The Never-Changing Scale

So there I am, eagerly anticipating the scale readout. This does not happen often and I am relishing the moment because I’m about to see the payoff from my past month of exercising every day, giving up all alcohol, and carefully monitoring what I eat.

The analog gives me the three dashes and then . . . the same number as a month ago.

At first I am dumbfounded. I try again and . . . the same number as a month ago.

Let us leave this sad, deflating snippet of my life for a moment for a little background information.

As I approach my 50^th birthday in June, this is, by my rough calculations, the 35^th diet attempt, not counting the countless three-day false starts. I am what nutritionists, dieticians and doctors call a “yo-yo dieter.”

My dieting pathology follows a predictable course and one time I thought I had actually mastered it until I realized I was living on next to nothing but still gaining weight. By way of throwing a temper tantrum, I went back to eating everything in sight. It wasn’t until I’d regained all 50 pounds I’d lost, and then some, that I found out it was a medical condition, which would have been diagnosed and taken care of easily if only I’d overcome my opinion that “only sick people go to the doctor and I am not a sick person.”

As an aside, once medication took hold, I had that blissful – albeit brief – experience that dieters pray for: fat “melting” away. Unfortunately, only 20 of the total poundage melted and the rest kind sat back and got comfortable where it was, which was mostly on my bottom half, making me look like those toy punching clowns, though I doubt if you deck me one I’d pop back up quite so happily.

Normally my dieting goes like this: I carefully watch what I eat all week, lighten up a little on weekends. For exercise, I grab whatever dog is closest to the door and we keep walking for 15 to 20 minutes, turn around and walk back.

The first week I lose 5 pounds. This is water weight. I know this because when I went on my first diet at age six, my mother told me so. She repeated this when I started my diet at ages 10 and 13. Same diet every time, a diet she got out of a paperback with a lady in a bathing suit in a pear on the cover. It was 500 calories a day, all boiled vegetables. And what kid doesn’t love boiled vegetables?

Though at 13, she found a doctor who agreed to add to my daily allowance a special pill that not only would curb my appetite, but made me shake so much my braces sparked. I ended up pretending to take it, then flushing it down the toilet, at least until it floated back up once and my mother found it. There aren’t many teenagers who get yelled at for not taking their speed.

When I was in charge of my diets, though, I was vastly more sensible. After the initial 5 pounds, I know I’m in for real weight loss which, while not as dramatic, is much more visible. Every seven or eight pounds drops me a clothing size. I thought this was torture.

The point is, I thought I knew what to expect of my body and now it’s turned on me. We had an agreement: I eat totally unpalatable food and work it till it hurts to sneeze and it gets smaller and, by way of a bonus, sleeker. It’s not supposed to ignore my efforts and it certainly isn’t supposed to start sagging.

Okay, I will admit I had one moment of indiscretion. But I feel completely justified in my decision to ignore all dietary restriction: Dirtman went to Little Italy in Baltimore and brought me home cannoli from Vaccaro’s Bakery. Vaccaro’s cannoli cream is a gift from God Himself and I would be an ungrateful believer indeed should I pass up this opportunity which does not come often in one’s lifetime (not that it can’t, since they do mail order. And, no, I am in no way related to the Vaccaro family, though I’m sure previous purchases have put not a few of their grandkids through college).

So I’m rethinking my goals. Yes, I feel a lot better after exercising every day and have more energy. My clothes fit better and I think – I think – I can tie my shoes tighter.

For now, I suppose, I’ll have to be happy with that – an energetic 50-year-old with skinny feet.

Memo:

Until further notice, the following words are being taken out of the rotation:

Hot (when used to describe anything other than temperature)

Amazing (especially "just amazing." If it is only "just," how "amazing" can it be?)

Awesome

Yummy and all its forms such as yummo, yum, or yum-yum (dispensation given to anyone performing in The Mikado.)

Celeb






Carry on.

Editor's Note: We are fully aware there is an element among our readers that will now post comments including all of the above words used as many times as comprehension will allow. To them we say, "Don't make me come down there with my wooden spoon!"

What, Me Worry?

It is the opinion of those around me that I truly need some sort of tragedy in my life to make me realize how often I obsess over stupid things. I say I worry over what everyone else worries over, only I’m more vocal.

