St. Valentine's Day XXIII

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

No complaints.

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


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

There was time enough, though, even for dessert.

A Large Swath of Insanity

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

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

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


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

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

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



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

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



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

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

Starlings.

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

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

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

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

Be careful what you wish for

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll spare you his response.

A Very Boring Year-end Post

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

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

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

Nothing makes me happier than giving my birds a treat.

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

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

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

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

My landlord thanks you too

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

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

I return to work Monday.

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

A small streak of insanity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minimal whining and then "Awwwww!"

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

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

So. No nervous breakdown for me. Dammit.

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

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





















Can you stand the cuteness?

In which Sisiggy actually comiserates with Dolly Parton

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

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



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

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

The condensed version

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

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

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

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

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

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

There.

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

My Day As a Slug, Part II

Did I mention this house is really small?

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

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

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

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

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

So I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other People's Cookies

You know it’s there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only they were.

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

Fortunately, there are other grocery stores in my area…

It's sort of an animal picture...

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

...we had to go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I repeat: Guiness on tap!

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

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

Too, too Twain

Abbey, helping me to enjoy Mark Twain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I rest my case.

A Benadryl-induced Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ohh -- this became way darker than I intended.

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

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

Who's in charge?

So here’s the thing…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A brief update

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

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

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

Time to head off to work.

Wednesday is Spot-On Day

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

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

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

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

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

My Day As a Slug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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