Only the women can relate to this...

Who thought up the name "menopause?"

It should be "meno-STOP."

Complete with the capital letters.

A Study in Stupidity

In one of those knee-jerk reaction-type moves, the Albemarle School Board voted to remove the Sherlock Holmes book "A Study in Scarlet" from its sixth grade reading list.

What? What is that sound? Oh! It's Thomas Jefferson rolling over in his grave!

Albemarle County, Virginia, is not some little uptight Bible belt town. It is the suburbs of the city of Charlottesville, where Jefferson's little educational project, the University of Virginia, makes the county population probably one of the most educated in the country.

My first reaction was to shake my head incredulously at this lame sort of censorship (after all, they haven't resorted to removing the book from the library shelves) and the equally lame excuse for its removal (I figured it was Holmes' drug use -- I was wrong; it was an unflattering mention of Mormonism).

If presenting specific religious sects in a bad light is Albemarle's criterion for what is recommended to students, they've got a lot of weeding out to do. Let's start with their history books...ANY history book. Historically, religious sects seem to behave in a bad light. You can only put so much sugar-coating on the Crusades or the Salem witch trials.

Then it occurred to me. I'd missed the point completely! The Albemarle School Board members are not a group of ignorant, weak-minded PC cowards. They're savvy educators who know their charges.

What a brilliant move! Now every 11-year-old will be beating a path to the public library to read the forbidden text -- they may even underline those salacious Mormon references. And, since they will probably be on a waiting list for A Study in Scarlet, they may settle for any of the other Holmes books.

Perhaps some really smart librarian can come up with a List of Books Removed from the Sixth Grade Reading List and surreptitiously circulate it in the middle school.

Rest easy, Mr. Jefferson. Education is in the capable hand of the Albemarle School Board.

Two Geeks Texting

Between me, at work, and Heir 1, at home:

Me: Would you put Hokie in his pen and let all the dogs out, please? And take out the garbage. And, ummm...the front lawn? Oh! And move the house a little to the left.

Heir 1: I did everything you asked, but when I tried to move the house there was a temporal distortion and I went back in time 2 hours.
The past sucks!

Me: I'm pretty sure I'm the only one to ever receive a text with the phrase "temporal distortion" in it.

Heir 1: I'm sure that's how Jonathan Frakes gets out of doing laundry.

Functionally Groomed

When we were showing her, Zsa Zsa's coat always required a great deal of fussing.

"There is no such thing as the perfect dog" is the AKC mantra and, to be sure, just about every breed requires a certain amount of grooming before entering the show ring. Like every other dog, Zsa Zsa had her "issues." She was on the small size (she prefers the term "petite"), though well within the standard -- and her coat at time could be iffy.

This is nothing strange -- bitches blow their coats when they're in heat. So she was always either in the process of blowing her coat or in the process of getting her coat back. Somewhere in there was a window for me to show her, an undertaking neither of us enjoyed at the time (though it did once garner us a "pity placement" -- a story for another time).

These days, Zsa Zsa's job is much different. She is the ambassador at work. She is the first staff member volunteers meet when they come to the farm and, as far as I know, no one who knows the official Australian Shepherd standard has ever deigned to pull a weed or pluck an onion on our premises. No one really cares about the quality of her coat or whether her paws look high and tight or if her black areas have a red cast to it.

Bascially, Zsa Zsa needs to not stink and her tail area (Australian Shepherd are not supposed have tails) is clean.

Fluffed and combed -- okay. But, above all else -- Zsa Zsa must not stink. Her coat can be too limp or too silky -- doesn't matter.

So she is primped and bathed on a regular basis to prevent stinkage and I keep her trimmed pretty closely so that the area of concern is not...a concern.

Recently, though, it occurred to me that I was spending a lot of time pulling out thick undercoat. In fact, I was spending more time than ever pulling out thick undercoat. Plus I was having to trim her britches -- that's the back of her rear and her hind legs, an area that used to suffer the worse affects of her lady-cycle. In the old days, once I'd pulled out dead undercoat, there wasn't a whole lot left to work with.

