Furniture for Free! That's right, FREE!!!

Wait! Jag, before you buy. In just a few days this could be yours*! For free! (Of course it has considerably more duct tape than yours and Dirtman is strategically placed so as to hold up the center, but whaddaya want for nothin'...)



*The desk, not Dirtman. (He told me to write that. I didn't think a little ambiguity could hurt...)

In Shenandoah County

So this is what it has come down to:

We go to the House of Never-ending Construction.

We do laundry. We water tomato and herb plants. We sit on the deck and read. The dogs romp in the yard. We occasionally use the bathrooms. We pass by a brand new king-size bed.

There are items accumulating in the refrigerator: bottled water, condiments and leftovers, which is all we ever seem to have in a refrigerator.

Sometimes I dust or vacuum, but mostly not.

When I’m by myself and it’s raining I sit in the library and knit while I wait for the laundry. If it’s not raining, I sit on the deck. I read there too.

In fact, we do everything anyone else does in a house except live in it.

We always end up back in the House of Squallor, sleeping on a broken mattress with wires sticking in our backs.

And all because of the garage door.

Yup.

The garage door.

Apparently, in the county of Shenandoah it is a health hazard to not have a garage door. In Shenandoah County.

It did no good to explain that The House of Squallor has no garage door either. It’s not a health hazard if the house is already there. In Shenandoah County.

The funny thing is that last time the inspector was here, it was a health hazard to have a spare bedroom unpainted. In Shenandoah County. You’d think the subject of the garage door would have come up at that time.

But no and we just sigh and accept that communication in the construction industry is non-existent and someone is making up and changing the rules as they go along. Someone who hates us.

So we continue to do our laundry, water the plants, read and sit.

Then we go home to The House of Squallor.

In Shenandoah County.

A Controversial Birthday Present

From Mamma K and Michael. I was going to put this on my charm bracelet, but I didn't want it getting lost in a crowd. Now, apparently, rumors are flying as to who is the Aussie on the necklace.

I have no comment.

I also have to thank Mamma K for providing the fodder for one of this week's Spot-on columns, to be posted Wednesday. Next time you see Mamma K, sing her the Viking Spam song.

Point of Gnome Return

And thanks to our wine mentors and good buds April and Steve...



...there is once again a gnome on Gnome Hill. (No thanks to certain festering boils on society's tush.)

(Editor's Note: The final naming of the destined-to-never-be-inhabited-house is by no means settled. In view of the sheer number of bathrooms, Flushing Meadows has been suggested, a name Sisiggy reluctantly agrees is appropriate, but not quite so charming as Gnome Hill, which had been abandoned in light of the fact that gnomes were no longer on the hill. But since a gnome has officially returned to the site, the name is now back on the short list. This will not be put to a vote because Sisiggy strongly suspects most voters enjoy flushing.)

A meeting of the minds?

Dear Mr. IRS guy or gal,

Really, it was a blogger convention. We talked about blogging. Here is my receipt for the gas to drive to Northern Virginia, where we did, I’m sure, mention blogging.

I think. There was a lot of cheese. I remember that.

I seem to recall Jag bringing up blogging and I’m pretty sure I answered her. Then Trasherati changed the subject to something else, but I’m positive we came back to it. Blogging, I mean. Then we ate some more cheese.

The wine receipt? It was part of a….uh….team building exercise. Yeah. That’s it. A team building exercise. You pour wine into a “never-empty-wine-glass.” Seriously. You drink and drink and the wine glass is never empty. It truly brought us all together, except for those of us who don’t do team building exercises.

So it was necessary to break out the Limoncello. Strictly for the sake of unity, you understand.

How did this benefit my blogging capabilities?

Oh.

Well…it…er…we…discussed… the socio-economic…ramifications…of periodic communicative… stuff…

Did I mention we broke out the Limoncello?

And cheese.

What did I learn from the evening?

Ummm…AH! Evidently I have absolutely no shame because just as Trasherati’s husband arrived we all decided to discuss tampons and estrogen. Surprisingly this did not faze him in the least.

Hmm…what else. Oh! It takes overstaying your welcome and two double shots of expresso before you should get behind the wheel of a car after the never-empty-wine-glass, Limoncello and, yes, the cheese.

There was a whole lot of other food, some of which required cooking even though there wasn’t supposed to

be cooking only cheese, but I can’t in all good conscience claim that as a deduction.

