The Last Days of the Mom Dress

I think every mom has one of these. It's the go-to warm weather outfit when the last thing you want to think about is what to wear. It's comfortable, practical, durable and timeless. It works in heat or cold and you can, in a pinch, wear it in public.

And one sad day, when you are old and your kids are grown and gone, you take it out of the dryer and have to admit: It needs to be thrown out.

My own mother had one of these that got it's start during what I call her Doris Day period. It had a full skirt and was white with yellow, orange and gray flocking and came with it's own thin yellow belt. The gray may have at one time been black, but I don't remember back that far. She had plenty of full-skirted dresses in those days, but that was the one that stuck.  When I think of my mother, she is wearing that dress. I remember sitting on her lap in the car and falling asleep while picking the flocking out of the fabric.

The white flocked dress even soldiered on through her Jackie Kennedy period, which consisted mainly of a black pill box hat and a classic navy blue and black fitted sheath dress and, for casual occasions, a kerchief and sunglasses. It was hopelessly out of fashion, but still showed up on hot Saturday mornings for a run to the grocery store or summer Sundays after church.

I was at least a teenager when one day when looking for a dust rag I pulled out a white piece of cloth with yellow, orange and gray flocking (with some blank spot where the flocking had...um...disappeared...). And there were more of them in the rag bag, all neatly cut into 12-inch squares.

I was horrified! Why wasn't I consulted? It was as if my mother had taken my favorite stuffed toy, Saffie, and decided to scrub the kitchen floor with him. Ma was mildly amused at my outrage and, now that I'm a mother of grown children myself, I know she probably throught it typical that I hadn't noticed the deterioration of the dress prior to this. No one really looks at a Mom, do they? I mean, you just know what she looks like. She's just supposed to be always there on the periphery, waiting to serve. Wearing that dress.

My own Mom Dress first appeared on the scene shortly after I had my first son. My mother-in-law bought it for me after the birth of Heir 1 so I would have something new to wear on my post-pregnancy body after having endured maternity clothes for so long. It is made of a cotton knit that is cool in the summer and has a skirt heavy and full enough that it didn't require a slip. And the print on the fabric was so dense, it never showed a stain.

I took it out of the official wardrobe rotation a few years ago, but it remained something to wear around the house when no one but family was around. But now, I have to admit -- draping yarn around my neck would be just a effective as putting on this dress.

I don't want my boys, without proper warning, to encounter the Mom Dress in its forthcoming disreputable state as, say, the rag with which I ask them to wipe up dog vomit*. So, Heirs, I'm just letting you know:

It's going in the rag bag

*Go ahead, Charley...say it: "Wiping up dog vomit is a fitting end to that dress."

Sisiggy's Red Bank Massacree

After 15 months of struggle, I finally have the "holy grail" in my grasp -- a certified copy of my birth certificate.

No big deal, you say? Your birth certificate is ensconced in a fireproof box along with the car titles of every car you ever owned, tax returns dating back to the 70s and your kid's report cards in chronological order?

Oh, yeah? Well, bite me. That's right...I...Jean Patricia Eckerson Jackson, in front of my kids, friends and everyone on the planet who knows that there was a time I would have never stooped to this kind of reaction, said, "Bite me."

First, you need to know (and most of you do) that I've been a little stressed lately. Not to put too fine a point on it, I've been a "little" stressed for the Past. Five. Years.

Now, really, I was a good sport about it for the first four years -- I understand that, at some point in our lives, God will test us. Go ahead, read about my last five years...it's pretty well documented here on Linguini. Between constant, impending unemployment and homelessness and losing a job I loved that I was in constant danger of losing because of my boss's malfeasance, I managed to maintain my composure and dignity. Wasn't I pithy and perky and the epitome of spunk and vinegar? Wasn't I patient and accepting? Seriously, WASN'T I A PARAGON OF FREAKIN' GRACE UNDER PRESSURE?

This last year, though, I have found myself down to that last nerve and right now the fact that I'm in the thralls of moving and job hunting again after spending a year at an exhausting, health-depleting job that was a Sisyphusean punishment has that particular nerve already stretched to its limit.

You need to know this, otherwise you will think me some kind of whiny, over-emotional menopausal crone who spins into a frenzy over the slightest obstacle and you might say something really stupid like, "Lady, I want your problems." I can't tell you how unwise that would be.

It all started back February of 2012 when I researched how to go about obtaining a West Virginia driver's license. My Virginia license wasn't set to expire until June, but I figured I'd get a jump on things.

Turns out that to get a WV license with my current address, I needed to present my birth certificate, marriage license and proof of residence, none of which I had (oh, give me a break -- I've moved three times in five years). New Jersey, where I was born, required me to present a driver's license with my current address.