These days, however, I have to thin it out and cut it short and generally weed-whack Zsa Zsa's britches. I've never had to do this before.

Where? Where? Where was this wonderful, thick coat when I was trying to show her?


When I was learning from Mamma K to show-groom an Australian Shepherd, she taught me to put a "smiley face" where their tail would be. Well, there's no show, but I still like to see Zsa Zsa's butt smile.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

There is just no other way to put it. I've lived in this house for three years and I have yet to see a male hummingbird. I live in Shenandoah County's only hummingbird convent.

Around here we only get Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds, so it's quite easy to tell males from females. If they have a red throat, they're males. If not, they're females.

I haven't seen a male hummingbird since The House That Shall No Longer Be Named. They are rather dapper fellows and their female counterparts just don't have the bling they do.

Nor do the females dive bomb each other -- at least not around here. The good sisters simple file in for their evening meal, sup quietly, then murmur their way through vespers.


I suppose I could have missed the males. It's quite obvious that my days of sitting at my computer writing and looking out at my bird feeder are long gone. I hadn't seen a new bird show up at the feeder in over a year. But three years?

Our regulars come and go, but every now and then we get a migrating bird that we've never seen before -- Grosbeaks, Waxwings, Tree Sparrows. When I was at my computer all day, I was there to capture it.

These days I'm around to see the morning inundation of finches and the evening visits of the woodpeckers. The Sisters of Perpetual Humming come and go all day.

We have had one new visitor this year that decided to stay. It all started with a sound. I kept thinking someone had dumped a kitten on us and it had crawled into the bushes.

Hence, the name "Catbird."

To be honest, he's a rather unremarkable fellow, but for one thing.

He looks like he's wearing a toupee*.

*I apologize for the horrible photo. Don't ask me what happened to my telephoto lens -- I'll just burst into tears...

Extreme Curmudgeonly Complaining

What is it that we all can't just enjoy a nice little perk without going overboard and screwing it up for everybody? Why, why, why must we indulge in being the "-est" in every activity required to live: best, hottest, biggest, fastest...

Whenever you see the word "extreme" before an activity, it won't be long before said activity will be outlawed, regulated, or we'll all be forced to wear silly gear in order to perform it -- because just riding a bike isn't enough for some people; they have to flip is and twirl it and jump over stuff with it and now to ride a bike you look like you're entering a jousting match against the Black Knight.

That was what I was thinking when I read about what is being called "extreme couponing."

For decades there have been stories of couponing women who could pull off a free basket of groceries with their coupons. I'll admit, I love me a good coupon. Nothing tickles me more than to layer a double coupon onto a BOGO -- such little glitches are God's way of patting you on the back and saying, "Thanks for fighting the good fight. Here. Have a stick of Suave deodorant on Me." And I say, "Thank you, God" and be on my way. I smell better, the store gets its money, Suave gets its money and no one gets hurt.

Usually I found most coupons were for things I didn't use -- junk food, prepared foods, specialty foods, brand-name cleaning products (white vinegar, baking soda, Lysol in a gallon jug and Clorox -- all you need). From what I understand, there are coupons out there for staples like sugar or flour. I haven't come across them but, then, one of the other requirements I have for dealing with coupons is that it shouldn't take me more than a half hour to prepare to go grocery shopping -- I'm fulfilling a basic household chore, not composing my life's work.

Unfortunately, the "extremists" may ruin it for the rest of us. Stores have already begun limiting the amount of coupons a customer can use with one order. This will lead to a single customer breaking their order up into several smaller orders, complicating things further until stores will have no choice but to eliminate coupons altogether.

Stores have to wait for the coupon money they deduct from your total bill -- their vendor is in no hurry to get them their cash back (not to mention the value of the float). Sisiggy cashing in her $1 Suave coupon is one thing -- even if 15 Sisiggys cash in 15 coupons. However, multiply by 15 these women claiming to get a $300 grocery order for free and you've got a serious cash flow problem.