Is it still deductible if you admit you had a wonderful time? When it’s my turn to host the next….er….blogging convention….will that make my hot tub deductible?

Sisiggy, Jag, Trasherati

How Spicey McPustule lost his college money

DO NOT go on the roof, Spicey McDweeble...



I said, GET OFF THE ROOF, Spicey McDeafness...


Are you on that roof?




I can hear you up there...


Get down off of there before you...

break your neck!


Told you so.*

*The preceding has been brought to you by the soon-to-be-grounded Spicey McPinhead whose college account will be used to repair the roof that he seems to think is his private balconey.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that...

I'm usually pretty sedate with the whole jewelry thing (which is pronounced "jew-el-ree," not "jew-ler-ee," by the way. I actually hear "professionally" done commercials pronounce it incorrectly). Since I'm short I have to keep things in proportion anyway, but I don't often go in for kitchsy stuff.

But in Harpers Ferry at the Mountain Heritage Arts and Crafts Festival, Dirtman found these for me.



An early birthday present.

They're from A Glass Act, who also makes, among other things this lovely piece which we bought for the Never-Ending-Construction House.

Perhaps, if I can grab the stuff before it get carted off to storage, I will post the other "gifts" we bought each other this weekend, since Father's Day and my birthday are sharing a date once again this year. (We will also take each other out to dinner on Sunday, if we know what's good for us.)

I held back from wearing the martini glasses to the abysmally long high school sports banquet last night (for which Spicey McDandruff owes us big time).

In other Linguini news, which isn't really our news, but more Mamma K's news, look what magically appeared in her livingroom last Thursday with absolutely no effort on anyone's part!
Mamma K just woke up and there they were, right Mamma K?*



That's Polly and her eight (OMG -- eight!) puppies.

Ms. Zsa Zsa is pea green with envy, what with all the attention she just knows her former nemesis is receiving from Mamma K, though she inisists she's too young to have puppies "like that cheap tart, Polly."

*In actuality, Polly's puppies have been a much-anticipated event, at least around here, and Mamma K was there helping Polly out from puppies one through eight, documenting every move in her little book. The next afternoon we weighed each puppy (which was also recorded in her little book) and the pictures look only slightly like she's making a puppy salad.



We've decided to do a re-shoot tomorrow.

I wish I'd known Mamma K when I whelped my puppies. I'll bet she wouldn't sit in the corner and read the Washington Post, peaking over every now and then to say, "Oh Yeah. Breath."

The Prime of Miss Jean...er...Sisiggy

Okay. It’s official.

I will never be “put together.”

I had hopes, even at this advanced age. I thought that maybe, someday, given the perfect alignment of the stars and synchronization of serendipitous events that for perhaps a minute or so I might achieve that “put together look.”

But I know it is not to be. If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now. And at this stage, really what's the point?

I can tell myself that if I had the perfect shoes or if my shirt were just a tad smaller or the sleeves a little bit shorter, “the look” would be mine. But no. This will never happen.

Not only will it never happen but, if I had the perfect shoes or if my shirt were just a tad smaller or the sleeves a little bit shorter, on that particular day my hair would have a dorky cowlick. This is a given. It’s always something, to quote Roseanne Rosannadanna.

I does make me feel better to know that there are others like me. You’ve seen us. Nice outfit, nice bag, nice hairdo, and the shoes…….ooooooh, the shoes…just…miss…the … mark. Or the jewelry is too small. Or too big. Or too loud.

Perhaps we can form a support group.

Take the world’s simplest outfit to put together: t-shirt and jeans. What can go wrong? Two universal wardrobe elements. You don’t even have to check for holes anymore! You would think this would be the ideal uniform for the terminally scruffy.

But my t-shirt is never the right size. It’s either too long, too short, too big or too tight. And jeans? It’s either that the waist is up around my ribs or the crotch is down around my knees.

And should the t-shirt be the right size and the jeans fit me perfectly, there’s always, always, always the hair factor. Jeans and a t-shirt require clean, shiney, but not too pouffy hair. Casual hair. Kind of free-style, blowin’-in-the-wind but returning to flowing tandem-strand action hair. But the day my jeans and t-shirt fit would be the day I slipped with the conditioner bottle and, having taken the last shower in the household for that day, would only have cold water with which to rinse it out, resulting in lank, lifeless wavy strings. Except for the grays. They would be up and pouffy and waving a greeting to everyone.