For instance, when Dirtman and I were booked to fly to San Antonio, for the entire month of February I’d wake up in the middle of the night with cold sweats of fear over the flight.

No, I’m not afraid of flying and, while seasoned travelers may tire of the ritual of homeland security, I solve the problem by carrying nothing on the plane but a book, my ID around my neck and money and a credit card in my pocket. I check my suitcase, which yields little more than some sad-looking underwear, a change of jeans and shirt probably identical to the one I’m already wearing.

Oh, and The Official Travel Dress is in there, just in case by some strange twist in the trajectory of my life, Dirtman decides to take me somewhere requiring a dress. It goes without saying that I’m never flying anywhere there isn’t a Rite Aid and a Macy’s.

The reason I dread an airplane flight is that fat people are the pariahs of air travel. Just look how commercials depict passengers: there is always some tiny emaciated soul sitting next to a huge Sasquatch of a guy, who is usually loud and annoying.

Now, really, I easily fit in airline seats. But I am very aware that, when sitting next to someone who looks like they actually swallow what they eat, people are extra diligent about protecting their perimeter. So I consolidate myself as much as possible and do not even approach the border, even if it means sustaining black and blue marks on my hips.

And so far, no one has ever complained or even looked annoyed when Dirtman and I board a plane. But one of these days we’re going to run into someone like my Aunt Angelina, who would not hesitate to complain loudly to all and sundry her outrage that she should be forced to endure what will most assuredly be an uncomfortable flight.

It ended up being a moot point in the end when a tooth ache and subsequent surgery forced up to cancel our trip.

Not to worry. I’ve since found something else stupid to worry about.

Next week my friend Karen and I are traveling to New Jersey for a dog show and we are sharing a room.

I’m worried because apparently I snore.

I’ve only learned of this recently, but it comes as no surprise. I come from a long line of lusty, symphonic snorers. I remember vacations where my brothers, cousins and I would lie on our cots in hysterics at the crescendos of nasal orchestrations coming from our aunts and uncles. Our fate was sealed. We were destined for snoredom.

I don’t know if I reach the volume and tone that has made my family legendary along the Jersey shore. Dirtman usually tells me I snore to counter when I take him to task for his own nocturnal antics that run the gamut from snoring – which really doesn’t bother me – to poking me in the eye with his elbow – which does – to emitting huge water buffalo yawns – which truly makes me cranky because you really don’t have to bellow while you yawn, particularly at 2 o’clock in the morning.

Since the acquisition of this unfortunate breathing method, I’ve only once slept in the same room with someone other than Dirtman. The woman never said anything, but was rather cranky and snippy for the rest of the next day. Okay, maybe she's a cranky, snippey person. But I worry.

Karen assures me that I won’t bother her. She is a veteran at dealing with my obsessions, having had to sit through lunches where I do little more than whine about my kids, not to mention my never-ending anxiety about how silly I looked running my Aussie around the confirmation ring (she reminds me that the judges aren’t even giving me a glance since their entire focus is on the dog – so now I worry I’m becoming self-centered).

I worry that the price won’t be keyed in for the tampons I’m buying. I worry when I have to get change for the tip at a restaurant that the waitress will think I stiffed her. I worry that my hair will turn gray. I worry that people will think I dye my hair because it’s hasn’t turned gray.

But right now, most of all, I’m worried that as you are reading this, instead of nodding in recognition of a normal, human foible, you will be e-mailing me names and numbers of reputable therapists.

'Dad Doo

Ya gotta wonder -- who was the first person who thought it was a good idea* to eat one of these?



Okay, maybe there was a famine and someone was desparate enough to start eating this and, maybe, large beetles.

To be honest, if you google "crawfish" or "crayfish" or "crawdads" on the internet, there will be people encouraging you to eat these. They will claim they are a delicacy around which to plan an ENTIRE WEEKEND. There will be recipes hinting that this is not so much a meal as an event.

The one common thread is that a whole lot of beer must be consumed during the process. So you follow instructions and act like, "Woo-hoo! We're having such a good time and eating this great Louisianna delicacy we paid way too much for even if they did include the Mardi Gras beads!"
And then the following suddenly occurs to you as enthusiasm around the table begins to wane:

1. You've been working at this for a really long time and you are still hungry;
2. You still don't know what a crawfish tastes like because all you can taste is Old Bay Seasoning; and

most importantly:

3. THIS is what you've been pulling out of every crawdad you've encountered:

Which results in around-the-table expressions like these:










Then this sick feeling crawls over your scalp and creeps down further and further into your stomach as your brain screams: "WHAT THE HELL DID HAVE I BEEN EATING?!"