Believe me, nothing appeals to my "threat of nuclear holocaust" obsession more than a basement pantry lined with canned goods (okay...I admit...mine are lined with goods I canned myself -- and a spare pair of glasses). But I keep myself in check -- I recognize how easily this can become one of those compulsions inspiring yet another cable reality show ("In the Bunker: Extreme Nuclear Holocaust Hoarders"). I don't even approach my mother's dried bean hoarding (my father used to say the beans would work on two levels -- we'd survive...plus no one would want to be around us to take our stuff).

The thing is, the amounts of the same product you end up with when "extreme couponing" can only be justified through a window of a major national, political and social disaster -- all at once. No one knows more than me the comfort in such an inventory -- my first memory of being in a church was during the Cuban Missile Crisis; but even I recognize such an expectation of doom is just bad karma all around.

So, like walking Zsas around Lowes and letting the wind blow through my hair as I ride my bike without a helmet, the kismet of a free tube of mascara for trying out the store brand eye cream is probably a thing of the past.

Let's hope no one decides to be an "Extreme Library Patron."

Dog Days of Summer

This weekend went to the dogs.

So goes this time of year when our kennel club puts on its own two-day event -- two back-to-back dog shows.

When we're in the thick of it, everything seems so imperative. The day after, though, I always wonder what we were all so tense about. Really, it's kind of fun.

For a small club that puts on a relatively small show, we do get to see a lot of different breeds, though mostly thanks to club member Frank, who seems to specialize in knowing what rare breeds the AKC will ultimately sanction and usually has a champion ready to go.


This is Frank's Xoloitzcuintli (or, Mexican Hairless). I did see the first litter of these and I had my doubts -- the puppies resembled internal organs.

Jane is one of the founding members of our club, not to mention a role model for the sport of purebred dog conformation. People show dogs for all kinds of reasons and sometimes -- a lot of times -- those reasons clash. The thing about Jane is that she never lets all the controversy and drama get in the way of the pure joy of the sport. She never gossips or takes sides and always had the attitude of "this too shall pass."

She's put Championships on more dogs than I'll ever own and the last one was when she was over 80 -- I know, she doesn't look it! Jane reminds me always of the best part of the sport is building a relationship with the dogs and with each other and it's supposed to be fun.

And this is Carole (and me), who breeds Irish Wolfhounds and could actually run the show entirely by herself, but allows the rest of us to do things too -- just to keep our spirits up. If I had a quarter of her energy, I'd take on another full time job.

We saw lots of beautiful Australian Shepherds and lot of deceptively adorable Parson Russell Terrorists Terriers (thanks, Carole!).







Goodness knows, I'm not a fan of the toy breeds. But I have to say, Pomeranians just make you laugh. They have this perpetual smile and they run around like little wind-up toys. And when there is a bunch of them together, you can't help but snicker a little.



A very exhausting two days, but also very satisfying. What's not to love?

Excuse me, I believe you have my stapler...*

Yahoo! recently asked its readers to submit their stories of being unemployed. For some reason, they were "surprised" at the number of responses they received -- hundreds of thousands -- and at the rawness of the responses.

There is no mistaking -- it's an employers' market out there and, if you have a job, hang on tight and don't give your employer any reason to even think about replacing you. This seems like common sense to me.

Then tell me, please, why, when I go into a department store, grocery or restaurant, I am waited on by some half-witted bachagaloop who acts like he's doing me a favor pausing his texting long enough to wait on me? Why am I reading current novels that have glaring grammatical, spelling and typo errors rampant throughout the book? Why was my order wrong in three out of three visits I made to a fast food place since the first of the year? Why did I read a piece about Lady Gaga being bashed for a routine where she dresses as a mermaid and rolls on stage in a wheelchair, yet there was no reference to the fact that this stunt was a staple in Bette Midler's show twenty years ago -- and no one was offended?

