Lost in translation

First Scenario

It's noon and I'm in the kitchen.

Me: (staring into the cabinet containing all my pots and pans) You want uh...

Dirtman: Yeah.

Me: You know they're not...

Dirtman: So, three.

Result: I make him three cheese quesadillas for lunch (not four of the small tortillas because instead I'd bought the burrito-size tortillas).

Second Scenario

I've just watched a Netflix movie I really liked and want to watch it again, this time with Dirtman, who I think would enjoy it. He asks if it has any actors in it he would know.

Me: It's got that guy in it. (Dirtman stares at me expressionless.) He was in all those movies. (Dirtman stares at me expressionless.) The ones about that special kid. (Dirtman stares at me expressionless.) You know...the English lady was in it too and then he was in another one with her. (Dirtman stares at me expressionless.) You know...that movie with all the people in it. (Dirtman stares at me expressionless.) Remember? He was in it and she was in it and...OH! Hugh Grant was in it! (Dirtman stares at me expressionless.) THAT GUY! (Dirtman stares at me expressionless.) Oh! And he was with her in another movie -- all dressed up.

Dirtman: Oh. Alan Rickman.

Result: We watch Bottle Shock.

Conclusion

I am forever tied to Dirtman simply because he is the only one who can translate for me.

Dear New Year...

Dear 2014,

I've had this discussion before with your siblings. I think the fact that I even bother to stay up to welcome you is pretty decent of me, considering that, lately, your predesessors have been rude, destructive house guests. By rights I shouldn't even let you in the door.

And I gotta tell you, your brother 2013 was one ugly, nasty sucker. He was ugly when he arrived and he was still ugly when he left, in spite of our efforts to clean him up and teach him some manners. Sometimes you just have to acknowlege ugliness and move on.

Now, don't take this personally. Every family has one unredeemable member. You might tell us that we should have focused on his good qualities; and, darn it if we didn't. He'd be there, snarling and drooling in the corner and we'd want nothing more than to retreat to some other room and hide from him. But we wouldn't. Instead, we would sidle up to him, talk calmly and cheerfully, praise him. And he would let us until, just when we were ready to believe there was a tender, loving part of him -- he'd punch us in the face, hock a lugey at us...AND LAUGH!

So now here you are, 2014, and I'll admit you look like a civilized sort. I don't hear any mucusy rumblings or detect even a tiny bit of aggression. I might even go so far to suggest that, in light of the obvious inbred quality of the offspring lately, you are from a different, hopefully distant, branch of the annuated family? A less psychopathic branch, perhaps?

Good, then. We should get along nicely. So. Welcome. Be nice. Please.

Sisiggy

P.S. It was very nice of you to start me out just after midnight with a commercial for dentures. I'd never seen a commercial for dentures. Very funny. We're going to get along fine.

Aggressive Holiday Decorating(with illustrations)

It seems the Linguinis have a holiday tradition I've only just noticed. I don't know how I missed this, but the Heirs have determined (when they think I can't hear them) that I'm becoming a senile old bat who can't remember from one year to the next.

I enter the holiday season crankily complaining about too much Christmas too soon. I gripe about having to muster the amount of enthusiasm equal to the maniacal blinking lights, screaming commercials and nauseating made-for-HallmarkTV movies. I go out of my way to avoid those crazed tinsel-bedecked maniacs who have their shopping done by the first week of December and spend the days up to Christmas announcing what cookie they baked or what craft they manifested in front of their fireplace each day.

I assuage the depth of my angst by writing blog posts that try to either temper some of the excesses of the season or encourage others like me to just say, "heck with it" and spend December snorking down cans of Redi-Whip and reading Jane Austen (not that I...ever...did...DON'T JUDGE ME!).

That's only half of the tradition. The other half is that a week into December, Heir 1 comes along and drags me, kicking and screaming, into the holiday season.

And so, having read my post of last week where I extoled the virtue of moderation in holiday decor, Heir 1 showed up recently to not only to spew holiday cheer all over us, but to make sure that when he did, it was as tacky and unrelentingly tasteless as he could possible conjure out of a quarter-century's worth of accumulated Yuletide debris.

Heir 1: (pulling a mouse-eaten ribbon out of a box) Oh, yeah!

Me: Just throw it out.

Heir 1: Oh...It's going up!

An hour later, Heir 1 calls me in to observe his handiwork.

Me: It looks like Santa Claus threw up all over the bannister.

Heir 1: That's what you get for keeping every piece of red and green crap Joe and I ever threw together. I mean, seriously...

Holds up this:

Heir 1: You will literally hang onto anything.

Heir 1 suddenly gets a bright idea and picks the empty tea candle containers out of two votive cups.

Heir 1: (a minute or so later) Here! I made this! Now you have to hang it up!

Me: I think there is a statute of limitations on how long you have to hang up your kids' creations.

 We stand and observe the overall effect of Heir 1's artistry.

Me: People are going to think it's just tacky decorating. I'm not sure my friends will see the irony.

Heir 1: (patting my on the shoulder) Mom...oh, Mom... (I think he is about to lecture me on intellectual snobbishness) You know you don't have any friends.

On decking halls...or hovels...

It’s that time of year again; time for my annual Christmas decorating guilt.

I’m not big on decking my halls beyond recognition, mostly because I don’t want to invest the hours it takes to put them up, maintain them and, worst of all, take them down. There is nothing more depressing than taking down Christmas decorations, which is another reason God put Dirtman into my life. Dirtman can’t wait to yank down that annoying tree that puts a glare on the television.

Yet I always wonder if my family would like for one year to be dazzled by thousands of flashing lights and maniacally jolly snowmen. Perhaps they would enjoy those blinking red lights on a plastic Christmas tree that plays 26 Christmas carols over and over with that metallic clinking that is supposed to be a computerized version of bells but sounds more like icicles scraping on a blackboard and gets into your head, waking you up because it’s infiltrated your sleep with nightmares of being rendered deaf by a psycho Quasimodo dressed in a red velvet suit with white fur trim. Because we Linguinis tend to be heavy on Stephen King in our To-Be-Read pile.

As the holiday season progresses, though, I know I will be tempted at every turn by marketers determined to have my home bedecked in Christmas spirit, right down to a Santa face toilet seat cover. But I’ve developed a strategy for preventing myself from making a fatal holiday décor purchase I will later regret. I envision the same item thrown on the bargain table on December 26th along with masses of other useless red and green detritus. It doesn’t look quite as enticing, even priced 75 percent off.

I’m not entirely a Scrooge. We have a tree with lights and ornaments. The ornaments are pretty old and some quite ratty-looking. When Topper, our male Australian Shepherd, was a puppy, he had a particular fondness for teething on a white unicorn ornament (give me a break -- I was 19). But you can still make out that it’s some sort of a horse-like creature and there is even the suggestion of a golden horn left on its head. A stranger may not know what it is hanging there, but we do, so the unicorn stays ... along with the miniature rubber plucked chicken with the holly around its neck that Dirtman insists we keep since he was a poultry science major in college, making him a good person to call if you have a chicken problem, but not exactly an expert on Yuletide decor'.

I want to add that one ornament we don’t have on our tree is one of those pickles that catalogs tout as “an old German/Dutch/Danish tradition,” but that I suspect was a wicked marketing joke by someone stuck with thousands of glass pickles they had to unload in a hurry. Or maybe some Madison Avenue dare: find the most unlikely thing to make an ornament out of and trying to get the gullible public to find it a necessity. Anyway, no pickle at the Jackson house.

Oh...also, my decorating does not extend to my person. So my ears will not jingle and my hat will not blink.

In addition, the reason why my animals love me is because I never once forced them to have their pictures taken dressed as Santa Claus or with reindeer antlers (even though our Parson Russell Terrier, Gaspode, would make an ideal Max from How the Grinch Stole Christmas). I hope when I am old and my kids stash me in a nursing home somewhere, caregivers will afford me the same dignity.

So, as in all things, I try to practice moderation in my holiday decorating. Candles in the windows, wreath on the door. No fake Santas clinging to my roof, no plastic Saviors being watched over by a glowing Mary and Joseph, no fake icicles hanging inexplicably from my sheltered front window.

But there are some pretty spectacular houses out there and, as the actual holiday draws near, I always have the urge to do more and more. Perhaps an electrified reindeer or two! Or how about giant fake candles flanking the driveway! BLOW UP SNOW GLOBE DISNEY CHARACTERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1111

It’s amazing how taste flies out the window in the presence of the pervading smell of bayberry.

Making memories......whether you want to or not

I think I've finally mastered the skill of not making an all-out assault on a major holiday.

It has taken quite awhile, considering I've been responsible in some way or another for family holidays since I was in my 20s. I admit that the weight of that responsibility is all my own. Back in the day, I had a soul-sucking habit of attributing too much sentimentality and piling too much food into one single day. This resulted in an entire week of a misery that, I was convinced, was never fully appreciated by those who benefitted from my martyrdom. By the evening of Thanksgiving, I'd be cross, cranky and ready for bed by 5 o'clock.

I had come by my holiday obsessions honestly. There was no such thing as a "quiet Thanksgiving" for my mother. Like every good Italian, it was required that there be approximately 50 percent more food than necessary for the number of people invited -- and the number of people invited was always inflated  because my mother invited anybody and everybody and, unless they told her "no" in so uncertain terms, they were counted as a definite. My mother, though, had both my grandmother and me helping out.

So the bar was set and every year I would frantically try to incorporate any and all traditions and even concocted some of my own. I would cram my kids with so much rich food and heartwarming ritual they would feel positively miserable if they had to spend the holiday anywhere other than with their perfect mother.

The first clue I had that I was missing the mark in the building memories department was the year that I made homemade cinnamon buns for Thanksgiving day breakfast. I got up at 6 a.m. to make sure they had enough time to rise and that they'd be hot and ready when everyone got up. They were absolutely wonderful and I couldn't help puffing up at my domestic derring-do...until one of the Heirs sighed, "But I sure miss those ones you used to make that popped out of the can."

Goodness knows, I tried to deliver the homey holiday Hallmark is convinced we're all supposed to have. I've tried the tradition of going around the table and saying one thing we're thankful for -- this dissolves into chaos pretty quickly when participants list "not having a gaping head wound" or "tequila." I had to hold up the Official Lighting of the Creche so the Bethlehem stable could be festooned with prayerfully and properly respectful, but anachronistic, action figures. I only tried a sing-a-long once -- it's amazing how quickly my family can come up with alternative lyrics...and I'm not talking about the kids, either. I gave up trying to inject tradition into holidays two decades ago.

Let me tell you something about traditions, particularly ones you concoct yourself -- they're never the ones your kids remember anyway. They pick their own favorites, thankyouverymuch, and the more embarrassing they are to you, the better.

Toppergetdown

For instance, we now have a tradition of guessing what dish I made that I forgot to put out. It's usually salad, but one year I woke up Friday morning to find the tiny nubs of brussels sprouts drying in the oven. Another favorite is guessing what time it will be when I'm finally so distracted by cooking that I forget to push food far enough back so our Australian Shepherd can't countersurf the cheese.

Heir 2 began a tradition of seeing how many times he could program the stereo to play "What's New Pussycat?" before it pisses someone off (he'll usually stick in one "It's Not Unusual," just to hear someone say, "Thank goodness!" to a song like "It's Not Unusual" -- which is then followed again by more "What's New Pussycat?").

And, once again, I will dig out the basket of nuts for Heir 1. So he can look at them and know they are there. (Do not eat any of the nuts in the basket, should you visit us during the holidays. The boys weren't even in high school when I bought those nuts. But it just isn't the holiday season without the basket of nuts.)

So, I've learned to let go of the control of the holidays. I no longer wear myself out cooking a huge, complicated menu. Wonder of wonders: no one cares. Do I still fuss and cook on Thursday? You bet I do! Well, until it gets tedious. Then I stop, have a martini and enjoy myself. No one ever left my house hungry.

So Martha Stewart would probably cringe at the haphazard delivery of turkey right off the cutting board and self-serve dessert, not to mention my lumpy mashed potatoes. The wine is probably wrong and I never remember to put on my "nice clothes" after doing all the cooking.

And Topper will probably eat all the leftover Doritos out of the bowl someone leaves on the coffee table. Just like he did last year. And the year before that.

Apparently, it's tradition.

All of a sudden...I am that mother

When my sons were little I was determined I was not going to have fussy, demanding offspring who required a laundry list of conditions in order to function in society. I was downright smug about the fact that I could take the Heirs anywhere and they would adjust to the situation, even if it meant they'd be sleeping in drawers, wearing oversized men's t-shirts to bed or accepting strange food for breakfast (fish).

"Adjust!" I'd say nobley, the point being that the experience of being where or with whom was worth putting up with a few minor inconveniences. And they did.

Fast forward to 2013. Our nest has been empty for about two years and for awhile now the Heirs and I have been living more than an hour from each other. For the first time, only our desire to have a relationship with each other dictates whether or not we make the effort during this holiday season.

I spend most of my time being

The 2001 Sisiggy would have said, "If they want to be here, wonderful! This is what I have to offer. If it's not good enough, ADJUST! Or find a more accomodating establishment."

bewildered by the Heirs.

However, 2013 Sisiggy is running around frantically barking orders at Dirtman and obsessing over things like, "The boys don't like their towels hung up to dry; they like them dried in the dryer with fabric softener -- I HAVE TO REWASH ALL THE TOWELS!!!!"

The boys would find this strange, since while they were growing up they'd complain about being able to snowboard with the line-dried towels and I'd yell back that they were welcome to use their allowance money to check in at the Ramada for nice, soft towels. Otherwise...ADJUST!

Dinnertime was another strictly-held tradition. Either show up on time or fend for yourself: (all together) "I am NOT a short-order cook!"

So I had to know about Heir 2's plans the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving Day.

Phone conversation: 

Me: Will you be here for dinner Wednesday night?
Heir 2: By the time I get off work, run home and grab the cat and my stuff, I probably won't make it there until 9 or 10 o'clock.
Me: (pleasantly, with lilt in my voice) No problem. I can always throw something together for you if you're hungry.
Heir 2 and Dirtman (sitting with me and listening to my side of conversation):  WHAT?

I actually spent 15 minutes yesterday making sure I could find Heir 1's favorite fork. When he was little and his favorite fork was dirty, I'd snap, "Then I guess you'll be going hungry unless you can ADJUST!"

And the final proof that I'm a hopeless empty-nester: I added Cap'n Crunch cereal to my list...and didn't buy the generic knock-off.

So there you have it, my friends. I've become what I never in a million years thought I'd be -- one of those wussy, sentimental blobs of maternal goo*. And, I have to admit -- it frightens me. I'm afraid of losing my edge. The only last step for me if when I start watch all those sappy Christmas movies on the Hallmark Channel -- at that point, just shoot me.

*This will open a whole new category of joke: 

How many Wussy, Sentimental Blobs of Maternal Goo does it take to screw in a light bulb?

"None, my darling. I'll just sit in the dark and think of you!"

Zsa Zsa2001 -- 2013

It is with sadness that I have to announce that Zsa Zsa, my constant companion here in Linguiniland, died on Sunday morning due to a sudden and brief bout with pneumonia.

It would be somewhat cathartic to relate the details of Zsa Zsa's last days but, since those final moments were so not what she was about, I'd rather focus this blogland tribute on stories that tell exactly what Zsa Zsa's ultimate purpose here seemed to be.

She was almost six years old when Karen (Mama K), my friend and mentor for all things about purebred dogs, offered Zsa Zsa to us as a sort of "practice dog" for dog shows. Zsa Zsa needed to learn not to shy from the judges and, frankly, so did I.

When she first came to us, no one could approach Zsa Zsa without her hiding behind me. She shied away from other dogs. In the show ring, she would back away from the judge. Karen advised taking her everywhere and socializing her with anyone willing to give her a pat.

And so began my travels with Zsa Zsa. Ultimately, we both overcame our terror of the show ring, but it was very apparent neither one of us was having a very good time. However, for Zsa Zsa, socialization had somehow made her think she was responsible for the entire world running properly.

Sometimes she could be downright bossy. At rally classes, she'd scold any dog that would cut up or jump around or behave in any way she considered beneath the dignity of a canine. When the Heirs would tussle around, she'd get into the thick of things, separating the two parties and "yelling" at them to knock it off.

With me she became my caregiver. She was never convinced I had the brains to navigate through life safely, so she followed me everywhere watching carefully for any situation that might befuddle my inferior human brain.

She never left my side as I went through through the worst days of my life and worried over me when a mysterious illness had me practically bedridden (mysterious because my "healthcare plan" is called WebMD and the final line of every WebMD diagnosis is "see your doctor").

My favorite Zsa Zsa story comes from when I was Volunteer Coordinator at "the other" volunteer farm, where she accompanied me every day. One of my tasks was to greet the groups of volunteers that would come to us from various organizations, explaining what the farm does, what they would be doing and how to do it. During this time, Zsa Zsa would work the crowd, walking among them being petted and admired (as well they should, she felt) and probably sniffing for treats.

One particular group consisted of special needs elementary-aged kids and their teachers. I was going through my spiel and noticed a little kerfuffle in the back of the crowd, but I finished up and sent them all out into the field. But one of the teachers and a little girl remained behind. The teacher was sort of ... trying not to cry and the little girl and Zsa Zsa were sitting on the ground. The girl's face was right next to Zsa's, which sort of surprised me since the teachers were very careful to instruct the students about how to approach a dog they didn't know (let them smell the top of your hand, don't go face to face, no pinching or hitting or grabbing...).

I was a little concerned  because the girl was clawing at the fur on Zsa's chest with one hand and sort of grabbing her rhythmically at her withers. But Zsa was leaning into her and even "nudging" the girl's cheek. And the teacher was just standing there, all emotional, instead of correcting her student's behavior.

So I went over to coax the kid away from Zsa Zsa and maybe mention to the instructor that, had this been any other dog, it probably would be biting the girl's face off by now.

As I approached, I realized the girl was muttering into Zsa Zsa's ear. Making a wide berth around the two of them, the teacher pulled me away to talk.

The girl was six years old and in the school program for two months. In all that time and in spite of all their efforts, the child had not spoken a word. Even at home she'd only spoke a few rudimentary words or grunts, certainly not the long oration to which she was subjecting Zsa Zsa.

Well, then. The two of us had a good (off-to-the-side) cry over that one and Zsa Zsa spent that morning with the girl and the teacher. After they left, Zsa Zsa spent the afternoon being smug: "Yes, Dah-ling, you can type and tie shoes with those ugly opposable thumbs of yours; but I made a mute child speak!"

And that was Zsa Zsa. Right now I just know she waiting at the Rainbow Bridge -- telling everyone what to do.

Silence is Golden

Last night Dirtman and I went to the Library of Congress' Packard Campus where they preserve various media like film and television and radio shows. They have various showings throughout the year and last night was a silent film accompanied by live music.

Okay -- I know what you're thinking...

Everyone knows I'm a die-hard film fan. So naturally I was in my element.

"But, Sisiggy," you say (yes, I can hear you. Think about that. I can hear you.). "Why would I, a normal human being with a brain and some form of consciousness that requires stimulation, want to sit in a theater for a couple of hours and watch people pantomiming boring old plots when I could be parked in front of the television watching, say, a competition among three chefs trying to make egg rolls out of red JuJuBees and frozen muskrat?"

I get that. In fact, on the way over, I cautioned Dirtman, "DO. NOT. FALL. ASLEEP."

(And, lest you think I was being a overly bitchy, you need to know that Dirtman fell asleep during Lord of the Rings.)

For one thing, there is nothing more exciting than when someone is sharing with you something they are passionate about. The organ accompaniment was provided by Ben Model who, in addition to his musical accomplishments, is a silent film buff. He had scored both the feature film -- Paths to Paradise -- and the short that previewed (a comedy with Oliver Hardy before he was teamed with Stan Laurel) and his attention to detail, time and place was stunning.

While I won't go into the geekier aspects of enjoying silent film and these two offering in particular, I will say to someone coming to the genre* for the first time, notice the background, the fashions, the landscape. That was what first got me hooked on silent film -- sort of the same reason I love to stand in abandoned buildings, poke through antique stores (the dusty kind -- not the kind with lines of glass cases or, worst, "tableaus") and listen to old jazz on scratchy vinyl.

And then there is the communal aspect of watching something in a group that appreciates the effort. While admission is free, the LOC Packard Campus isn't exactly on the beaten path -- it's close, but it's not nearby a lot of commercial development. They don't advertise. So everyone who is there is there very deliberately to see an archived film (and it's not all silent or "historic" films -- tonight's film is Meatballs with Bill Murray). Everyone is sharing information and insights and even a confirmed introvert like me gets caught up in the interaction.