Only you've ordered so freakin' much and they've now infested your entire house and there is no getting away from them.














Which has driven some of us over the edge.







*It was Dark Garden's idea. He'd been obsessing over it for weeks. It is only right that the next morning just the sight of these pictures made him wretch.

Gag a maggot...

There are two commercials on the air lately that are really bugging me.

By way of disclaimer, these commercials may be old news, but I don’t often sit down and watch television for any length of time to absorb the ads. Sometimes, especially during long bouts of inclement weather, your criteria for interesting programming becomes more loose and you find yourself not so much watching whatever is vaguely interesting so much as watching whatever isn’t totally offensive.

And so this past weekend I found myself watching for the sake of watching which also involves experiencing the same commercials ad nauseum.

Is it me, or is anyone else grossed out by the commercial featuring the M&Ms with hair?

I know the M&Ms are supposed to look like the people whose picture you just saw enjoying a bag of M&Ms but, then, THERE ARE M&MS WITH HAIR! Doesn’t that make you want to gag?

Maybe, maybe, I could get over the M&Ms with a hairdo, but the ones with beards and mustaches give me that thick feeling in the back of my throat. I must be what a cat feels like when it wants to cough up a hairball.

Then there is that KFC commercial where the teenager is on the phone with his mother asking if he can stay for dinner at his friend’s house. He hands the phone to his friend’s mother whining, “She doesn’t believe me,” and the friend’s mother takes the phone as says into it, “Yes, we’re having dinner. Together.” Then she looks incredulously at the kid like he’s being raised by apes.

Now this ad is rather special because I talked to a teenager who also found it offensive, though for a different reason than mine. He wanted to know what this kid had done in the past that made his mother so suspicious of a dinner invitation. Or, perhaps, what had gone down with that particular family in the past that made her so disbelieving?

I can’t believe that KFC chicken is being passed off as real food that someone would brag about being a “meal.” I realize that this is the whole point of the commercial, but who do they think they’re kidding? This is KFC chicken, basically hunks of lard with bones.

The Heirs point out that I’m showing my age. When Hamburger Helper came out (yes, I am older than Hamburger Helper…) it was marketed as something to use when you’re in a time crunch. No one would have deigned to call it “cooking.” Now it’s not only “cooking,” but I expect to see it show up on Sandra Lee’s Semi-Homemade show any day now. (Spot-On’s Kevin Weeks has a great article on this. I’m so glad I’m not the only one annoyed by Sandra Lee.)

Of course most commercials are just plain annoying anyway, home equity loan ads in particular. And don’t get me started on commercials for weight loss systems.

At least, though, they don’t make me gag.

JAG: Honest to God, I wrote this last night.

'Pode! GET DOWN!

Get down off that chair, 'Pode! You're not supposed to be on that chair!



DOWN 'PODE! GET DOWN!





Oh, never mind, stay. STAY 'Pode.






Sigh.

Heir guitar

Okay. Now I’m going to be a typical mother. So bear with me.

Some of you may recall (with fondness, of course) this post. I was pretty hard on the Heirs and their friends. So, when they actually pull things together I feel and obligation to write about that too.

The Heirs’ high school each year runs a talent show. I’ve always had the sense this is done rather grudgingly, mostly because their school is so focused on athletics it seems to consume all other goals, including academics. And forget the arts. If they had as many art, music and drama teachers as they had football coaches and aides, they’d be Julliard.

But I digress. At least they’ve continued with the talent show, where all those kids who are adept at all those wonderful forms of expression not covered by the school, finally have their moment.

And so last night featured an interpretive dance, Irish step dance, several vocals (one stand out vocal, in particular: a friend of Heir 2’s who was in a children’s choir I directed awhile back who I’d love to take credit for, but who is talented through the grace of God and a very musically talented mother), a duo, a trio and the Heirs and their friends. (I don’t show anyone’s kids clearly or mention their names online without parental permission, but you can get a sense of what went on.)