And, while I'm asking, how do I get a job where the bar is set so low?

Just so you know this is not just the ranting of a curmudgeonly 54-year-old, consider this: a friend of mine daily relates his frustration with his fellow workers who continually fail to show up for their shift, come in late for their shifts, are the recipients of not one, but several, customer complaints, show up for work high, leave in the middle of a shift and continually defy governmental regulations protecting the public health.

Then, there is the story of a friend's son who was "rewarded" for doing what he should have been doing anyway. But "just doing his job" was so rare to this particular supervisor, that he felt it warranted a reward. Before you heap accolades on the supervisor, though: the "reward" was a bag of pot.

You would think, with the job market such as it is, only the best workers would be employed. But, it seems, even management is lazy.

It did occur to me, though, these entitled-worker behaviors are the precise traits of the upper corporate management that caused this economic bust in the first place -- laziness, deceit, smug security of position, and an overall lack of integrity.

And that is the ranting of a curmudgeonly 54-year-old who, incidentally, knows the difference between "there," "their," and "they're" and that, in a sentence, the tense of the subject and predicate should agree, even if a there is a prepositional phrase after the subject.

*Office Space -- as if you didn't know.

Wait for it...The Grapes of Wrath

The Grapes of Wrath was another classic movie that I deliberately put off watching.

This is one of those movies that is difficult to watch, but necessary... and enlightening. The ultimate movie of this genre is Schindler's List -- definitely not "entertaining," in the traditional sense, but required viewing as far as I'm concerned.

Along those lines, I rather felt I'd "done my duty" by reading The Grapes of Wrath as a book. The book is unrelenting. Capitalism untempered with compassion is an ugly, nauseating travesty. That conditions for migrant workers were actually worse than Steinbeck described, is unimaginable.

So I approached my first viewing of the film version of The Grapes of Wrath as a sort of homework assignment for someone professing to be a movie buff. But, fear not. The movie gets the same point across (though it isn't quite the "call to arms" inspired by the book) and still manages to convey the strength of character that is its ultimate hope.

If you have not read the book (and you should) or seen the film, all you need to know for my "Wait For It..." moment is that the story deals with the Joad family, who has lost the home where they've lived for generations and must now take to the road to find work.

The most famous scene belongs to Henry Fonda (Tom Joad) and occurs toward the end of the film ("Wherever you can look - wherever there's a fight, so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever there's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. . .").

However, hands down, the most poignant moment in the movie is silent and features the careworn Ma Joad (played by Jane Darwell), Tom's mother, a woman who has been buffeted by life and it shows in her face and her clothing and every move she makes. She is the last person to leave the house that is slated to be leveled by the mortgage company and now is going through a box of memorabilia, burning whatever cannot be taken along on the one vehicle the entire family must use to cross the country to find work.

In the box she finds a pair of earrings and it triggers a memory of lively music. She holds the earrings up to her ears and looks at her reflection in a beat-up old mirror. And you watch her face falls as the mirror brings her back to the present and the old woman life has made her.

My heart breaks every time -- every. time. -- I see that scene.

I identify with Ma Joad, for obvious reasons. I'm with her from that agonizing gaze that was her farewell to her old life, to her inspiring final statement:

Rich fellas come up an' they die, an' their kids ain't no good an' they die out. But we keep a'comin'. We're the people that live. They can't wipe us out; they can't lick us. We'll go on forever, Pa, 'cause we're the people.

My Biggest Fan

I don't think I've ever had a being so smitten with me as my dog Hokie.

Keep in mind, I have four other dogs. Oh, and a husband.

The two Parson Russell Terriers -- well...they're terriers; totally mercenary. They're my best buds...until someone with a better offer comes around.