Honestly, this conundrum only elicited a mild chortle at the time because, you know, I'm such a strong and patient person. I explained my dilemma to the lady in New Jersey and she told me that they needed the driver's license with a valid address so they know, when they mail the birth certificate, that the person who is on that certificate is the person receiving the mail. So, I figured, I'd wait, get my proof of residence and then sort this out. I mean, I was dealing with flesh and blood people who can reason and understand logic, right? I'm a decent, honest person and there is no reason this little snafu should be a problem.

And so the driver's license issue took a back burner to the 15-hour days, seven-day-a-week lifestyle common with running a family business and the whole foot pain thing and before you know it I'm checking out the cafe's order at Costco and they ask to see my driver's license...

...which had expired the previous week. That's right. I forgot. Excuuuuuuuuse me. I'd been a little...(See paragraph 6).

Meanwhile, Dirtman, who is a year older, has a valid Virginia driver's license that won't expire until sometime in the next millennium. He trots happily to Richmond and in ten minutes has a certified copy of both his birth certificate and our marriage license. They don't bother to look at the piles of documentation proving our address, because they're not mailing anything -- they're handing it to the flesh and blood person standing in front of them. This point will be important further in this story.

I have to admit, the whole issue was shelved because, frankly, I WAS A LITTLE BUSY. And I didn't drive since Dirtman and I were always, always...I can't tell you how very always...together.

I will say, though, not having a driver's license, having had one for 38 years, was uncomfortable. Between having neither a driver's license or birth certificate, it was as if I just wasn't there. Add that to the stress already whirling about me and it became one of those issues that strangle you at 3 o'clock in the morning and guarantee exhaustion the next day.

So now we're moving back to Virginia. I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to start from square one: take a written test, take an on-the-road test and a vision test. So we stop into DMV in Virginia to pick up a recent drivers' manual so I could study for the written exam. We tell the guy at the information desk (please note -- this is the name of the desk: INFORMATION. I don't think it's out of line to assume this person has the CORRECT information, do you? I think the adjective "correct" is a sort of given, right?) This is the information he is given: I have a Va. driver's license that expired almost a year ago and I need a license. We are moving back, but have not yet moved, to Virginia.

And he gives us --******GOOD NEWS!!!!!*******. If I came in to renew my license before my birthday (June 18 -- same day as Paul McCartney, but he didn't care about that), all I would need is two items showing our new address and my old Virginia license.

There was great rejoicing in Linguiniland! For a week I walked about thinking, "Finally! Finally the tide is turning! Things are going to be different and reign of bad juju is over! Over, do you hear me! OVER!!!! BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!" (That's right. I laugh maniacally in my head.)

We began gathering the proof of our new address: Opened a bank account, signed up for a library card. I practically skipped into the DMV on June 6, smiling as I presented my little packet to Mr. Information -- the same guy...did you catch that?..the same guy we'd spoken to the week before.

He looks over everything and chirps happily, "I'll need to see your birth certificate."

I sputter, "But...but..."

He interrupts, "Oh, don't worry! If you were born after 1965, I can call it up on the computer! Where in Virginia were you born?"

I'm so upset that it even escapes me that he thought I am eight years younger than I actually am. "I wasn't born in Virginia." I'm just. Starting. To. Lose. It.

Dirtman knows this; hears it in my voice. He explains about our previous visit and what he told us. Mr. Information taps into his computer, shakes his head and says, "She's no longer in the system."

Okay, I sort of blank out at this point. But by the time Dirtman installs me in the car and we are driving away, I'm screaming.

Now, read this carefully: I. Don't. Scream. EVER. I may internalize; I may get sarcastic; I may beat myself up; I may even weep; ultimately, I eat. But, I repeat, I never, EVER scream.

After all, I've driven in this state for thirty years, without incident, I might add. I'm an honest person who always behaves herself. And I'VE PAID TAXES IN THIS STATE FOR 30 YEARS. Did that little tidbit come up in his computer? If DMV doesn't acknowledge my existence, I can guarantee the treasury department can somehow manage to hold onto this data. Eleven months is nothing to the treasury department; they'll hold onto a nine-cent discrepancy from eight years ago and hound you with it from state to state, publishing it every year in the paper.

So I'm crying and screaming and having an over-all (yet cathartic) meltdown and Dirtman is frantically dialing John Boy and arranging a trip to New Jersey to obtain my birth certificate. Then he gave me ice cream.

Let me explain the preparation and reason for the New Jersey trip. If I want to renew my license without taking the written or on-the-road test, I need my birth certificate by June 17. So we couldn't do it by mail. Besides, we don't have a move in date yet, so I don't know where to tell them to mail it. Plus, all I have to prove I exist is my marriage license (which lists all the information that is on my birth certificate) and an expired Virginia driver's license. I figure, it's got my photo on it -- I'm obviously the person written on the thing. That is why I had to pick it up in person -- so the New Jersey person could see I am the person connected to that name on the driver's license and the marriage license.

