On Being an Introvert

I am so glad that being an introvert has become fashionable. At least, I assume it has -- one can never tell whether what you are interested in has become popular, or if it's just showing up a lot on your Facebook feed because of your interest. 

At any rate, it turns out that being an introvert is okay now. 

"But, Sisiggy," you say, "Here you are blathering on about being an introvert -- but you are blathering in a very public place -- the internet."

Yes, but my original blather is as I sit at my computer alone (but for Topper-get-down on the bed spewing noxious fumes and Dirtman  a few yards off muttering sport statistics that have no basis in my reality).

This isn't about the obvious attributes of introversion, but the most common is that introverts find large gatherings draining -- which sounds to me like I'm being accused of snobbishness ("I find these people so tedious, Dah-ling!"). It is actually the opposite of that. I think, when faced with a large gathering, we introverts become extrovert-wanna-bes.

What? You think we want to huddle in the back, pretending to be talking on our cell phones? (Prior to cell phones, the most we could do is dive into the bathroom.)

I manage a teeny, tiny remote portion of a very large non-profit and, therefore, have to attend meetings where I know, if I'm lucky, only one or two people out of hundreds. I am there with my boss's directive to "network."

Networking -- the person who invented this activity should have a flat tire on I-395 outside of Arlington at 5:30 p.m. on a Tuesday; they should encounter a locked bathroom a half hour after having consumed bad guacamole; they should get in a checkout line at the grocery store behind someone with a fistful of coupons, only some of which have not expired, requiring further examination on behalf of the clerk and the supervisor, called to pass judgement on the wording on several of the coupons.

My boss is a networking superstar. She works a room like Auntie Mame and makes small talk sound like the Gettysburg Address. I am in awe of her as I follow her around, smiling politely as she introduces me, while the entire time I'm just thinking up an excuse to go home or, perhaps, go help out the caterers (thereby at least accomplishing something).

This actually came in handy recently. I escaped during a break in a meeting where we were told to "introduce ourselves" to at least one other person from outside our department (since I'm a department of one, this meant everybody). I would argue, as an introvert, that this was not actually, then, a break, but a continuance of the tortuous interactive meeting. So I headed to my car with my phone plastered to my ear. Blessed silence! To fill out the time, I decide to clean out my glove compartment and noticed that I needed to print out a new insurance card.

See? Introversion has it's purpose.

Usually, though, when faced with such a meeting, I scan the room for someone like me -- usually sitting at the back row or table, pretending to be texting someone. This is where I will sit. We introverts have an understanding with each other. We will exchange names and, if asked, we will both have someone to refer to as "a connection" we made. Then we sit in silence and pray for the event to be over.

Later, though, I always swear that next time I will enter the room with a, "Hello everybody!" And everyone will give an exclamation of delight as I enter the room, my arms outstretched to encompass all these people I consider friends -- because what extrovert doesn't consider as a friend every person with whom they've made eye contact?

I will not have to introduce myself to anyone because everyone will be coming up to me, unable to resist the gravitational pull of my charm and folksy eloquence.

And there I'll be, in the center of all those people...those people whose names I, of course, remember*...who expect me to...what? What do they expect of me? Read their expressions, right? That 's how you tell what they want from you. But they're all smiling. That's it. Smiling. And talking about...what? I can't understand what they are saying, they're all talking at once...saying things and smiling...

It requires focus and listening. But it's always someone who talks too quietly and you lean in and still can't hear and ask, "What?" and still can't hear, then give up and just smile and nod until you notice a look of horror on their face and you realize that they've just related to you about their recently-deceased grandmother who raised them.

Or they ask me a question. Oh no!

I make a noise, nothing like speech. Like any good Italian, my mouth doesn't work without the aid of my hands. And I'm off, babbling and gesticulating like an idiot, running out of air at the end of sentences and laughing at my own stupid jokes. I go on and on because I don't know how to end it, so I say (and I'm not exaggerating; this is honestly how I've ended some of my more inane diatribes), "I'm done now."

Then I chuckle, pretend to suddenly notice the refreshment table and say, "Oh! Water!" and hurry away.

And speaking of the refreshment table, what demon of Satan's thought up the idea of having to eat, drink, stand up and talk, all at the same time? (I suspect it's the same person who came up with sing-alongs, high school gym class and those silly games they make you play at Tupperware parties -- all, ironically, activities at which extroverts excel.)

So, you see, in a way, it's a blessing I'm an introvert. No one, not even the most annoying extrovert, should have to witness that embarrassment.

So, Extroverts of the World, I have a deal for you: If you will just leave me alone when you see me sitting placidly off to the side at some event, next time I'm completing some mundane transaction like gassing up my car or buying a pizza, I won't punch you in the head when you command me to, "Smile!"

*I have, under pressure of speaking to someone I didn't know, forgotten the name of my husband. Recently. We've been married 27 years. And the question, "Is it 'Jean' or 'Jeanne'?" confused me because I didn't know who they were talking about.

My Life With Food

Let's address the literal (ahem) Elephant in the Living Room, shall we?

How does one survive owning an eating establishment when one's addiction of choice would be (ahem, uncomfortable shuffling of feet) ... um ... eating.

(We will pause a moment while those who know me mutter under their breath, "Yeah, I was wondering about that..." and my brothers moan to themselves, "Oh, not again...")

Truly, this wasn't an issue at first because most of what we serve is relatively healthy. Oh, we have our share of cream soups and cold cuts; but we keep our portions reasonable and temper the meat with plenty of vegetables.

Plus, I'm running around this cafe 15 hours a day five to seven days a week. And the first month, eating was the farthest thing from my (and anyone else's) mind. Between the stress and the physical activity, we all slimmed down. Of course, the guys -- who were all making a point to at least swallow a sandwich once a day -- all dropped 20 to 25 pounds. Meanwhile, I -- the only female around here -- survived the entirety of February on coffee and gum; I think my earlobes may have gotten thinner.