Then there is Topper (aka, "Toppergetdown"), who is like the Woody Allen of the dog world; neurotic and self-centered, you just know he's got this inner-dialogue going on: "Oh, jeese. There's that cat again drinking out of my water bowl. Yeah, fine, cat. Go ahead and leak your drool in my water. I'd say something, but she'd go and tell that other cat and they I'd have them both laughing at me..."

And, of course, there is Zsa Zsa, my constant companion who accompanies me everywhere. Zsa Zsa is welcome in houses where people don't even like dogs. She is the dog most petted by non-dog people. Zsa Zsa is perfect -- and, just when you think you've caught her being imperfect, it turns out that she was two steps ahead of you and her imperfection was deliberate, needed and, therefore, another example of her perfection.

In short, Zsa Zsa is better than me and she knows it. I am HER pet.

And, as for the husband...I think we both passed "smitten" a good 20 years ago. "Smitten" requires a certain blindness to faults -- something you can't keep up for that long a time.

But Hokie...

Good ol' Hokie...the baby of the bunch; the first-born of Zsa Zsa's last litter...the one we almost lost. The one everyone told us was merely "pet quality," but who blossomed after his first year (it's heart-breaking that we can't afford to show him).

Perhaps his devotion to me stems from the fact that, being one of the two least troublesome of that litter, he got the least amount of my attention. He goes where he's supposed to go when he is supposed to go there. He does what he's supposed to do when he's supposed to do it. So it's easy to take Hokie for granted.

Plus, he loves the outdoors. We've tried to get him to stay inside, but he's usually too hot (that panting) or too bored (that staring). He likes lording over the backyard, terrorizing birds and letting our landlord/neighbor know he's On The Job.

However, if I step foot outside, he's right there, ready to pounce.

In fact, the pouncing is a problem we're working on. I know how to deal with "jumping up." I couldn't understand why all the standard training methods didn't work on what he was doing, until I broke precisely what he was doing, which was a combination of happy leap and trying to get close. The usual "turning your back" method was useless -- back or front he was close and that was his goal.

He's gotten better, though it took some real creative training to break him of the habit -- and he still falls off the wagon.

Now he confines his interaction with me to sitting in worshipful attendance, fidgeting back and forth on his haunches. Granted, this is partly because, in order to break him of the pouncing (along with deliberately spending more time with him), I would sit at his eye level and call him to me, so there was no need for him to pounce. He will sit there for a long time like that and, when he finally does lie down into something like relaxation, I have merely to move a limb and he's up, fidgeting, anticipating.

More unnerving, is Hokie's stalker morning behavior. Both my bedroom and the bathroom window look out onto our back patio where we have a large, round outdoor table. In the morning, as I get ready, I flit back and forth between bathroom and bedroom. When I glance out the windows as I pass, I can see Hokie, sitting on the table, staring at either window and fidgeting with excitement if I make eye contact.

I suppose I should be flattered. I mean, all the dogs are usually happy to see me when I come home. But Hokie -- Hokie makes me feel like a rock star.

Hokie makes me feel like there could possible be something like Jeanne-mania

I kinda like the way she, like the way she, DIPS...

There is something about summer that triggers memories.

They say smells are the strongest impetus for random past moments to come crashing into the brain, but I say summer is right up there with chlorine pools and original-scented Pledge for dragging me back to a time when my knees were perpetually skinned from riding my bike in places a Huffy gear-less cycle had no business going.

Today Pandora had me tumbling down the rabbit hole of the past and I landed smack dab in the middle of an incident that, surprisingly, I’d forgotten about completely: The Day I Chased The Cars.

Before I relate this tiny incident (that, fortunately, my parents went to their graves never knowing a thing about), let me give you a little background.

I am, was, and always will be A Good Girl. I could talk a good game, just to keep up a modicum of what would these days be called “street cred;” but, basically, I was a wimp. It’s not that I was or am morally superior to everyone else – it’s that I was a coward. I was absolutely positive that: A.) I would go to hell if I did anything wrong ; and B.)my mother would somehow, someway, defy the laws of logic and find out no matter how carefully I covered my tracks – she had a reputation for divining.