I guarantee.

And so I am now embracing my inner and outer slob that I now realize is eternal. Don’t pity me. I know that everyone has a cross they must bear and mine is the burden of infinite dweebdom.

If you aren't yet sick of housing updates...

This:is now this:

This:
Is now this:


This:

Is now this (my office):


And then there are these (the Heirs' rooms):




And the master bedroom (okay, no sleazy comments about the equipment, you pigs):



And this (dining room) (It's not yellow, it's cream, I tell you. Cream):
And this (living -- er--great room) (Okay it is yellow, but I ordered cream):


And this (library):


And, Sisiggy says with a great big sigh, is my bathroom:


Of course, Zsa Zsa has her own view of the new house.

Editor's Note: Okay, so there's no pithy and insightful writing. But Sisiggy has waited a long time for this house and, lest you think she may actually be living it up in her new house, we offer this, the guest room:


Shenandoah County doesn't feel we are able to occupy this house without paint on the guest room walls. Mine is a life of irony.

To the relief of the non-dog people...

...and for all you dog people (and you know who you are) and those who are wannabes:

Ms. Zsa Zsa has started her own web page, though I have a feeling that the terriers will manage a post now and then, when they can sneak online. And, of course, Topper will be permitted a post when it suits her majesty.

Why I Love Lucy

The one memorable line I remember from the show Thirtysomething came from the female character all the other women in the show hated because she was a snotty intellectual who was dating one of the guys of their circle of friends but who wouldn’t lower herself to indulge in the trivia banter that would sometimes become the dinner conversation. Then someone mentioned I Love Lucy

and she joined in for the first time.

“I thought you didn’t like pop culture,” her boyfriend whispers to her.

Without missing a beat, she snaps back, “Lucy isn’t pop culture. Lucy is god.”

I’ll admit that a lot of my affection for I Love Lucy is nostalgia. By the time I was born, the show was in reruns. By the time I was old enough to watch television, episodes were commonplace in syndication time slots. My mother would only watch television during the day on Tuesdays, ironing day. Never one for soap operas, since she didn’t watch everyday, we watched sitcoms. Make Room for Daddy, The Donna Reed Show, Mr. Ed, My Little Margie, Leave it to Beaver, and Private Secretary (remember Ann Sothern going through the revolving doors?).

They all came and went in the line-up, but I Love Lucy was a staple. Even its antecedent, Here’s Lucy, never held our attention as well. My mother, who was not normally interested in weekly television shows, claimed to know every episode line by line. It’s only in retrospect that I realize why.

Considering all the sitcom women during that time period for my mother to identify with, they are all the epitome of the ideal 50s-60s housewives or housewife potential: June Cleaver and her pearls, Margaret Anderson with her calm, lilting voice, Margie Albright and her matching suits and hats, Donna Stone and her motherly perfection.

And then there was Lucy Ricardo. Lucy wore pants sometimes. Lucy burned the roast and got stuck in the walk-in freezer. She almost screwed up her kid’s birthday party. She was constantly leaving Little Ricky with Mrs. Trumbull and doing exotic things. Lucy admitted she didn’t fit into a double-digit size dancing costume (size 12!). Her toaster didn’t work. At different times she could be unapologetically jealous, pushy, loud, obnoxious, devious and, as in when she had to raise the boat fare to Europe, downright felonious.

Some women of my mother’s era required copious doses of anti-depressants to maintain the standards of the June Cleavers. You just needed rubbery facial expressions to be Lucy.

So I’m sure some of my mother’s facination for I Love Lucy rubbed off on me. But my favorite Lucy episodes are not those that are usually showcased. The candy scene has been done to death and I never really found the grape stomping scene to be all that funny. Lucille Ball’s trademark slapstick was never a drawing card for me. Instead, her timing and delivery of even the most mundane lines could make a scene.

What really makes me laugh out loud, no matter how many times I see it, are some of those “bad” musical numbers, purposely written that way, not an easy thing to do, because they are not over-the-top bad. They start out almost acceptable and then suddenly go horribly wrong, like the operetta written by Lucy that has all the elements of Gilbert and Sullivan, but somehow lacks the clever staccato lyrics (“I am the good prince Lancelot/ I love to sing and dance a lot…”); or the “ditty” foisted upon Ricky in exchange for English lessons and ostensibly written by the teacher (Hans Conried):

As I tippy tippy toe through my garden

Where all the pretty flowers dwell

There’s a rare perfume in my garden

And I just love to stand there and smell.