I didn't miss food in February and I made the mistake of telling myself I'd found the secret to weight loss: surround yourself with so much food, you don't even want to smell it. Even the sweets we carry -- mostly baked goods -- weren't a problem since I bake them myself and am rarely tempted by my  own cooking.

Yup, I said. I got this licked. I thought of writing a book about the irony of overcoming the urge to eat by immersing yourself in the very thing to which you are addicted.

And...and...AND...I dropped a jeans size in March. No sweat. Just exhaustion and stress.

Oh. Yeah. I was tough to live with, what with all the smugness swirling about me.  Here I was, surrounded by cheese, for cryin' out loud, and I was losing weight. Oh. Yeah. I had this thing beat.

We all know where this is going, don't we?

One day I'm back at my little hot plate, waiting the requisite 45 minutes it takes to heat up a pot of soup, when the doors burst open and a bunch of burly Teamsters deposited a freezer in the middle of our little cafe.

An

ice

cream

freezer.

I believe the Biblical phrase goes: Pride goeth before the cookies and cream.

...or something like that.

So.

Back to the original premise of this post: How one survives owning an eating establishment when one's addiction of choice is eating.

You start by not allowing the One In Charge of the Ice Cream to order coffee ice cream. I apologize to any of my customer whose favorite is also coffee. Unfortunately, a shot of espresso poured over vanilla is just as good, if not better, than coffee ice cream and, if there is one thing we have in abundance around here, it's espresso.

In all fairness, I've been pretty good -- I only succumbed twice in the past three weeks. But I know it's just a matter of time. Food speaks to me. Loudly. (This must be why I sleep so well -- there is absolutely no food at home.)

Ice cream screams -- it's why we carry it. Come to think of it, I have my business to consider. How can I ask my customers to eat something I won't eat myself? I'd be a hypocrite, right?

Right?

Besides, I can quit eating ice cream any time I want.

Really.

To blog or not to blog

This November I will have been blogging for six years. There have been a few months of dry spells here and there* but, if you were bored enough with life to go through each post from the beginning, you would have a pretty good idea of what goes on around here in Linguiniland, the whys and the hows and what everyone around here thinks about it.

Back in 2005 I had some misgivings about starting a blog. Oh, privacy didn't bother me much -- anyone can pick up a phone book and find out more about us than they'll glean from my blog. And I knew better than to treat Linguini on the Ceiling as an actual on-line journal or, worse, an on-line litany of my "feelings" and the state of my health.

I've been mulling over the reasons I blog since the day I started. Back then, it really was a great way to stop the "blogging in my brain." It became the outlet for the stories and observations I'd relate if, say, we were having lunch together.

But, every now and then I'd think, "This is really a self-absorbed sort of pass-time." That was a pretty good indication that whatever I was writing was inappropriate for this blog.

I will admit that in the time following our foreclosure and bankruptcy, some of the posts got a little raw and personal. That was a very deliberate decision on my part. While my family was going through all this agony, there were tens of thousands of other families going through the same thing; only no one had the least bit of compassion for these people whose lives were turned upside down. Instead everyone bought into the media short-cut of clumping the economy's victims under the banner of "spoiled, materialistic, over-spenders." It was lazy thinking and, I suppose, gave comfort to those it hadn't happened to: "That couldn't possibly happen to us because we are not like them." There is the illusion of safety in an "Us and Them" mentality -- and denial.

I have been particularly thinking along these lines the past few months and, at one point, even considered abandoning Linguini altogether. Afterall, Facebook gives an adequate snap shot of what's going on around here, if you're really interested. And there are very few people left with the focusing ability to read full paragraphs. But I just can't do it. Every now and then I hit common ground with someone who just happened by and that makes it all worth it. I've made some swell friends through this blog.

C.S. Lewis said, "We read to know we are not alone."

Sometimes we write for the same reason.

*I have no other explanation for my absence during the past few months other than to say I may not be as immune from Seasonal Affective Disorder as I've previously stated. But we have pushed through, thanks to the efforts of my family...and the entire collection of Jeeves and Wooster (thank you, Netflix).

Just wait until next year...

Well, true to form, my ambitions for the holiday kick in about a month too late. Let's see...what was I doing a month ago? Oh, that's right -- apologizing for not properly preparing for Thanksgiving.

At least I've waited until three days before Christmas before berating myself for the stuff I didn't get done. There was I time when I began writing off this year's holiday on December 1.

Those were the days when I'd plan all sorts of handmade fabulousness, from a hand-sculpted Advent wreath to a set of matching hand knit sweaters for the entire family. I still hang on to a cross-stitch pattern for an Advent calendar in 22-ct. gauge (that's teeny-tiny) -- I still tell myself I'm going to get it done (keep in mind, the Heirs are now in their twenties -- not the age where they jump out of bed with excitement each morning to see a picture of sheep behind door number 14...).

All this planning usually happens the day after Christmas when I swear, "Next year will be better. I'll start now...today." I may even go so far as buying the supplies.

Then New Year's Eve comes and goes and I'm so over Christmas I have to leave the house while Dirtman deals with the dismal job of undoing and packing away all the glitter and glamor that seemed such a good idea at the time. By January 1, I want to think of nothing but the coming spring. Hand-sculpted Advent wreath? Plenty of time; right now I'm all about pastels and minimalist decor' accented with fresh flowers.

I know this, yet even now, as I'm typing this, I'm saying to myself, "Yeah, well, NEXT year really WILL be better. NEXT year I will be disciplined, organized and energetic."

I'm thinking hand-needlepoint Christmas stockings for Dirtman and the Heirs and hand-sewn cushions for all the dogs and cats...

Up to speed

Ahhhh! Back on my usual computer. The laptop is okay for just working in Word, but doing anything else is a nuisance -- and will be until I get myself a mouse.

Things have been truly buzzing around here; so much good news, I'm wondering if perhaps the universe is tilting in a strange direction or maybe I've fallen through some black hole to a parallel universe -- one that isn't out to get us.