Ah! But wait! I had more! I have an older brother -- John Boy -- who could attest to the fact that my parents are his parents and none of us has any intention of overthrowing the government. Plus...plus...he has a passport, which is even better than a birth certificate because you need a birth certificate to get a passport and the passport has a photo on it too!

So John Boy and I took off for New Jersey yesterday with an air of optimism -- even the unrelenting, driving rain did not dampen our spirits; the fact that I'd had to lose a day of packing to this stupid task did not dampen our spirits; the fact that John Boy, because I did not have a valid driver's license, had to drive the entire 11-hour round trip by himself did not dampen our spirits.

We figured 10 minutes at the Red Bank Office of Vital Statistics, lunch, visit our old stomping grounds for a bit of nostalgia and then home.

Sigh. You know where this is going.

[cue guitar background from Alice's Restaurant]

We walked in, sat down, the clerk came and looked at the Virginia marriage certificate with my maiden name, married name, place of birth and parents' names and the expired Virginia driver's license with my picture on it and a line where it says my name, looked at me and said, "I need a bank statement or utility bill proving your address," which I didn't have...

(and didn't figure I needed since they weren't mailing it -- I was standing right there)

[resume guitar background from Alice's Restaurant]

She asked who John Boy was and I said my older brother. And John Boy stood up with his passport which he obtained by presenting his birth certificate and that contained a picture of himself as he is now and she said:

"Do you have your birth certificate?"

[pause guitar background from Alice's Restaurant]

And we came to the realization that it was a typical case of American blind justice and there wasn't nothing we could do about it, and the clerk wasn't going to look at the Virginia marriage certificate with my maiden name, married name, place of birth and parents' names and the expired Virginia driver's license with my picture on it and a line where it says my name or John Boy's passport which he obtained by presenting his birth certificate and that contained a picture of himself as he is now.

[resume guitar background from Alice's Restaurant]

So we had to call Dirtman, who drove into town and faxed to the office of Vital Statistics a copy of a bank statement and a utility bill with the wrong address on it -- both of which he could have generated himself using any word processing program out there (but he didn't) and I got my birth certificate.

And THAT, dear readers (if you're still with me) is the point. (Okay, stop the Alice's Restaurant music.) The obvious, common sense proof of my existence was not enough to obtain my birth certificate. The ONE THING that was required was the one thing most easily faked by any 8-year-old with a laptop.

I know my quest is not yet over though. Tomorrow I go back to the DMV where, if you recall, I was told I could just renew my expired license with no more than a vision test as long as I had (remember? All together now!) my expired license, my birth certificate and proof of new address.

So, why am I posting this now, before the problem is resolved?

Obvious: I entertain the possibility that the problem will NOT be resolved. I entertain the possibility that I will present my hard-won documentation and be told that, before a driver's license can be issued, I have to come up with a rhyme for the word "orange," and that, when I do, I will have to have the answered certified by a two-headed Do-do bird hatched in captivity.

And that is when the brain cells containing all the aforementioned information will come seeping out of my ear and form a puddle on the desk of Mr. Correct Information.

So before that happens, here it is, for posterity. When you see Dirtman leading a drooling, catatonic old lady around Walmart, you'll know where her mind went and why.

Like People Do

So today we were normal

Some of you may remember back when the Linguinis were always normal. But we haven't been normal for a very long time.

The term "normal," of course, if very subjective. Our seat-of-the-pants existence may have be considered normal in some circles; but I confess -- I'm rather pedantic in what I look for in life. I want a distinct lack of drama, pleasant, uneventful conversation and dinner at dinner time sitting at a table with the fork on the left and the knife and spoon on the right.

So that was today.

Normal.

No baking in a hot kitchen to the point of exhaustion and falling into bed, only to writhe around in pain because I hadn't realized I'd been standing for nine straight hours without a break; no overly-ambitious plans to bake a week's worth of pastries in one Sunday afternoon. I did a modicum of cafe baking, marinated a chicken, threw together a salad and then...

...then...

then...

I sat on my front porch and read.

Oh, yes I did. Even though there were clamberings for orange scones at the cafe, I sat on my porch and read a P.D. James novel and waved to people who drove by.

Then I cooked and dinner and me, Dirtman and Heir 1 sat at a table together and, for the first time in several months, ate a meal together.

And now that Dirtman has put fresh sheets on the bed, I'm going to crawl in and read some more!

That's right. I'm not going to bake or even think about making soup or pricing out the breakfast menu. I'm going to read...and I might even doze off.

Yeah, I know. Since I'm making such a big deal about all this, it's obviously not normal. True that.