(This one has the added bonus of Fred Mertz singing in his gravelly voice, “Rippity, Pippity Aye.”)

I bring all this up because this weekend, having to keep my foot elevated, I treated myself to this. For the very first time, I’m seeing parts of episodes I’ve never seen before because I’ve only seen them edited for syndication.

But what dawned on me was how much Lucy has influenced me, from the way I write to the way I speak. I recall my brothers and cousins working hard to master the “Ricky Ricardo laugh.” Lousy restaurants when we go on road trip become One Oak Cabins and Café (remember the cheese sandwich restaurant on the way to California?). And there's no One-A-Days in this house; only Vitameatavegamin.

So Costco will be happy to know I’ll be buying all the episodes…(Psst, Jag, I also bought Season 1 of The Dog Whisperer).

Yet another: Housing Update

It’s been a long road, but by next week we should be able to apply to Shenandoah County for a temporary occupancy permit for our new house.

Why “temporary?”

Because the bottom floor won’t be completely done. There are two bathrooms down there, plus my raised dog tub and none of that will be done for three or four weeks.

Meanwhile, living in this house is becoming unbearable. Last night the clothes dryer gasped its last breath and, while I’m not above hanging clothes out to dry, this spring a tree fell on the clothesline. The water pressure in the bathroom is dwindling, meaning the pump is about to go – again – for the fifth time in the 17 years we’ve lived here (the well is 650 feet down). My mattress this week sprung a wire that sticks into my back. I pound it down, it pops back up. The only way to replace the mattress is to take the banister off the staircase to get it up the stairs, not an easy task and certainly not something you want to deal with if you’re moving in a few weeks.

It occurs to me that we’ve gone about this rather strangely. Most people would have gradually improved housing over a period of years. Instead, we’ve taken years to improve our housing. So we’re rather like the Beverly Hillbillies in that we’re moving from a shack to a mansion all in one go (that, and Dirtman’s shaving habit’s are kind of like Jed Clampett’s).

Not that this is a mansion, but it is certainly a honkin’ big house. I have major house guilt over this and keep apologizing to people. Truth to tell, I originally wanted a very small cottage, but when you add a couple of kids plus a home business plus a husband who adores chaos – well, it kind of became like Rose Red and I’m not so sure that even when we think we’re done construction will stop.

So start baking that cheesecake and chess pie, Jag and Leslie; cool the wine, Trasherati; and Mamma K, whatever – sure to be wonderful: The Linguinis are movin’ on up, to the east (west…) side, to that dee-lux apartment (house), in the sky…

Editor's Note: The above pictures are old. Sisiggy fully intended to update the pictures. Then attempted to navigate the dark staircase and went tumbling down, probably rebreaking the ankle she's broken twice before. As you read this, she is probably waiting in a long line to be x-rayed. This is because she's too cheap to go to the emergency room and, therefore, spent the night making everyone in the house miserable.
Update: Whiney Sisiggy did not break or even sprain her ankle. It is swollen and very colorful and big baby that she is, she will insist on putting her foot up today as a good excuse to knit and listen to books on tape. None of this will prevent her from going to the Williams Sonoma outlet and to see Aussie puppies with Mamma K tomorrow. So don't cry for me, Argentina.

This doesn't happen very often in our gene pool, so...

WARNING * WARNING* WARNING* WARNING* WARNING* WARNING*

Sisiggy is in a dangerously maternal mood and should probably not be permitted to post anything today. But due to the editorial staff’s status in this household (similar to an editorial staff’s status anywhere), we have no control over anything.

Be forewarned that the following will contain hopeless bragging and it has been all we could do to prevent the downloading of ancient baby pictures. Just be thankful that you are not doomed to sit next to Sisiggy on a cross country flight in her current state of mind.

Ladies and Gentlemen I give you The Strasburg High School Top Male Freshman Academic Achiever:

(Ahem)

The Strasburg High School Top Male Freshman Academic Achiever:

(Uh…Ahem)

The Strasburg High School Top Male Freshman Academic Achiever:

Oh, never mind. There must be some mistake…