I wanted very badly not to be A Good Girl – sometimes. The late 70s/early 80s was the era of The Bad Girl because the Bad Girls were reveling in being the first generation produced by the Women’s Movement. Bad Girls were the 80s; Good Girls were still stuck in the early 60s.

So I attached myself to Lisa.

Lisa was a Bad Girl. She was so bad, she told me, that she once chatted with her mother while having sex with a rich older man in the beachfront house next door to the Kennedy compound in Manasquan and her mother didn’t even know what was going on (she told me this story as we were passing the house next door to the Kennedy compound in Manasquan – did I mention is was a Very Gullible Good Girl?).

Lisa worked with me at a bank and was, in the end , fired for stealing $500 to buy a Chesterfield blazer with HUGE shoulder pads and Sergio Valente designer jeans (“Uh-oh, Ser-gee-oh-oh!”). There was no absolute proof she’d stolen anything, but such is the fate of one who is an undeniable Bad Girl – you’re never given the benefit of the doubt.

Lisa was head-over-heels for the music of The Cars. At least that’s what she told me – Lisa didn’t listen to music unless she was driving around. I suspect she was more interested in The Cars than their music, but I’m getting ahead of myself. That year – whatever year it was – The Cars were playing at The Spectrum in Philadelphia (a moment of silence for what was once The Spectrum in Philadelphia).

Since I was the one with a valid credit card, I obtained tickets to the concert because I liked The Cars (musically – I actually owned the album) and because Lisa talked me into it (yes, I know all the sirens are going off in your head. Give me a break -- I was 20, working full time, going to school full time and spending most of my “off” time taking my mother, aunts or grandmother to doctor appointments).

I drove – of course, because Lisa didn’t own a car.

And the concert was very good

Not enough for Lisa, though. After the performance, Lisa decided that we should find out where the band was exiting so that we could, perhaps, obtain an autograph – a practice I’ve always thought rather useless but, hey, apparently a worthy goal for a Bad Girl, so I was on board!

We drove around The Spectrum parking lot and eventually did find where the band was exiting and, well – there they were!

So I look at Lisa and she’s standing off to the side, staring and – undulating. There is just no other word for it – she was undulating and batting her eyes; but she was not asking for an autograph and now The Cars were getting into their limo, at which point Lisa drags me back to my own car (a Dodge Dart – oh, how I LOVED that car…) and screams, “FOLLOW THEM!”

And so began Jeanne’s Wild Ride or, as I like to think of it, “Jeanne’s One Bad Girl Moment.”

I sped. I tailgated. I cut people off. I ran not one, but three, red lights. I made a lefthand turn from the righthand lane of a four-lane street. I drove the wrong way on a one-way.

I screeched to a halt in front of the Fairmont Hotel just as The Cars were exiting the limo. Lisa jumped out, but I stayed put.

“Don’t you want an autograph or something?” Lisa asked, halfway across the street.

I shook my head, but she came back, grabbed an envelope out of my purse and took off to the crowd gathered in front of the hotel.

Frankly, I was in shock. I'd done so much Bad Girl stuff in the last two minutes, my entire system had shut down. I couldn’t believe where I was and how I’d gotten there.

Suddenly there was a man at the window, handing me a piece of paper. He looked in at me and said, “Are you some kind of idiot?”

If you were raised a Roman Catholic girl in the 60s, my answer will make perfect sense to you; otherwise, you will call me a complete and total wuss.

I lowered my head and, closing my eyes (okay, yeah, I was about to cry), I said, “I’m so very sorry.”

He threw the piece of paper at me. It turned out Lisa had grabbed my JC Penney bill. It was signed, “Rick Ocasek.”

“I hope this doesn’t mean I’m responsible for the balance,” he said, walking away.

I still think that was a rather lame joke, but he’s – like – Rick Ocasek, right?