However, I can't help thinking back fondly of the days when the Heirs got home-cooked meals all the time and they complained about not being able to eat fast food like all their friends; or when baking scones was such an infrequent treat, I needed a recipe and they never hung around long enough to have to be stored in Ziplocs (these days, I can't give away the rejects -- we're all so sick of looking at, taste-tesing and smelling fresh-baked scones; you think this time will never come but, believe me, it does...).

I'm not complaining...I am honestly so grateful the cafe is taking off and I absolutely love this work more than anything I've ever done.

I am also grateful, though, that we're finally settling in and finding our rhythm; so much so that on this one warm Sunday afternoon I can take off my cafe hat for a little while and just be a normal schmo relaxing up for the week ahead.

...like people do.

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."

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...

Animal House

In my mind, I live in a lovely little cottage with a tidy husband, two doting sons and six sedate, well-behaved, quiet dogs. This cottage is draped with all kinds of personally-made items like doilies, sewn ruffled curtains, knitted pillows and crocheted afghans. When you walk into this cottage you are greeted by either the scent of sage, cinnamon, lemon or lavender, depending on the season. In this cottage you never have to check the chair before you sit down to see if there is a soggy, smelly sock toy nestled into the cushion.

Also in this cottage, there is a massive mud room where those six dogs, muddy from romping in a melted-snow drenched yard, are happy to curl up and nap until they are dry and all the dirt has fallen miraculously from their paws and fur. Then they calmly join me in front of the fireplace and sit or lie down calmly in front of my large stone fireplace while I knit; and it never once occurs to them to form a semi-circle in front of my chair and stare me down in some sort of mind control laser-gaze designed to force me into flinging Kraft Singles at them to make them stop.

Did I mention that in my mind, when I'm in this cottage I'm a size 8 and all my clothes are made of fabrics that drape like melted chocolate?

Just so you know how very far from reality is the inside of my mind.

I enumerate all these disparities between what is in my mind and what it in my reality because late winter is the exact time when those two manifestations are the farthest apart -- like the sun is from my hemisphere of the earth.

It's not the snow -- it's the remnants of the snowstorms. It's the mud, the slush, the tire gouges that fill with water; it's paw prints everywhere and it being too hot for the fireplace, but too cold not to run it.

C.S. Lewis called it "this nothing time."

Then there's that whole decor issue. There's been plenty of handmade doo-dads around here. One particular set of pillows served to snuff out a wood stove fire that occurred when Someone wasn't watching Someone Else who thought the fire embers could be revived by opening the stove door and "giving it some air" -- all while the Someone Who Knows to Watch Someone Else Like a Hawk was at choir practice (and we all know the identity of the only person in this household who would have any chance of being in a choir). Turns out Someone Else was right, to the extent that the "embers" began spewing out of the stove and the only alternative seemed to be to smother them with my carefully knitted and cabled -- let me repeat: cabled -- throw pillows...cashmere -- did you hear me? CASHMERE.

Then there was the crocheted afghan that made it to the emergency room during one of Dirtman's many bouts with MSG, but never made it back. Then there was the filet crocheted table cloth meticulously unraveled by a newly-adopted Jack Russell Terrier who had suddenly become "too quiet" while I was in the kitchen trying to master making homemade pasta in bulk.

I said it once, five years ago and I now reiterate: I live in a frat house.

The perk to this is that those I live with ("My Three Sons," as they are locally referred to) are perfectly happy with the way things are. They keep my "prideful" side in check. I've tried on occasion for a candlelight supper (al a Hyacinth Bucket) and spent the meal watching Dirtman and Heir 2 reheat their meat over the candle flames while Heir 1 did his Ray Charles impression.

See what I mean? Frat house.

I just want you to know, though, that in my head I live in that really cute cottage that smells like gingerbread and all the books on the shelf are at least 50 years old (though, sorry -- they still have my silly pencil notations in them because, ya know, I have to have the last word...).

And I know what you're thinking: But -- yes, I would still have six dogs; but they would all smell like cookies.

My tax dollars at work

So I'm sitting at my desk, minding my own business and the business of the bird feeder, when I look just beyond to the intersection of a little road that runs off my road. This is what I see:



It is a few minutes before 9 a.m., but VDOT works an earlier day (By 3:30 p.m., they're on overtime). Okay. I get that a project must be discussed before inception, though you'd think such discussion would have taken place prior to actually arriving on location. I had no idea what the project was, since there never appeared to be a problem at this particular intersection.

Twenty minutes later:


More people are required to discuss whatever it is. Is the speed sign crooked? What?

Finally, having discussed the matter for 45 minutes, a truck of paving material arrives, the road is reduced to one lane and the smell of tar wafts through the air. This carries on for about and hour or so and then -- break time. And so goes the morning and the afternoon: An hour or so of work; half hour break.