Or maybe my Year of Grief has come to an end, even though I didn't know I was experiencing a Year of Grief because I was...well...experiencing a Year of Grief. What is the psycho babble phrase? I found my New Normal?

First of all, NO MORE CISTERN!!!! Our landlord/neighbor hooked us up to his well. What this means is no more turning on the kitchen sink, hearing a telltale thunk that means "rinse what you got and quick;" or waking up at night when someone uses the bathroom and hearing an ominous hiss that means no one else will be able to use the toilet until water is delivered. Turns out the cistern still had a leak, which I wish we knew, like, eight expensive loads of water ago...

Second: Dirtman has quit tobacco! The Heirs are particularly happy about this since they envisioned a future of having to be the caregiver to a father with half a face. I'm just relieved he got rid of the health risk. Oh, and now I don't have to run away when he tries to kiss me.

Some minor positive notes: The thyroid meds have finally kicked in completely and, while I wouldn't say the pounds are "melting" away, I feel like I'm back on track and am fitting in clothes I haven't seen since two summers ago. My energy has returned and my joints aren't screaming every time I put forth a little exertion. My hair has stopped falling out and my nails grow again.

So we've been busy. Landlord/neighbor plowed a section in the back of the yard (beyond the fence) for a communal vegetable garden. As soon as it dries up a little he's going to have it tilled. So we started a compost pile because...yea...we've got a lot to compost.

Mothers' Day was spent at Dark Garden's house, where I was -- against my will -- entered into a dip contest. Had I known this was a contest, I would not have brought hummus, which was, technically, in violation of the "dip theme" of the gathering. The dip was supposed to go with tortilla chips, but since I was trying not to eat tortilla chips, I brought hummus and carrot and celery sticks.

Do I need to tell you I lost miserably -- even to Dirtman's dip, which was...well, if you have a strong stomach and aren't eating anything, you can read about Dirtman's dip. First of all, men don't like hummus. They say they do to appease women attempting to get them to eating healthily, but they don't. Second, I can't think of anything more disgusting than hummus on a tortilla chip. And, finally, this batch didn't turn out as well as usual because for the first time in my life I made something with not enough garlic and, I think, my tahini might have been too old. (Dark Garden will make a comment about that last phrase.)

Additionally, Dark Garden will say I'm taking this way too seriously, which is what the person who sets up such competition always says when he purposely sabotaged the entry of the competition he feared. It ended up being a draw between his and John Boy's salsas, but only statistically. Each dip had its own merit and it's hard to compare, say, a cheese-based dip with a salsa because sometimes you want cheese and sometimes you want salsa.

And sometimes you don't want either because you want fresh vegetables and hummus.

I think that catches us up.

Oh, except for this, which we found next to Abbey's favorite gnome:

Linguini 54, where are you?

If you are wondering where I’ve gone, know that the answer is not very dramatic.

It seems we have internet problems. Whether this is a server problem or something on our end, we can’t be sure. Having dealt with this provider for over a decade, we know that a phone call asking if they are having problems will always – always – yield a negative.

The first time this happened we threw all kinds of money into the problem, since we were told the problem was at our end. Almost $500 later, it turned out to be the server problem which they only admitted to us (and their other thousands of customers) after they’d solved it.

Lesson learned.

The next time we had problems we again stupidly called the server, thinking that if we pointed out to them their previous infraction, they would come clean.

I know – fool me once, etc., etc. This time, though, we waited it out, though it took weeks and – lo and behold – suddenly our internet was working snappily again and yet another “apology” on the server’s web page.

Now we’re once again being kicked on and off the internet. We’ll be buzzing along for about three minutes at which point it claims our internet connection is not working, followed by a claim that our internet is working, we just have an invalid address, after which it will partially reload the page and then quit and then, finally, after about five to ten minutes of this, give us the page we want.

Yes, we’ve check all the connections. We have defragged and removed the spyware. We’ve called in the Heirs.

At any rate, posting has become a nightmare of staring at error screen after error screen. I’m supposed to be researching something and it’s taking what would be a 2-hour task and making it into a week-long ordeal.

I'm not dead yet...I'm feeling much better (think I'll go for a walk...)

I try not to talk about medical issues here on the blog. The reason for this is two-fold, the first being the very obvious reason of it being extremely boring to listen to someone go on and on about that kind of thing.

The other reason is that I think you can talk yourself sick – or write yourself sick, in this case. You draw it to you, so to speak; give your illness all your energy.

I’m breaking my own rule for one reason only: turns out I’m not sick.

See, the thing is, truth to tell (that I didn’t tell my family), I thought – no, I was sure – that when I went to the doctor for the first time in two years, he was going to find I had one or all of the following:

Minor heart attack(s)
Hypoglycemia
Osteoporosis
High blood pressure
Diabetes

Of course he found what he’d already found: My thyroid doesn’t function and, as it turns out, you really, really need your thyroid and should never stop taking your meds even if, say, your prescription runs out but you no longer have health insurance so you can’t afford to go to the doctor to get it refilled because you are afraid that even if you can afford to pay for the visit, if that doctor finds anything else wrong, when you do want to get insurance they won’t cover something that is a “pre-existing condition.” Turns out you shouldn’t do that because a non-functioning thyroid can lead to symptoms that lead you to believe you’ve had a minor heart attack, hypoglycemia, osteoporosis, high blood pressure or diabetes.

The other thing I learned was that there is a reason why Primatene Mist is being pulled off the market and should never be used as a substitute for your regular asthma medication, even if, say, your prescription runs out but you no longer have health insurance, etc.

So, other than the thyroid and the asthma, both of which are nothing new, I’m strong like bull – or I will be once the thyroid meds kick in. Don’t ask me how I managed to get through this year and still have normal blood pressure.

Probably all that steel-cut oatmeal.

Anyway, I’m doin’ a happy dance tonight and looking forward to, now that I’ve got my asthma meds, sleeping laying down rather than propped up.

End of medical post. As you were.

