the urge to buy a teddy bear and clothe it.

This may seem like a good thing to my sons while in their tough-guy teenage years. However, they may regret this later when they become fathers (much, much, much later. Eons later.) because I cannot come within five yards of one of those “make your own teddy bear” stores without waves of nausea overcoming me. No, this is one grandmother who will stick to clothing and diapers.

In fact, at risk of offending some young-marrieds and ruining the fond memories of their glorious wedding day (don’t get me started on that little slice of tradition…), I would venture to say that if your wedding cake is topped with a teddy bear couple dressed in wedding garb, you probably should rethink your expectations of the institution.

What spurred this particular rant on this particular day? I recently saw a grown woman sporting sweatshirt featuring a pink-ribbon bedecked teddy bear with a slogan that I couldn’t read but what probably said something like, “I bearly wuv you.” Cigarette dangling out of her mouth, she was flinging a small, screaming child into a car seat and yelling something unintelligible (to me – I haven’t developed an ear for the accent and cadence in some of the deeper Southern speakers).

While I will agree this is a most extreme example of the teddy bear attire appearing on absolutely the wrong person at the wrong time, it did set me to trying to think of occasions when this would be appropriate. I came up blank.

But then my rule of thumb about age-appropriate attire is: if you can’t picture Hepburn in it (Audrey or Katherine), don’t wear it.

Editor’s note: Those expecting updates on The Zsa Zsa or any of the other canine Linguinis, please understand that non-dog people think we are strange and some even go so far as to equate making your dog talk in a blog to wearing a teddy bear t-shirt.

Prima Donna flees photogs

(Self-) Acclaimed diva, The Zsa Zsa, has communicated that she has no comment on this weekend’s festivities and has cancelled all public appearances through the holidays.

Cornered by paparazzi while attempting to flee Howard County in an unmarked blue van belonging to her Former Personage, Ms. Zsa denied rumors she was returning to her previous manager due to irreconcilable differences of opinion.

In response to her current Person’s comment that the weekend was a success because “no one got hurt or threw up,” Ms. Zsa stated: “A gorilla dancing Swan Lake is more graceful than That Woman.”

Yes! The day is here, Dahlings!

The day you get to hear from Me, The Zsa Zsa!

Yes, I know you’ve had to endure two days of The Person droning on and on about her sad little life. But she did set up this little blog thing for me so I can communicate with You, my Adoring Admirers.

And The Person is such a good little typist and supposedly makes a lovely cup of coffee (though The Zsa Zsa does not drink coffee. It causes the skin to age prematurely – not that this is a problem for The Zsa Zsa…)

So today The Person will be busy because, you see, today is Spa Day for The Zsa Zsa!

Yes, today is The Zsa Zsa’s day of pampering, where The Zsa Zsa will be bathed and massaged. The Zsa Zsa will be fluffed and pouffed. The Zsa Zsa will be made to be even more fabulous than the Zsa Zsa already is. All because tomorrow is:

******************

The Day of Zsa Zsa

******************

Yes, Dahlings. The Zsa Zsa will be making a public appearance and my Adoring Admirers will come from all over the country, bringing their own Persons with them, all to do homage to The Zsa Zsa!

Then they will choose One Among their Persons who may meet The Zsa Zsa one-on-one and that Person may actually touch The Zsa Zsa!!!!!!!!!

(I must say, though, Dahlings, some of these Persons do touch in some of the rudest ways. I suppose it’s because most of them are mongrels and, as we all know, breeding always shows. Ah, well, I suppose we must endure their little foibles if we are to continue allowing them to serve us.)

For a special treat, also with The Zsa Zsa will be appearing her son – uh – close male relative, The Bedford!

(ha ha – pardon the slip of the tongue – heh, heh – how can he be my son when The Zsa Zsa is only a puppy herself – heh, heh…)

I’ve managed to secure a much more experienced Person for my Bedford. I, of course, being The Zsa Zsa, can train my person, she’s so new to all this. Though I must admit to being a bit envious of my son – close male relative – when I see him precede me so regally and well-presented and then I, The Zsa Zsa, must endure the antics of this…this…this Clod...This…Oaf…this…Woman!

(Pardon my French, Dahlings, but, you know in person breeding, “woman” is not a derogatory term.)

Yet, I know, The Zsa Zsa’s magnificence will shine through, in spite of the little woman. I know this because always the Chosen Personage says a heartfelt “thank you” after the Zsa Zsa had allowed it to touch her. It is such an honor for them (an honor I don’t think the little woman appreciates to its fullest extent).

Always after the One Chosen Personage is permitted the ceremonial Touching of the Zsa Zsa, we go home. I have no idea what you Adoring Admirers do for the rest of the day since we never stick around to find out, but I assume there are celebrations and festivities honoring All That is Zsa Zsa!

Someday, perhaps Dahlings, I will stay and receive the honor that is my due. But The Person is so easily bored and does tire quickly. Sometimes The Zsa Zsa thinks it is The Zsa Zsa who should be waiting on her, instead of the other way around.

But that would be absolutely ridiculous! HA! Imagine letting a person in charge? HA! (Though I do hear, among the mongrel trash it is common that the dog sleeps on the floor while the human sleeps on the bed. Truly! I’ve heard whispers of this embarrassing practice. Though it is to be expected among that class, it is a dangerous situation should word get out among our own.)