At any other time in my life, I would have just shrugged, chuckled and moved on with my day. But our financial position and fruitless search for employment has me more than a little sensitive when I see workers not working -- especially when they're not working on my tax money.

Then the final straw: In the middle of baking some Italian bread, the electricity goes off. Anyway, there I am, filled with righteous indignation and I'm stalking through the house delivering a diatribe on civil service workers who never get fired and the cost to the taxpayer and how I was certainly capable of holding up a "slow" sign for an hour without requiring a half hour break.

So Dirtman heads over to take matters into his own hands, not so much because he is outraged at the injustice of being without power, but more because he just wants me to Shut. Up.

"Did you tell them about my Italian bread?" I asked angrily when he came back.

"Uh...it wasn't them," he said. "There's some guy digging with a backhoe in his yard who probably didn't clear it with the utilities. And, no, I didn't mention your bread. They've got enough problems."

Problems?

It seems our local VDOT guys got a call Friday that there was $80,000 left in the budget that had to be "used up" by the end of the day (June 15) or it would be lost. They were directed to "go out and pave something" immediately, whether it needed it or not. They figured this intersection would cause the least amount of trouble to drivers.

Since the project was so spur-of-the-moment, they didn't have the materials on hand, so they had to wait for truckloads of supplies to be picked up in another county -- hence all the waiting around.

For the record, they were just as outraged as I was, since they had plenty of maintenance that had to be done, seeing as they have to maintain the most gravel roads of any VDOT jurisdiction in the state. Yet, here they were being paid overtime to pave a road that didn't need paving.

How much paving does $80,000 buy? 19,008 inches; 1,584 feet; 0.3 of a mile -- 30 cents per square foot of pavement.

I try not to think what a difference $80,000 would mean in the real world -- you know the world where $80,000 could support an entire family very comfortably for an entire year.

Why we hate Sears

You all know how much I dislike Wal Mart (haven't been in one in almost a decade), but this rant on the part of Dark Garden reminded me also of how much I dislike Sears.

It's a shame, because they used to be a good company. But I can tell you horror stories of attempting to use their service department for services for which I paid good money. Eventually, trying to get some sort of answer from anyone became virtually impossible. We cancelled all accounts and stopped buying from them (we'd quit buying Kenmore products prior to this, since only Sears will repair them).

What is laughable (or not) is that Dark Garden was doing an investigation and couldn't get a straight answer.

Anyway, we're on a spread-the-word campaign and hoping they have a public relations department (they can't possibly) that searches the web for negative publicity. A longshot, to be sure. But shorter than calling their number and attempting to lodge a complaint with someone who can actually do something about it.

Flea market list

Okay, it's time to hit the thrift store and flea markets. I have some very specific needs and they can't be met by merely typing my wishes into Google.

I want a manual drip coffee pot. Metal. Nothing that can break, nothing to plug in. Simple. I have battled coffeemakers for thirty years and they are undependable. One stupid thing goes wrong and you're buying a new one. I want a coffee pot to grow old with (okay, older).

And a cake plate -- a small one that fits into the fridge. So it's not out on the counter with a cake on it when I forget to set the aussie mousetraps. So Toppergetdown doesn't try to eat a two-layer white cake with strawberry filling and whipped cream icing. And succeed. And thereby break my depression glass cakeplate.

I'm watching some stuff on e-bay. But since I'm going to actually use this stuff, I'd really like to check it out first hand.

Oh...and I need a muzzle. And someone to slap that self-satisfied grin off Toppergetdown's face.

...And so it goes*

Anyone want to join me in a good laugh?

You know the kind -- a good, in-the-gut, knock your head back guffaw; a breathless, eye-watering, slap-your-thigh chortle; a maniacal, slightly disturbing, eye-popping cackle; a screeching wail that is a cross between a shriek and a yowl that might be heard from a wild animal...

The dryer went out. Permanently.

Isn't that a riot?

Yes, yes -- we've been hanging out our laundry. But do you know how long it takes clothes to dry hanging on a line outside in Virginia in December? And do you know what they feel like if you don't at least "finish them off" for a five-minute spin in the dryer? And do you know that it's supposed to rain all week long?

Anyone care to join me in a huge explosion of laughter, because you can? Because of me you can walk outside and know that a huge tank penetrating the wall between dimensions will not mow you down because the odds of that happening to anyone are one in infinity, but the odds of it happening here in Linguiniland are one in about three. Breath with relief knowing that if lightening is going to strike, it will strike here; if a hammer from the space station enters the earth's atmosphere, it will fall here in a fiery ball; if someone tells you "when hell freezes over," well -- you know now where to bring that side of beef.

So we've adjusted the way we refer to Heir 1. He is now the son that lives in the basement -- with the dogs -- and the wet laundry.