I have to admit they were very good.

Of course I knew they’d be very good because I’ve heard their performance over and over and over and over coming from my basement over the last week. In spite of it not being anywhere near the type of music I listen to, there was no denying they sounded good.

The crowd loved them. They performed an encore. They knew they had reason to be proud of themselves. There will be no living with them.

This is Heir 1, who you really couldn’t hear, but who had incredible stage presence.

Heir 2 suddenly gets shy in front of a crowd.

I did wish the crowd could have heard how really well the guys’ lead guitarist could play, but the sound system wasn’t up to it. Fortunately, their drummer, who organized the band, won a well-deserved scholarship as top musician.

So, great job, guys! I’ll stock up on soda for the next round of practices!

Editor's Note: Sisiggy will now return to her regularly scheduled kvetching about aforementioned Heirs and how ungrateful they are for the multitude of sacrifices their mother makes for them, one of which is probably hearing loss.

Sigh...

...It's not that I'm not grateful for all I have, but I'm sort of pining for last year's vacation. There will be no vacation this year because, hopefully, Ms. Zsas will have her very own litter brats to look after, which means I will have her litter to look after, which means Mamma K will have all of us to look after.

Now, the House of Never-ending Construction (where the painting is still not done, nor is it likely to be anytime soon) is not exactly the worst place to have to spend a summer. But you know how it is when you're home -- you just have to do all those nattering chores even though you tell yourself you're going to "get some sun" so you don't have the only pasty complexion in the Food Lion where the Mavens of the Tanning Salon stalk the aisles acting like their glow comes from playing tennis all day.

So today I'm remembering fondly when, for two weeks, all I had to worry about was keeping the Heirs out of my pina colada.

Sigh...

And this is why...

...Salt never wants to go out and play with Topper.

With all due respect to the Aussies...

...Miss Whiskers begs to differ.

I just need to say this

I don’t often read USA Today because there is the air of fast food about it. But it was the only paper available for reading when Dirtman and I went to lunch yesterday.

Here is the reason why: Aside from a story about the sudden revelation that it’s a good idea to teach high school students to balance their checkbook (this is an innovation?), the big news in entertainment was that Britany Spears “fell asleep” at her New Years Eve party and had to be assisted to her car (yeah, we all require help walking when we get “tired”…).

Who do I see about getting this woman out of my face? Who is convincing the media we need to know about this talentless dingbat and her talentless dingbat friends? Shouldn’t the talentless dingbats be relegated to the E! and Style channels where the dingbats roam free and are hired as hosts on shows that are only broadcast in my house when Dirtman is scanning the channels between football plays and Gerald Ford funeral ceremonies?

I was just wondering.

Happy Calm Year

Yes, siree!

A new start, a fresh year, and three new gray hairs.

Durn.

As I’ve said before, I don’t do resolutions as much as try to pick a general area to improve. If on 12/31/07 I’m better off than I was, I can claim success.

Last year (and the year before that), my goal was to back out of the ever-increasing need for an adrenaline rush. The resolution, of sorts, started out as “I need to calm down.” But I began to notice that my life was slowly being taken over by activities designed to make my body think something exciting was going on when, in actuality, I was just sitting around. It’s not that I was actually in crisis; my body just thought it was.

In 2005 I remember reading somewhere that some study showed that people check their e-mail three or four times every half hour and the reason they do it is that checking, whether there is mail or not, produces an adrenaline rush that feels good, but is addictive. In other words, this hormone designed for infrequent use in times of emergency, was being used as a recreational drug.

The problem is, when you are constantly on high alert, you develop all sorts of side effects, both physical and mental, that cause illness and, I assume, shorten your life span. That would be a bad thing. For me, anyway.

I wondered, since I was delivering the adrenaline to myself in little short spurts, if that didn’t satiate just enough that I stopped seeking more high-powered, less frequent methods of that sort of natural high. I wondered if I removed those artificial stimulants, if I would be more motivated to get out from in front of the computer and do something else. Something with results.

This was more complicated than you’d think. Every time I’d figure out one form of contrived adrenaline trigger, another would show up. I ended up cutting my television viewing to next to nothing. (I recommend this to everyone, even if it’s just for a few weeks. You’d be surprised how hypnotized you become into thinking that TV viewing keeps you “in touch.” It doesn’t. It creates a false sense of urgency.) I’m very picky about what I consider “news.” Yes, Iraq is “news” that of which I need to be aware. But endless, meaningless speculation that may or may not happen? Useless.