Self-indugent blathering

I have many character flaws which I’ve enumerated on this blog more times than I care to remember, so I’m not going to reiterate them all just now. I plan for this entry to be a “Yay Me” posting, but I don’t want anyone to misconstrue that I in any way am not regretful of being, at times, self-indulgent and materialistic. I have been both of those, not to mention whiney and sarcastic.

Anyway, I’m not going to talk about that. I’m going to talk about this character trait of mine that is equal parts blessing and curse: I’m adaptable.

Seriously, plunk me in any situation and, after an initial phase of shock or anger or sorrow, I’ll figure a way to be happy there. I will adjust my attitude, my goals, and my point of view. Depending on the gravity of the situation, it may take a few hours or days or weeks or, in a few extremely drastic cases, months – but all in all, nothing thus far has landed me in a state of total despair.

I’m very good at gleaning the lesson in each of these disasters, adjusting my behavior accordingly and moving forward.

I know on the surface this is a good thing. It’s what keeps me going and prevents those around me – particularly my kids – from being frightened. No one seems to rally around here until I gather my sanity together and start cracking jokes.

The downside to this is that wherever ugly situations come from, whatever negative energy feeds off the mistakes I’ve already made and turns them to disaster (I’m not in denial about my own part in situations that go horribly wrong) keep ramping up the consequences, in spite of the fact that, as I keep telling Them (It…whatever) “I get it. I understand. Now STOP!”

It’s gotten to the point that more than one person has asked me why I’m not at this point screaming my head off, demanding justice and retribution for having to continually endure the consequences of decisions I didn’t make and situations I knew nothing about.

The answer is that I don’t know why and, as I explained to my eternally patient sister-in-law Mrs. Dark Garden, what can I do to let Them (It…Whatever) know that I can’t take anymore? I mean, I can’t do any differently from what I’m doing and It keeps throwing stuff at me. I keep trying to have a nervous breakdown or a heart attack or anything to tell It: “Back off, Jack. She’s hit the wall.”

I write all this by way of being honest and also by way of explanation for the fact that, while most of my readers know that we’ve endured two foreclosures and are going through bankruptcy, my posts are, but for an exception of a few, positive or downright frivolous.

There are those, in fact, who are offended that I don’t have an entire wardrobe of sackcloth and ashes or that I don’t walk around flaying myself while continually reciting a prayer of contrition. To them I can only apologize that I’m still alive and, therefore, require the sanctioned food, clothing and shelter and even have the nerve to want the food to taste good, the clothing to fit and the shelter to be comfortable. I know that’s too good for the likes of me but, again, sorry.

To these same few, I am also sorry that I’ve managed to adjust and be happy in these circumstances. It’s not that I don’t recognize the gravity of the situation. It’s that I have a life to run, whether you happen to think I deserve it or not.

The fact is, one of my ways of coping, or adjusting – whatever you want to call it – is to embrace where fate has landed me. You can believe this or not, but I’ve never been a frivolous shopper. All our financial resources went toward building a house and being unable to sell the one we owned to begin with (along with other factors). But I don’t have boxes of “stuff” or closets full of clothing. I don’t even have gadgets and electronics.

The point I’m trying to make is that now that our financial resources are so much less than two years ago and significantly less than when we realized the Housing Bubble was about to implode, there isn’t a whole lot we have had to change to accommodate the shortfall. Certainly we’re living in a smaller house, so we had to make that adjustment. And it doesn’t matter anymore if steak is on special or not – it’s not in our budget and we don’t eat it. It’s not a big deal (and, again, I’m sorry that I’m not in tears over this loss and, in fact, have rather a good time finding increasingly cheaper meals).

Anyway, one of my ways of adjusting to my current situation is to do the same with the rest of my life, even if it strikes some as rather pathetic. The reason I say this is very specifically for Dark Garden at this point. Whenever confronted with a challenge that most people would solve by spending money, I get a real kick out of finding a way to do it by laying out little or no cash, even when it’s justified.

Okay, for instance (still with me or have most of you clicked on by now?): We arrived at this house with one of those toilet bowl brush wands onto which you attach disposable brushes. The refills for these things are prohibitively expensive, not to mention adding to the accumulation of more waste to enter landfills.

So I knew, once my stock of refills ran out I was going to switch back to your standard TB brush and caddy, both of which could be purchased for the price of what one box of refills would cost. For a cleaner I decided on good ol’ bleach.

I’m sure the dollar store had a perfectly serviceable brush and caddy, but then not only would I have to pay a buck for the brush and a buck for the caddy, I’d have to specifically travel to the dollar store.

So during one of our CVS trips, having accumulated $16 in cashback bonuses, I was able to purchase a toilet bowl brush along with the soap we had originally gone there for: 66 cents. But that didn’t get me a caddy. (There was a brush with a caddy there, but it meant I’d have to pay over a dollar.)

So I present my toilet brush and caddy.


Now, I know that, upon seeing this, Mr. and Mrs. Dark Garden will show up at my door with a toilet brush and caddy. It will be top of the line and better than they would buy for themselves.

This is what I mean: a toilet brush caddy made out of a milk carton is not, to me, pathetic and I’m not posting it because I want you to see how poor we are. I can afford a toilet brush and caddy. But think of it – we are recycling! And I’m posting it because it makes me happy and to show you how clever I am.

Yay me.

So Dark Garden will stop obsessing...

Here was the original mast head:



But when I imported it into Blogger, it was too small. So I had to make the rectangle bigger because making the whole thing bigger threw it off the side of the page, so I would have had to re-size the Hokie pic to fit more precisely and then re-size the rectangle and I do have other things I do besides this blog and I was sick of dealing with the whole thing because who, after all, looks all that closely at my mastheads, knowing that they are, after all, slapped up there any old which way because I, like, HAVE A LIFE, so no one will worry that for one stinkin' month Hokie's head is floating in space and his the tufty fur on his chest is just this clump hanging under his chin.

Okay?

And it's Thai Noodle Night too!

Setting: The public library.

Grandmotherly Librarian checking out my books: Ah! Someone needing some comfort reading.