NOTE: We do have a gas dryer in storage that we will be using as soon as we can get a propane tank installed.

*One of the best taglines I've ever heard, courtesy of Linda Ellerbee.

Thanks to Dark Garden for this...

I stand corrected (Really...I'm standing)

Just popping in -- all is well and I have to officially post that the Heirs took care of the pile of dishes (since they created most of it...) last night when we finally got our sink back.

The bad news is that it didn't take long to replace it.

Sigh.

Here we go again...

Hey, Sisiggy! What is this week's catastrophe!?

This week, Boys and Girls, we're without a kitchen sink!

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!


And guess what, Kids?!

What, Sisiggy?!

When you don't have a sink, the dishes don't stop piling up!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Oooooooooooooooo....

Can you see that Sisiggy is having a bad day week month year life? Can you see that Sisiggy has had quite enough of this crap? Can you see that Sisiggy has lost complete sight of her freakin' HAPPY PLACE?

Oh, look at the time...

Because Sisiggy, Boys and Girls, knows that as soon as the sink is fixed, she's going to spend the next day and a half washing and drying all the stinkin' dishes from all over the house because PEOPLE... KEEP... EATING.

...Uh, gotta go, Sisiggy...

COME BACK HERE, KIDS, AND HELP SISIGGY FIND HER FREAKIN' HAPPY PLACE.

I got the power UPDATED

Well, I do now anyway.

Not so this morning. We woke up to a cold, dark house. After yesterday's water issue, I wasn't graciously accepting of now having "power issues."

Dirtman can never sleep through anything like this. He's got to know what's going on. So he was out of bed early offering to take care of what is first priority around here. He drove into Toms Brook for coffee (and to see what was going on -- though he won't admit that).

First, though, he did help Heir 2 clear the snow off his car (yeah, it figures. Months of warm lovely mornings. Then, the first frosty morning: no heat.) Just a skiff of snow and I'm really ticked off at Dominion Virginia for ruining the first snowfall for me -- well, actually I guess I should be ticked at the guy who skidded into the pole* that took out the power that ruined the first snowfall for me (...that lived in the house that Jack built).

As for me, I was pinned in bed by the cat.

No, I swear. At any rate, I had no intention of getting up before it was time.

The dogs had other ideas and by the time Dirtman got back I was agreeable enough (after a swig of coffee) to help feed and juggle canines -- which, while it is possible to be done by one person, really requires two. (Especially the last few days and in the weeks to come: Abby has become a woman -- i.e., she's entered her first heat. This is incidental to most of the dogs around here, except for Hokie, who we hoped would be going away to camp for the duration. But we decided against it, so the poor guy is left to pine and pace.)

We were out of power until around noon, by which time we were cold and cranky. Okay I was cold and cranky. Dirtman was, for the most part, asleep.

So I got a lot of knitting done on a very practical shawl (I'm all about practical projects lately) to cover my shoulders when I'm sitting by the window knitting in the office/diningroom. I could turn up the electric heat (at least, when it's working) or I can throw on the shawl. The shawl is cheaper. The Heirs have made me promise to wear the fingerless mitts -- they call them my "bum gloves" -- and talk with a Cockney accent while I do this.

This is not normal for me. At least I had some water saved for drinking and so we could brush our teeth. My survivalist streak is well known and I can't remember ever being so ill prepared for an emergency. All my disaster stuff is gone, though. No Coleman stove, no propane heater, no hurricane lamps.

We do, however, have plenty of dried beans (My beanage is also well known). Apparently the bankruptcy trustee had no interest in my beans.

*I'm hoping the person is okay, though. But, honestly, people take that road he was on way too fast in good weather. In icy weather? You really need to slow down. But I don't wish the person ill, only as miserable a morning as all of us in this area have had with no heat.

UPDATE: Guy said he was okay and refused to be checked out. They sent him home.

And not a drop to drink

It seems we have water issues.

It seems I always have water issues.

You know how articles about saving water always talk about people taking water for granted? I never do. Our water situation has always been, except for the year and a half at the HWWTNTMA, tenuous.

When we lived in the House of Squalor we had a great well 650 feet down. Even in the worst of droughts, it never ran dry. The water was wonderful and ice cold. Only for some reason the pump would burn out on a regular basis. Replacing a well pump for a 650-foot well is no small matter (ask Dark Garden, who had to help Dirtman pull the well by hand the second time it happened) and usually resulted in us being Beduins for a week or so. In our last years there, it was happening once a year at an expense of over a thousand dollars a pop. No one could tell us why.

In this house, we have a cistern. At first I thought, well, at least when we run out, we call for water. We try to be very thrifty with our water usage -- but we do have teenagers. Having run out of water twice, even they have learned to cut back as much as two young men believe it's possible to cut back.