The hardest part of “calming down” has been not getting sucked into the chaos swirling around me. The fact is, while everyone claims that “slowing down” should be everyone’s goal, there is a certain ego-boost (and adrenaline rush…) in being “just so busy.” And there is a judgmental stance that slowing down is merely laziness.

I am better off two years later, if only for the fact that being selective about the media I allow into my head makes me recognize all the hidden methods that exist for grabbing our attention, our loyalty and/or our money. The physical, spiritual and psychological benefits far outweigh that, but would be abysmally boring to relate here, not to mention how boring it would be to read.

The downside? I guess that would be what people think, which should be this year’s project and probably my biggest challenge.

But you all like me anyway, right? If not, what can I do to make you like me?

If anyone is still out there...

I’m sneaking back meekly, because I promise myself I’m going to be better about posting and then … well, ya know.

Fact is, Chris Nolan, my editor at Spot-On, has given me a week off and has kindly cut my postings this year back to once a week. She explained this as, “You’re writing too much,” which was a polite way of saying what I already knew, “Half your postings really stink.” She is also allowing me to “unpublish” whatever I don’t like. And then she gave me a raise.

I’ve died and gone to employee heaven.

The news is – and please don’t ask me how this works because I won’t know until it happens – that my weekly Spot-On stuff will be appearing on MSN. It will still be on Spot-On because I am, of course, spot on, but less spot on than most of the other really smart writers on Spot-On, who write about the economy and healthcare and politics while I tackle such cutting edge issues as dog vomit on the rug and my psycho family. I’m sort of their “special” child they bring out when company comes, knowing the company is too polite to be annoyed.

Anyway, I’m taking this time to try to get back in touch with Linguini, though I think when I switched to the new Blogger, it dropped off a lot of peoples’ feeds. I’m going to also trying to visit some of your blogs again like I used to before the keyboard became a huge hungry monster threatening to eat my brain if I didn’t come up with something pithy and clever twice a week.

Linguini may change its nature and become more of a journal than a commentary on general topics (I guess it’s been heading that way for awhile now anyway).

For the record, we had a lovely holiday and will be having an extremely quiet New Year’s Eve because, quite frankly, I am worn out. I only achieved half of what I wanted during the season, so I do apologize for not mailing Christmas cards and not creating that entire Dickensian winter scene from scratch.

Well, there’s always next year…

Only in the Shenandoah Valley...

…would you see – or, rather, not see – a guy dressed in gray camouflage standing in the middle of the gray pavement of a major state highway just over the rise of a hill for the purpose of stopping traffic going 55 mph.

I wanted to stop and present him with Virginia’s own Darwin Award, if, indeed, Virginia had a Darwin Award, which I strongly doubt it ever will because in Virginia this guy was spawned through some divine plan that we mortals cannot fathom. In this case, I think even the staunchest creationist has to see the benefit of cleaning up the gene pool.

Pitiful...

...absolutely pitiful.

Hello? (tap, tap, tap) This thing on?

Umm…Hi.

Did ya miss me?

Hello?

Anybody there? Anyone left?

I have no excuse for not having posted in so long. I’ve even missed my first blog birthday.

What have I been doing? you ask. Or maybe you don’t.

Looking out the window. I’ve got a really nice view out my window. It’s fall and I’m in the middle of the woods. Then there are the bird feeders. I could spend all day looking out at the bird feeders.

Vacuuming. Right before Ms. Zsas goes into heat, she blows her coat – all over the house. Then there is Salt and his annual creeping crud disease where he loses all his hair and is embarrassed by the other dogs laughing at him because he looks like Piglet. This year, out of sympathy I guess, or just because he’s an idiot, Topper decided to get the crud too, only a different crud so that what worked for Salt would not work for Topper and vice versa. The result is a noxious cloud of antibacterial sprays floating over Gnome Hill at Flushing Meadows and me constantly vacuuming dog-fur tumbleweeds.