Me: (nodding)

Grandmotherly Librarian: Well, Elizabeth Goudge will do it. I'm surprised you know about her.

Me: My mother had her books from World War II. I have them...somewhere.

Grandmotherly Librarian (smiling): Well, I hope she does the job.

Me (beginning to tear up): Thank you.

Setting: Later, exiting library.

Me (whispering to Dirtman): I found a few dollars in an old coat this morning. Think we can sneak to Rita's and share a gelati?

Dirtman (whispering back): I took money out of the change jar. I think we can each get a small gelati. And we'll go to the new one in Stephens City that not many people know about.

(Editor's note: this last is a consideration in a small town. Word has gotten around about the bankruptcy and any acts of luxury like peanut sauce for Thai Noodle night, movie attendance or name brand tampons are frowned upon.)

Setting: Later, at Rita's.

Server: We have a special today on gelati. Fifty cents off -- basically you get a large for the price of a small.

Me: (beginning to tear up) Really?

Dirtman: Oh...oh...thank you so much.

Server looks bewildered and hurries us through our order. Watches us cautiously as we eat.

Setting: Car, driving home with library books and gelati's.

Me: I can't believe the library had an old author like Elizabeth Goudge. And then a large gelati!

(Pause)

AND IT'S THAI NOODLE NIGHT!

Dirtman: You are just too pathetic for words.

The morning after

We’re pulling the loose ends together here and coming up with something that resembles a routine. But it’s been touch and go for the past week.

Each morning we try to find the perfect doggie plan. The backyard isn’t yet fenced, and there are certain members of this pack that will take advantage of that (like Topper, who took off for a half hour, ate something that caused him to go into some sort of breathing fit resulting in a trip to the vet). One morning we tried everyone at once, thinking the well-behaved dogs (Zsa Zsa, Hokie and Abby) would encourage the Baker Street Irregulars to stick around for breakfast.

The result was a fiasco of overweight, middle-aged people in their pajamas running about the yard screaming and waving their arms. I’m surprised the neighbors weren’t lined up to watch the next morning’s performance.

Then there was the morning we finally worked out the whole doggie issue so well, I had time to start the coffee while waiting for the puppies to finish their food. Only I forgot to put the pot into the coffee maker.

And sleep. I tried everything: Tylenol PM, Advil PM, and, finally, when I couldn’t stand one more night staring into the darkness, an Ambien given to me by A Concerned Relative. I’ve never, ever taken a sleeping pill before, never taken any drug, really. And, yeah, it put me to sleep. I didn’t feel like I had slept, but it did make those long hours of darkness go away. No dreaming, which I think is vital for my mental health.

But then, last night, finally, sleep. Actual sleep with no more of a sedative than my book. And I dreamed – I couldn’t tell you about what, but I remember dreaming.

So this morning I find myself actually able to think and – there it is – feel like I can handle what’s going on without the “woe is me” expression on my face. Is this allowed when you are declaring bankruptcy? Or am I required to walk up and down the streets, self-flagellating and begging forgiveness? What’s the protocol?

Well, just know that I’m a lot more productive for society not having a nervous breakdown. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gravity of what has happened. But I can’t live in despair. Apparently I’m not like that. I tried to stay depressed, didn’t I? But there was this morning and there was ‘Pode curled up in the curve of Dirtman’s leg and there was Zsa Zsa wiggling her butt and robins on the lawn and I couldn’t help but think, “This isn’t so bad.”

How surprising, especially in my family, to find that I am, after all, an optimist.

Good-bye Yellow Brick Road Gnome Hill

It’s a done deal. We’re no longer in residence.

If this seems sudden…well, it was for me. We knew we would have to leave, but this entire process ended up being a four-day scramble to find new housing and move out. Without going into way-too-personal details, I’m still a little shell-shocked. I find myself in the middle of the night sitting up and thinking, “What that hell happened?”

For anyone reading this who doesn’t know me or my family and before you rush to judge, know that we didn’t have a fleet of Hummers in our driveway. I don’t own one single designer item (I, in fact, avoid wearing anything sporting a designer logo); don’t own a lot of jewelry, valuable or otherwise. My kids bought their cars with their own money and they both have jobs. Most nights we all eat dinner at home together. We’ve always vacationed within 500 miles of where we live.

What we did was build a house at probably the worse time we could have picked to build a house. But it didn’t look that way at the time. At the time, we’d been in business for three increasingly successful years, the area building trade – of which we are a part – had prospered during the 9/11 economy slump (giving us a false sense of faith in the area building trade…), we had six months liquid cash in savings in case things turned sour and had no debt other than a little house with a nominal mortgage and a monthly payment of $350 (yeah, I know…) and no credit card debt. By our calculations, if we only did a quarter of the business we were doing, we could afford the house we were building.

So we signed, planned and, as long-standing Linguini readers will recall, obsessed over getting the house at Gnome Hill built before the House of Squalor became uninhabitable. Our budget: $325,000, including pool and full deck with screened porch. Yeah, it was a huge house and Dirtman had big plans. And it seemed to get larger every time Dirtman watched too much Home and Garden TV. But it was still within budget.

Until Katrina hit and building costs soared.

Until the large developers got greedy, started building on spec and crashed the bubble; the large developers who refused to pay their bills to their smaller subcontractors like us, knowing we didn’t have the lawyer-power they had; the large developers who went crying to Washington for subsidies and tax breaks that never trickled down to the rest of the industry they had stiffed because by that time most of us were bankrupt anyway.

We put some plans for the house on hold, and then cancelled them. Some things had already been started. By the time we were committed to the house legally, too much had been begun to turn back. In order to get an occupancy permit, we had to use every bit of credit we had.

And – no, we didn’t use subprime mortgage. We had a construction loan that was supposed to be mitigated by the sale of The House of Squalor.

Like I said, the absolutely the worse time to build a house.

We do have to own the fact that we totally miscalculated how long it would take for the building industry to come back. We hung on for two years, trying to pay everything down, trying to move first The House of Squalor, then either house.