I, myself, have learned how truly invaluable the "sponge bath" can be for water conservation. My hair no longer gets washed every single day, which I can get away with now that I'm an old lady (when I was younger, my hair was an oil slick by evening).

Laundry-wise, we've...well, I've, learned that a skirt can be worn more than once before it needs to be laundered. I think I've convinced the boys that something doesn't need to be washed just because you try it on.

Well, for the third time we've run out out of water again and our water man says there is a hole in the cistern. This is, actually, an issue for our landlord, but I wonder what this means in terms of what happens in the coming weeks.

Right now there is precious little water in the cistern and what is there needs to be saved for ... um ... the bathroom. And I'm finding there is not much you can do without it. I don't want to do any major cooking because it will generate too many dirty dishes. Can't do laundry. Fortunately we have two Brita pitchers in the fridge for drinking water and a little bit of cooking.

So I've worked some on the computer and now I'm going to knit on my shawl -- now that I've finished a certain green and white scarf, which I can't block because........................

I don't have water.

Americans behaving badly

I read a lot of blogs. Mostly I read homemaking blogs, much the same as a computer person would read programming blogs or a designer reads design blogs. Homemaking is what I consider my real job, in spite of my recent preoccupation with finding financial income via a paying position.

As a subcategory, I also read some international blogs, at least the English-speaking ones, which means a lot of Canadian, Brit, Australian and New Zealand blogs with a smattering of the Netherlands and Sweden.

Lately, as a form of good will, some of non-U.S. bloggers have congratulated their American readers on their new president-elect. Some have even gone so far as to "approve" of the choice which, while I understand how this might rankled in the gut of our most ardent isolationists, I have to believe means nothing more than to wish us well in our change of administration.

I certainly don't take offense at the fact that the international community has an opinion one way or the other. We are a large, powerful country and what we do matters globally.

I also don't take offense when a blog consistently about, say, sewing, takes a day off to extend glade tidings to the U.S. citizens on a very important decision that, inevitably, affects the whole world. It's their blog. It's our world.

What I do find offensive -- embarrassing, actually -- is when Americans respond to these congratulations by criticizing their own government and then bickering with other Americans on someone else's blogs.

For one thing, it has the air of Dixie Chick cowardice to it: express an opinion in "safe" place and hope it won't get back to the American fan base, thus affecting your bottom line. Natalie Maines didn't make her "ashamed the president is from Texas" statement -- in Texas.

There are plenty of blogs for Americans to duke it out over whether President-Elect Obama is good or bad for America. The only reason I can think of for doing so on a blog totally unrelated to politics or the U.S. is that it is unlikely your facts will be checked. Certainly some of the stupidest rumors get bantered about in the comments section of homemaking blogs.

Secondly, everyone wants to deliver the one coupe de grace comment when it comes to politics, causing us to come across as rude know-it-alls, the kind of reputation we already have because rude know-it-alls are the only ones who can afford to travel overseas. Most of us aren't like that at all and most of us can discuss politics without hyperbole.

I have this urge to post my own comment apologizing for the rudeness of my fellow citizens who can't seem to recognize that the polite response, if indeed any is needed, is "Thank you for your well wishes." This would, of course, only add fuel to the fire and would be followed with things like, "Oh yes, the whole world was 'polite' while Hitler killed 6 million people."

Sigh.

Honestly, I don't know what is going to happen. I only know that no one is going to change anyone's mind in the comments section of a blog devoted to new crockpot recipes and knitting afghans.

The days of shorts in the winter are over

We've been holding out. We ignored that our feet felt like ice and covered them with wool socks. We layered our clothes and I broke out my woolen fingerless mitts.

We drank lots of hot tea. I baked bread and roasted chicken in the oven.

We even ignored the tiny snowflakes falling from the sky and the fact that the hose for the dogs' water had frozen.

But when we woke up and saw our breath, we had to cave.

We turned on the heat in the kitchen.

I'm only posting because Dirtman keeps nagging me

There is absolutely nothing going on around here.

Oh, there is the usual adrenaline-rush-of-the-week for Dirtman. Last week the Olympics, this week the convention – and we all know how I love having a TV nattering at me non-stop.

So, other than that, and Heir 2’s never-ending quest for a full scholarship to a good math/computer college and to get through the last chapters of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by next Tuesday, there’s really nothing to write about.

I checked out what I was writing about last August – a dangerous journey to take considering what transpired – and there were only eight entries in August: four on the puppies and four on the mushrooms I found in the African Violet on the windowsill.

The puppies are all grown and the ones that remain are gnawing happily on a rawhide bone right now (how boring) and I checked the African Violets – nothing.

I haven’t even been cooking anything particularly exciting lately. Broiled pork chops – I’m not allowed to defile them with any seasoning whatsoever – one night, chili another, Sloppy Melvins another (we don’t call them “Sloppy Joes” for obvious reasons…). Pretty run-of-the-mill fare.