Vacuuming ladybugs. These pictures do not begin to do justice to the full impact of the infestation. I took over vacuuming these from Dirtman because he was beginning to have way too much fun and his maniacal laughter was keeping us all up at night. Besides, he wasn't leaving any for Zsa Zsa to snack on.

Cooking. Two tri-vection ovens, a five-burner gas cooktop and a full pantry. Oh. Yeah.

Ironing. I can’t help it. I love to iron and listen to oily 1950s Italian men sing to me on Sirrius Standard Time.

Sewing. (Okay. I see you shaking your head. Leave me alone – I’m pretending it’s 1947)

Knitting. I still haven’t finished anything and the one thing I would have finished from last year was burnt to a cinders by Heir I and his friend while they were removing an old bed from the House of Squalor (don’t ask. Just. Don’t.)

Driving Heir II back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Less than a year and he can drive himself, but for now…

Teach Zsa Zsa the down. Teaching Zsa Zsa the down all the time. Teaching Zsa Zsa the down when I need her to down the most – like when she’s vying for her Canine Good Citizen Award, which she now has thankyouverymuch.

So there you have it: a brief run-down of the past month. Now wasn’t that a lot quicker than a bunch of separate whiney posts?

Dirtman's Excellent Adventure

He’ll claim “it’s just another day.”

Right.

Dirtman hits a milestone birthday today.

Dare I say it?

Dirtman turns 50. . . that’s the big five oh…half a century...a twentieth of a millinium.

So far, he shows no sign of ditching me and buying a red Miata with complimentary blonde nymph (I’ve decided a blonde nymph comes with every red sports car sold to a man over 50, kind of like a dealers’ incentive – only not exactly).

So here are some things you may or may not know about Dirtman:

• Dirtman has started an entire “beejeebers” movement among our friends and family (if, indeed, beejeebers can move). He has managed, single-handedly, to bring back the phrase. So next time you see Dirtman, ask him exactly what a beejeeber is and, since they are regularly scared out of him, where he keeps his spares.
• Dirtman knows history, even the stuff after World War I that they never had time to teach in school or that they sort of skirted over to get the course over with. He also knows the representatives and senators belonging to each state, their names and party affiliations. He’s an expert with Virginia history and gets very disgusted with natives who don’t know anything about their own state.
• Dirtman is the best kind of friend to have. You can call him anytime from anywhere and he will do all he can to help. You don’t even have to keep in touch with him. He’s had people he hasn’t seen since high school contact him and he treats them like they’ve been best buds for all those years.
• Dirtman can forgive anyone anything. He never ever holds a grudge. (In this case, I think we were fated to be together in order to balance each other out.)
• Please don’t ask him to sing.
• Please don’t ask him to sing. I can’t stress this enough.
• It’s not true that an alarm goes off at the state police traffic station to let them know Dirtman is driving around and to be on the alert for bizarre accidents involving vehicles running into objects for no reason. But only because he makes his assistant Steven do all the driving. That way he isn’t forced to drive while he’s reading the newspaper.
• Dirtman will talk to anyone and thinks everyone is absolutely fascinating. I’ve seen him chat with a McDonalds employee, fascinated by the nuances of their scheduling procedures. Consequently, without even realizing it, Dirtman makes everyone he talks to feel good about themselves.
• Umm…I need to reiterate the singing thing. Just. Don’t.
• Dirtman married a woman much, much younger than he is.

So, Happy Birthday, Sparkey. Even though it’s “just another day.”

Right.

(About that singing thing…I’m serious.)

19 years, 364 days ago...

…I decided to take a chance.

For once in my life.

It was that kind of decision.

I was the generation brought up straddling the beginning of the Women’s Movement. For half my upbringing I was “encouraged” to be demure around men. While my mother continued to go beyond encouragement in this area (a woman asking a man out received the tersely-spoken title puttana), the media and culture changed rapidly, for the most part taking me with it.

However, as a single woman, while I wasn’t exactly waiting to be chased, I certainly believed that winning my hand should require some Herculean effort. In addition, the idea of that Sicilian lightening bolt that they demonstrate in The Godfather had been drummed into my head. Yet no one I met made me weak in the knees with just a glance and a smile, so rarely had anyone been encouraged to go further. In today’s terms, no one “had me at ‘hello’.”

Needless to say, by my late 20s, not only was I not in a significant relationship, I hadn’t yet been in one, in spite of being “engaged” – in name only – for a brief time when I was barely 20, an event I’d rather be among the forgotten moments of my early adulthood.