You know the story.

So here I sit among the very-loosely-packed boxes in a two-bedroom rambler we now rent from a very kind couple who took us on faith that our six dogs and two cats wouldn’t be a problem.

I’ve seen the death of a son and both my parents; I’ve nursed family members in my home and helped others through personal crises. I’ve been out of work and faced chronic illness. But I have never felt so raw, so depleted, and so doubtful about my ability to cope. Whenever faced with crisis I usually fume for maybe – maybe – a day or two; and then I find a plan and look forward to it. But I’m having trouble with this one, perhaps because it’s an ongoing process that we’re still dealing with everyday, climbing over boxes, shuffling dogs, and filling out endless forms.

And of course there is the real and perceived judgment of others that dogs us wherever we go; because there are assumptions about people like us: we’re spendthrifts; we’re spoiled; we’re boors; we’re nouveau riche without the riche.

Before you start telling us how thrifty and morally superior you are over us, just know we hear it over and over and over and over from every person we see. So if we don’t seem satisfyingly repentant and humbled all the time; if we try to bolster our self esteem by cracking a joke; or if we are forced to buy damn Arby’s sandwich because we haven’t yet unpacked the damn frying pan and are so emotionally depleted that we have trouble working a stove, please be assured I’m up all night long beating myself up, berating every decision I’ve made for the past 50 years and trying to figure out a way to disconnect my brain so I can get one decent night’s sleep.

I realize all that’s about making your self feel good at the expense of someone else. There’s nothing like seeing someone fail to make the fact that you didn’t all the sweeter. It makes you feel that every decision you made was not only right for you, but is right for everyone else.

But, I’m rambling now. The only thing left to do is say it, so here goes:

Two foreclosures and a bankruptcy.

So there it is. Details about the move will come later. Or maybe not. I'm living hour to hour and yet still would like everyone to know I'm aware that this is a totally self-serving entry

I'm not dead yet...

Yeah, I'm afraid it's been another few days of bed rest for Sisiggy, an endeavor that is both frustrating, yet comfortable. I lie there and think of all the things I could be doing, forgetting that if I were up and around I'd being doing stupid day to day stuff instead of the important stuff I think of doing while laid up.

So while it was gloriously relaxing to work out of my bed on the laptop, spend the rest of the time reading, being waited on by Dirtman and worried over by Zsa Zsa (I think that she thinks that, like sheep, if she doesn't get me on my feet, I will die. Every time I get ready to get out of bed, she nudges my legs, which she continues to do as I make my way to the bathroom. Then she looks thoroughly disgusted with me when I climb back into bed.), I'd make a miserable, depressed invalid.

So now I'm back on my feet, wobbly, but vertical, and all I can see is that the floor needs to be vacuumed and the shutters need dusting and then there is dinner to plan. Yes, of course I could delegate all of this and Dirtman and Heir 2 would spring into action -- okay, Heir 2 would spring, Dirtman would lumber into action. But this is really my job and while abed I was itching to get outside and work the dogs or get busy at the sewing machine, what I really should be doing are the more mundane household tasks, though I truly don't have the strength to drag a vacuum yet. Besides, the sound would cause Dirtman to come a-running (no...really...) and a scolding would follow, ending with a very Scarlett O'Hara-esque comment from Dirtman: "You want to get so run down you'll never be of any use?"

Well, there's wisdom in that, I suppose.

And so, as I always do when nothing exciting is happening around here: Puppy pictures.

Hokie and The Face

Obligatory New Year's post

You all know how I feel about sharing my resolutions for the coming year, but I did promise to fess up to how I did on last year's resolutions (okay, two years ago...).

The fact is, not too shabbily. Last year I my resolve to two-fold: to continue my quest for serenity and to begin to eat more heathfully. We'll get to the first later in order to dispense with the more boring of the two, because actually I started out the year vowing that I was going to cook in such a way that I wouldn't be contributing to Dirtman gaining weight. I hope you appreciate how carefully-worded that was. At no point did I want to be the one responsible for Dirtman's weight loss because, frankly, that's none of my business. But I do recognize that, as the only one who can consistently conjure a meal around here, I can't ignore my role in his health. In the back of my mind was, of course, the thought that perhaps I might, myself, shed a few pounds.

And to get it out of the way: I did and I kept it off, though it was a meager 25 pounds. But it is still gone, through holidays and mood swings and everything else, it's gone.

But more importantly is the way I view food and eating and that whole issue of "losing weight." I refuse to buy into the hype anymore and refuse to compare myself to people who just happened to luck out on the metabolism spectrum. I'm not wasting another minute on that damn treadmill staring at the wall because it gives me a "calories burned" read out and a measurement of miles walked. I'm taking my dogs for a walk through the woods and if that, coupled with dragging three loads of laundry around the house and vacuuming 11 tons of dog hair, isn't enough exercise for a 50-year-old woman, then someone is skewing the stats for their own benefit, whatever that may be. I pay attention to nutrition and this past year made it a point to learn more about what my body doesn't need and what it does need. And that's it. If I'm lucky I've got maybe 30 years to live and I'm not spending it squirting lemon juice on lettuce and saying, "MMMM, I love this so much better than Starbuck's coffee ice cream."

Enough about that.

As for my ongoing quest for serenity, this year was a real challenge (like Randy Quaid in Independence Day, I picked a hell of a time to give up drinking -- which I also did for real this year because it started to mess with my blood sugar so much. I do still have a drink every now and then, but I always regret it and it doesn't happen very often.) Anyway, as previous posts have indicated, this year did not lend itself to calmness and peace. But the whole point in something becoming a lifestyle is that it is not drastically affected by other issues swirling about.

Still, I've managed to stay calm this year and not get stuck in panic mode. Panic makes you do dumb things, like listen to the wrong people, people who claim to be "helping" when, in fact, they have a whole other agenda, usually involving making themselves feel good or putting you "in your place." Whenever you hear between the lines of what someone is saying the phrase, "Who do you think you are?" this is probably the wrong person to listen to.