So there you have it. My moment of Badness. My sons think this a rather sad attempt at rebellion and they (and their cousins) still work tirelessly to get me to drop the F-bomb.

I used to relate this story as a lesson to the boys about peer pressure. I mean, I liked The Cars, but certainly not enough to take the kind of risks I took to obtain a sample of someone’s handwriting. I only did it, I said, because I wanted Lisa to think I was a Bad Girl just like her.

There were other elements, though, that I ‘d always hesitated to point out to the Heirs when they were at their most impressionable. And, while I can’t advocate driving like a maniac through the streets of Philadelphia, I have to admit it was the first and only time I could ever call myself…well…brave.

Yeah. Brave.

After a lifetime of behaving myself and feeling guilty over the slightest infraction, I was brave. I was defying authority, defying propriety and, at times it seems, defying physics (there was certainly an angel on my shoulder that night who was kind enough to grant me this one moment of grace).*

I had plenty of time to gather my wits since Lisa, obviously, had had plans to be invited by a band member up to their hotel room – which, of course, never happened. There was a small crowd of fans at the hotel when we pulled up and she was one among many, in spite of her amazing undulation skills.

“What did he say to you?” Lisa asked excitedly when she finally returned to the car.

I didn’t want to tell her he’d called me an idiot and then cracked a lame joke. So I made up a story about how impressed Rick Ocasek was with my driving skills. Because Bad Girls lie.

The rest of the evening was uneventful. I think we stopped at Olga’s Diner in Marlton on the way home (which, I hear, closed a few years back…yeah…I know…). A week later Lisa was fired and I never saw her again. She never paid me for the tickets.

For years I carried the JC Penney bill with Rick Ocasek’s autograph around in my wallet. I’d take it out and remember my Bad Girl moment and the guts it took to get it.

Years later, though, I’d seen the deaths of my parents and of my own child; I’d navigated my way through foreclosure and bankruptcy; I’d worked through pain and illness. Following a rock star’s limo through the streets of Philadelphia paled in comparison.

I threw the autograph out.

I truly don’t regret it; it’s just ink on paper. With all due respect, Rick Ocasek does his job. I do mine. It’s all good.

But sometimes…sometimes like tonight when it’s still hot when the sun goes down and the oil and pavement have been cooking all day long and Pandora decides to it’s time to play My Best Friend’s Girl (“I kinda like the way, like the way, she dips…)…I think of that rush of adrenaline, of the humid air blowing the smell of pavement into the car window and how, for once in my life, I didn’t care about how I looked or what people thought or what I was going to or not going to eat – I just had to follow that limo.

I think it was literally the only time in my life I was in a state of pure being.

I felt immortal.

As one does at 20.

It could have ended very differently, I’ll grant. But it didn’t and I thank that angel everyday for that and for averting the myriad of other tragedies that could have befallen me when I was at my most stupid (a “short cut” to Penn Station after an evening Broadway show comes to mind…).

*I was also defying intelligence. Let me tell you what a smart person would have done: Rather than search an entire arena for where the band might depart and then wait for them to come out, a smart person – especially one who had spent a good decade rambling around the City of Brotherly Love – would remember there was only one luxury hotel in Center City Philadelphia and head there right after the concert ended.

Wait for it...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Needless to say, I was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hits her.

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

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

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

"You just ain't COUTH!"

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

Picnicking with the Linguinis

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

Well...until yesterday...

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

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

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

One. Meal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, until yesterday...

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

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

So here is how it went down:

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

No one brought paper plates.

No one brought tongs to barbecue.

No one brought paper towels.

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

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

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

All the other stuff?

We made do.

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

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

...Zsa Zsa was happy.

Macaroni and...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, dear.

Not a pretty sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Made my day, this kid.

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

Proud to not be Martha

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me tell you about what Linguini Easter mornings featured.

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

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

But, wait! There's more!

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

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

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

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

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



...and crocheting these...

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

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

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

*Please ignore Dirtman's white socks...