Now, here I was, 28 years old and this guy I knew only as a voice on the telephone had asked me out.

And stood me up.

I was working for a local newspaper, writing obituaries and social notices. He worked for a funeral home. One night he was required to call in nine obits, a phenomenal number for one funeral home in a rural area. Truly, they were all standard notices, no horrendous event had taken place. I accused him of going out and killing people just so he could talk to me.

We got to be friendly and not long after that he asked me out on a Friday evening. He’d call me to finalize and scribbled my home number.

Friday came and went. No phone call.

Well, Miss Iggy, that’s what you get for being so forward. So much for Mr. Dirtman and his swarmy voice.

Sunday I was back at work, arriving in the nick of time to a ringing phone.

“Oh good, it’s you.”

Him.

“Do you have an obit?” I asked coldly. Believe me, I know how to talk ice.

“Well, yeah, but it’s not ready...”

“Then who do you want to talk to?” Because you ain’t talkin’ to me, jadrool.

“I lost the paper I wrote your number on and they wouldn’t give me your number or call you on your day off,” he said. “But I thought surely you’d understand why I didn’t call after you heard about the murder.”

“I work for a newspaper, buddy,” I sneered with my best Jersey dialect. “If there was a murder, I’d have heard about it. Unless you have an obit to call in, I need to get to work.”

“But…”

I hung up. Behind me, the city desk editor was leaning against the doorjamb, coffee and donut in hand, waiting to say his usual “hello, anything new.”

“’Ja hear about the murder last Friday?” he asked around a mouthful of cruller. “Let me know when they call in the obit.”

Oops.

The usual Sisiggy would have let the whole thing slide. It wasn’t meant to be. If he really felt bad, he would have driven the 40 miles to the newspaper and been waiting for me with a bouquet of flowers and an “I’m sorry” on his lips. (I know – this is Dirtman we’re talking about. That would have required 40 minutes of driving followed by a wait of indeterminate length, way more focus-time than he’s capable of committing to…but I didn’t know this at the time.) The usual Sisiggy would have told him to leave her alone. The usual Sisiggy would have gone into immediate hibernation, dragging several pints of coffee ice cream into the cave with her.

Fortunately, the usual Sisiggy had had enough of herself of late and decided to employ that philosophy of philosophies: It Couldn’t Hurt…

I met him at The Ground Round. I ordered scotch on the rocks so he wouldn’t think I was an inexperienced drinker he could get drunk and have his way with. I hate scotch.

The day before Valentine’s Day we were driving down to Virginia Tech for some dinner. He asked me to read him the newspaper while he drove. I started on page 1.

“No! Read me the obit page.”

“I read the obit page when I laid it out last night.”

“Come on…”

“Okay,” I said begrudgingly, snapping the paper back. I scanned by work from the previous night. Same obits, same ads, only…

Instead of the car ad we’d placed at the bottom of the page:

“Sisiggy: We met on this page, we’ll end up on this page. Will you spend the rest of your life with me? Dirtman.”

A Herculean effort.

And a lightening bolt.

So, 20 years later, 19 years after the wedding, I guess the chance worked out.

The previous post was supposed to be a picture extravaganza but Blogger isn't cooperating. Envision lots of pictures of me and Dirtman, thinner and with less gray hair, smiling. I'd be the one in uncharacteristic white and Dirtman will look like a maitre 'd. I hate weddings.

The Pumpkin Heir

My kids are really too old for your basic Halloween celebrating. Oh, they have what they call "Halloween parties," which is just an excuse to have a party. They're all way too cool to dress up in costume. After all, that stuff like trick-or-treating and carving pumpkins is so imma...





Never mind.



Note: We know, we know. This is not technically a pumpkin. We kept telling that to Heir 2. We said, "That's not really a pumpkin. It's a gourd and you can't carve a gourd." Is it any wonder he never listens...

Notes 2: Yes, he has way too much time on his hands. I think he needs considerably more homework before he carves anything else that can't be carved.

Just a quick note...

Zsa Zsa had been hogging the computer and now I'm behind on my real job. So everyone will have to be happy with that for now.



This is Miss Zsas this summer with a mouth full of crab -- literally.