Found a coupon for Coffee Mate. That was exciting.

(Sigh).

I’m reading the sequel to Chocolat. Got it out of the library.

Yup.

Here's some random photos of guys without shirts carrying dishes.












Well, guess I'll be going.

And another thing...

…about those bicycles.

That’s another thing we have in abundance passing by our front door. Bicycles. In a constant stream.

Now this is neither here nor there, as far as I am concerned. Although yes, Gwynne, Pode is as furious that he has to share the planet with bicycles as he does about buses. Or anyone who doesn’t pet him and assure him he is, indeed, the master of the universe.

Anyway, other than making Pode explode, the bicycles don’t bother me much.

However, I wonder how much the cyclists know about the road, because there is no bike path. There isn’t even a shoulder of the road and the road surface has a 4- to 5-inch drop off and then a water runoff trench. Not only that, practically the entire road is a double yellow line. It’s curvy with no visibility over hills.

I know it’s called Back Road, but, since it runs parallel to I-81 and US-11, it’s the major byway locals and construction vehicles use to avoid having to deal with the thru traffic on the larger highways. It’s not really a back road.

According to our neighbor/landlord there is at least one accident a year just in our little housing cluster. The whole road is over 30 miles long. And usually, he said, it’s not a car/cyclist incident; it’s a truck/cyclist incident.

If everyone used common courtesy and sense, there would be no problem. But there seems to be a high jerk factor among vehicle drivers and they are, by nature, drawn to seldom-patrolled roads like this one.

Because, you know, traffic laws were written for other people, not highly-qualified motorists like them. At least that’s what they think after a few beers or more. Weekends around here you would swear there was a frat house in the neighborhood hosting a two-day kegger. The yellow lines in the center of the road become meaningless

At any rate, I assume that if you ride a bicycle a lot, you at some point resign yourself to the fact that there probably are no safe places to ride other than specifically mapped out bike paths that, basically, go nowhere. I guess you’re just as resigned to dicing with death whenever you decide to don the helmet.

What we've learned from our Stuff

Putting Stuff Away. Not such a difficult concept. You take it out. You put it back. Nobody gets hurt.

Leaving Stuff Out. Also not a difficult concept in the present tense. You take it out. You’re done with it. The only one who gets hurt is the person in charge of keeping order, a task usually designated to someone who likes that sort of thing – at least that’s what the clutterers would have you think.

If you’ve got a lot of space, even if you have a modicum of space, such a system works for everyone except, perhaps and most likely, the person in charge of keeping order. She is likely to become annoyed or frustrated, sometimes downright angry at the injustice of having the shoulder the burden of the practice of Leaving Stuff Out. She may become bitter and be forced to resort to sarcasm and nagging. And, finally, she may decide to no longer keep order of Stuff Left Out not attributed to herself, just so she might have the satisfaction of listening to a random resident scream in frustration, “WHERE DID ALL MY UNDERWEAR GO?”

One would think that under these circumstances lessons would be learned and the concept of Putting Stuff Away would suddenly become clear. And the person in charge of keeping order would be vindicated of the “bad attitude (she) has had of late.”

One would be wrong. Because if you’ve got a lot of space or a modicum of space, Stuff Left Out can be shoved aside, worked around, done without or replaced until total chaos ensues, at which point Leaving Stuff Out becomes a Massive Decluttering requiring the use of sick days and a dumpster.

Having survived a Massive Decluttering, one would think that Leaving Stuff Out would become a thing of the past. All and sundry would vow to “never let that happen again” and Putting Stuff Away would become everyone’s new hobby.

There is a segment of the population for which that would be true. I don’t happen to live with that segment, but I hear they’re out there.

There is another, more subtle, concept of life that many of us of advanced years have picked up on: Life will keep presenting you with challenges of a specific type until you develop the quality required to overcome it. And each time the presentation will become more and more dramatic in an attempt to grab your attention.

So if you continue to Leave Stuff Out when you have a lot or a modicum of room, Life will ramp up the lesson and see what you do when you have even less space. Because Leaving Stuff Out when you don’t have a whole lot of room? An impossibility.

You can’t leave the bread out or you won’t have room to make the sandwich. You can’t leave your clothes on the floor or you will trip on them (or the dog curled up on them) on your way out the door. You can’t leave your underwear on the kitchen table or you will be forced to use it as a placemat.

And, suddenly, order is restored simply because there is just no way to Leave Stuff Out without causing immediate discomfort to the actual person doing the leaving.

You would think this would cause the Person in Charge of Keeping Order to celebrate, wouldn’t you?

In a way she is. On the other hand, she really kind of pissed she had to be dragged along to the Place Without a Whole Lot of Room for the lesson.