Which brings me to my big lesson learned this year, which is to listen to my gut (or, for the more sentimental among you, my heart). I'm more intuitive than I've given myself credit for and, if we'd acted on that, we'd be better for it. I don't mean to be so cryptic about situations. Honestly, every issue I'm referring to is just too stupid, boring and convoluted to go into in depth. Believe me, you're not missing out on something salacious.

All totaled, as a person I'm better off this year than last. That may sound contradictory with what's been going on around here lately, but its true. And that's all I can ask of a year.

So long, 2007. You were by far the fastest-moving year of my life. I have a feeling this is a trend.

I knew this was going to happen

Ya know...

I held off saying anything about our situation until we were sure it's what we had to do. That way you aren't forced to say things that end up not coming true.

Well, wouldn't you know that immediately after we decided to "go public" with the news that we would have to move from the House of Never-ending Construction, our brains kicked into gear and suddenly options appeared to us. Or, rather, it turned out that ideas I had conjured and thought utterly ridiculous and beyond the comfort zone of all involved, ended up being first a possibility and then, ultimately, the solution.

So, yeah, things around here will be a-changin' (well, not here specifically, but around Casa Linguini), we are here and, if all works out as planned, always will be.

I can't tell you how this has changed the atmosphere and I wish we'd have thought of all this before we spent an absolutely dismal Christmas saying heart-wrenching things like: "We'll never see the crabapple tree get big;" or "What do we do if the new people won't feed the birds?"

We had demonized the people we figured would buy this house (opportunists who would offer us way under appraisal because they could smell the stench of fear, panic and despair on us; greedy money-grubbers who took one of those get rich courses they advertise on paid programming at 3:30 in the morning that tells people to hunt down poor slobs drowning in debt and weed them out of the financial gene pool by offering a ridiculous amount for their property). We were quite sure they not only wouldn't feed our birds, they'd shoot the mourning doves, put a foozeball table in the library and not house a single gnome.

Yes, there is much rejoicing right now, but the real work lies ahead. The House of Squalor must still be rejuvenated, though the five-acre parcel it sits on is the real value of the property. And our extra lot next door will go up for sale.

But the Hill is still of the Gnome and so it shall remain. And the crawdads will still roam free.

Say Hallelujah; say Amen.

A sad state of affairs...perhaps...

This may be the hardest post I’ve ever had to write. And, no, it’s not the end of Linguini on the Ceiling, just to get that out of the way. But there is no denying Linguini has suffered over the past year or so and this may give you an insight as to why.

K. Here goes.

The Linguinis are high-tailing it back to the House of Squalor and the House of Neverending Construction is up for sale.

There. I said it.

Those of you who have been with me for the past two years know the ramifications of this statement. You know of the anguish and waiting and disappointment we went through to get here and know what a kick in the stomach it is for all of us to have to give it up.

But we’ve had to circle the wagons this last year, so to speak; pull up the drawbridge and try to cut our losses. We really thought the housing industry would have at least leveled out by now. We knew the glory days were over and didn’t expect them to last forever. While the glory days were what built this house in the first place, we figured the usual income from the industry was all we needed once we dealt with the initial outlay.

We probably could have survived the total annihilation of the housing market if that was all we had to deal with. Dirtman had, in fact, begun to move into less market-dependent areas of the industry and that would have suited us fine. But we couldn’t absorb the onslaughts from other factors on top of housing going bust.

The one thing Dirtman and I agreed about when he decided to go into business for himself was that we were going to maintain our integrity. No exploitation of situations, no undermining the competition, no backstabbing – all pretty easy to do when the market is good and there is plenty of work for everyone; but not so easy when things start getting competitive. We were totally unprepared for (read: naive) the lengths our “friends” would go to and still be able to justify betrayal. Frankly, Dirtman is usually the trusting one, but even I was taken in and that really pisses me off.

Needless to say, the embarrassment factor is quite high right now. Dirtman wants to hide. I just want to get it over with and start a new chapter. I don’t like the role of “victim” and need to shed it as soon as possible. But we know there is an element among the people we know who have been salivating for something like this to happen and, while they will make all the right sympathetic noises, they will not be able to keep the tinge of smugness out of their voices: “Well, that shows them. I would never find myself in this position. Of course if they lived their lives just like me this wouldn’t have happened. That’s what they get for being so uppity.”

(As an aside: We all know people like this, of course; people who are quite sure there is only one way to live and it’s their way. But what I want to know is: when they make their snide remarks and digs, do they actually think they’re so glib that we can’t hear how rude they’re being? Do they actually think they are so intellectually superior that, just because we’re too polite to call them on it, we don’t realize? Just wondering.)

So we are quite unsettled right now and feeling just a little bruised. But okay, really. Because we made some decisions before things got desperate, we have choices and control over how this is done – in other words, this is not a foreclosure situation, but a decision that Dirtman and I made over other options like working our tails off seven days a week to maintain a house we’re never home long enough to enjoy (not the lifestyle for us).

So, with the help of Dark Garden, the Twin Progenies and the Heirs, we will be putting the House of Squalor to rights so that I can inhabit it without getting sick. We will be paring down significantly, which, to me, is almost a relief.

And, really, I wonder if this wasn’t what we intended for awhile now. When we moved here a year and a half ago, it was overwhelming. I can’t deny how wonderful it was to have heat and water that was reliable; to not have to climb up and down flights of stairs to do laundry in between high and low tide in the basement; to not have to share a bathroom with the Three Stooges.

That being said, I had begun to explore concepts of sustainability and getting closer to the things that I need to live and this house really is not conducive to any of that. There’s no denying that, for the most part, I’m heating or cooling three floors for four people, not to mention that I’d have to relocate an entire field in order to have a garden.

So, to me, this is the first step of a new life. Dirtman isn’t there yet, so tread softly around him.

This is my gift to the smug among you: go forth and gloat.

To the rest of you, my friends, thank you in advance for your support.