While I'm on the subject, I have to say that one of the perks of living in the Washington, D.C., area is that throughout Virginia there are annexes of some of the attractions in the city itself, just like this one.

When we were homeschooling, I used to take the boys to the Museum of Natural Science lab in Loudoun County where they could see how pieces were studied, cataloged and prepared for display. Warren County has the overflow from the National Zoo and Dulles has the overflow from the Air and Space Museum. It's all free and open to the public -- in fact, I think the employees are anxious for people to come and justify the facilities' existence.

*Is there a more pompous word than "genre," especially when talking about "the arts," which is almost equally pompous? Sorry -- I couldn't think of anything more down-to-earth.

P.S. Dirtman DID NOT fall asleep -- I almost wish he had because he laughs very loud and very explosively...right in my ear.

What's news?

This comes under the heading of "I knew I was a geek when I got excited over the Rufous-necked Wood-rail showing up in New Mexico."


As a confirmed bird-watching nerd, I want to meet the reporter (Susan Montoya Bryan) who pitched this story and the AP editors who recognized it was every bit as, if not more, interesting as a royal baby -- to some of us anyway. Thank you; all of you. I've been disgusted about most of what you've deigned to pass onto us these days, but this almost makes up for the media's current absorption in the royal after-birth (wait...that didn't come out quite right...).

And, by the way, Ms. Montoya gets extra points for mentioning one of my favorite movies, "The Big Year," though the fact that she had to explain the movie is kind of a let down. I mean, when when making pop culture references you never have to explain why you just compared someone to The Dude. It was probably inserted in there by an editor, who was obviously not a birder and had to Google the movie title to find out what it was about.

Really, though, considering the rarity of this occurrence -- a shy, reclusive bird showing up thousands of miles from its usual habitat -- should be major news above what to name one of the hundreds of thousands of babies born on July 22. And who cares what they name the baby, since it will have 15 names anyway, one of which will probably be Fortescue (I don't know this for sure, but it sounds like it should be).

So I pass this along for my fellow birders because the story disappeared very quickly from Yahoo feed to make way for this inane announcement: Royal Couple Begin Parenting.

At the Fair

It's that time of year again -- county fairs all over the place and we arrived just in time for Madison County's -- the little fair that could.

Chicken pictures are always funny. No exceptions. Ever.

It was 95 degrees out -- the pig was probably the smartest one of anyone at the fairgrounds. We all should have just been taking naps.

And then there was this camel...like the chicken, an animal you just can't take seriously.

 I mean, honestly: How goofy can you get?

                   
                     I had to ask...

Madison County 2013 Fair Parade

The Cornucopia Volunteer Farm, of which Dirtman is executive director, was invited by the Madison Emergency Service Association (MESA) to march with them in the Madison County Fair Parade.

There are so many things I love about local parades, not the least of which is the interaction between the participants and the observers. Marchers shout out news from their floats and watchers ask after relatives as they march past. Candy flies and marchers jump off floats to embrace friends. Sometimes it's hard to distinguish who is in the parade and who is supposed to be off to the side watching!

 Did I mention it was hot? Like, close to 100 degrees hot? Just thought you should know that in view of these guys marching the two miles in wool suits.

I refer again to the heat...

...so you really can't blame the Madison County High School Band for not donning uniforms...

...and I was surprised at how many of them interrupted their summer vacation to march in the parade -- toting those heavy instruments.

There were lots of Miss This and Miss Thats, but this little one was workin' the wave, even though she'd been doing it for the last mile!

Some clown got in the way of the camera.

Pre-teen boys crack me up. I loved this age when I was raising my kids -- they're up for anything and so endearingly goofy.

This guy was doing back flips all the way down Main Street. I sort of hope this one was his last, because he looked pretty well done in.

Every local church had a float featuring their vacation Bible school theme. The part I love: The church men who do all the grunt work for these events who have to blend in with the theme, but look oh-so-uncomfortable doing it.

A little promo for the farm

And one thing about local parades. Really...

...can you ever have too much red, white and blue?