I like my coffee like I like my men...

Bitter and murky.

You are a Black Coffee

At your best, you are: low maintenance, friendly, and adaptable At your worst, you are: cheap and angsty You drink coffee when: you can get your hands on it Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

I haven't disappeared, if any of you are still with me. I will explain in time and soon.

And I'm not cheap...I'm frugal. Look at all the cash I've saved on plastic drinking straws and plastic bags alone.

A day late...

I suppose I could back date this, but since I'm not officially blogging everyday anyway, I figure it's no big deal. Sundays are massive meal days and everyone comes here and eats stuff. So that's where I was yesterday.

All this blogging going on reminded of something I read on the internet by someone who did not want to be called a "blogger" because "bloggers" assume their lives are so interesting someone else wants to read about them. Apparently this person didn't agree that someone else's life/opinion was interesting, only his/hers. It made me wonder who was truly the most "self-absorbed."

When I started this blog two years ago, it was sort of like casting a line out into the ocean: Here's what I think. Anyone else think this? Am I alone in this? Can someone talk me out of this?

I've had one rule that I've stuck to since then: I never delete a comment, unless it's an obvious ad or at the request of the commenter (I think that happened once when a comment inadvertently posted twice). I don't claim to think in absolutes and I don't require total agreement.

Of course, I've never had anyone get really nasty. The few trolls that have stopped by have been immediately recognized and summarily ignored. They've never come back as I can tell.

I know a lot of people just hate the word "blogger," but it's just a matter of semantics to me. I yam what I yam. As in anything, there is good and bad and it used to be the same for the term "freelance writer." I remember going on a job interview and the interviewer making the snide comment that "at least you weren't a 'freelance writer.' That's just another way of saying 'unemployed.'" Instead I had a laundry list of jobs that had absolutely nothing to do with the writing job for which I was applying and which I subsequently got because he apparently thought that, since I could make a bank balance at the end of the day, I could put together a column. Yet he would have turned down James Michener because he was 'unemployed' (...and dead...).

So call it what you will. If you are threatened by the fact that there are people out there sending words over the internet that are trite or cloyingly cute or too personal or grammatical disasters and those people are called the same thing as you with your well-organized, sharply edited prose -- well, get over yourself.

I'm rather glad there is a venue for everyone to express their opinions. Because I think eventually the only opinion you will hear out of the mainstream media will be Barbra Streisand's.

And so it goes...

Many apologies for letting almost a month lapse, but Ms. Zsa Zsa has been sick. Scary sick.

While she's still not out of the woods, she is much better, thank you, and I'm no longer spending the day between her and the puppies, medicating, cleaning up and watching over.

The Puppy Formerly Known As Penny (last puppy on the left) has gone on to her new home in Maryland. I would have been as upset about it as I was when Sarge left if I hadn't seen the fuss her new owners were making over her. They arrived with several sizes of lambs wool lined dog crates, a snappy new collar (green to set off her red fur), and a huge basket of toys and treats. Her new name is 'Becca and last I heard she was dictating what she wanted to eat and when she wanted to eat it. Yeah. She hit the puppy lottery.

And now the puppies can run out in the yard unattended since now they are too big for a hawk or turkey vulture to swoop down and carry away. This means I no longer have to spend hours hosing down a run. But it also means when I go out the back door I am greeted by the entire pack who always hold out hope that I'm harboring Snausages or cheese.

I don't want you to think I've been neglecting the family in favor of the puppies. Things have settled into their usual autumnal rhythm, only this autumn I'm not driving Heir 2 back and forth to activities because HE HAS HIS OWN CAR!!!!!!!!!!!!! He's been saving for this since he was 12 years old and required only minimal help from Dirtman and me.

Sadly, this also means that I have my car back and I now have no excuse to not come down off my little hill. If it were up to me, I'd have groceries and supplies air dropped so I never have to leave.

Heir 1? I think he lives here. There are dishes in the sink in the morning and all our leftovers disappear. Laundry appears in the washer, then the dryer and then disappears. There have been sightings and rumors. But I can't be sure. I'm pretty sure he lives here because every now and then someone calls and asks for him and when I put the message up on the dry erase board it mysteriously gets erased.

Oh...

As for the last remaining unspoken for puppy?

You didn't actually thing Dirtman would let go of a puppy named Hokie that was born on his lap, did you?

It's that weekend again...

The weekend of the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival, where, once again, I won't be going.

It's also the weekend I say, "Next year, though, I'm definitely going to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival."

But it's always something....

You will note that last year I said in a post about the Apple Blossom Festival that I would be heading for Maryland instead. But it never happened because we ended up at the House of Never-ending Construction dealing with some last minute emergency.

As a matter of fact, it's been over a decade since I was able to go to the Sheep and Wool Festival. The list of reasons has been varied:

Little League (Heir 2's team always had a Saturday and Sunday game. You'd think in 7 years, just once one of those days would be free...)

Parades (once he outgrew Little League, Heir 2 began marching band. There is always somewhere to march around here on the first weekend in May.)

Gold Cup (when I was a reporter for a local weekly I was required to cover Gold Cup like I had a clue about Steeplechase)

And this year's reason:

Prom

(where Heir 1 will make his first appearance in a tux, we hope a tasteful tux...if his girlfriend Tori picked it out, we're safe. If not...can you say "Lounge Lizard?")

Next year Heir 2 will be eligible to go to the prom and, since that will be his junior year, the next year also.

There was one magical year, though. It was back when the Heirs were toddlers. We met Da Bros at Charles Town Race Track for the Kentucky Derby (vicariously on the television, but they have mint juleps in commemorative glasses on Derby Day) -- always a great place to take the kids -- and that night went on to Frederick, Md., to a Holiday Inn Express that took dogs and had free breakfast (for people). Then we were able to get out early the next morning to hit the Sheep and Wool Festival before all the yarn was gone. (deep, nostalgic sigh.)

This year, though, Dark Garden insists we need to go here. Go ahead and ask me why....

Because he wants to see Him: