...And movin' on...

I'm going on island time for two weeks starting on Monday. So posting will continue to be sporadic.

I vow to be a consistent and clever blogger forevermore after and to never bother you all again with "housing updates."

We're heading out to Ocracoke Island off the North Carolina coast. I don't think cell phones work there. We are packing more books than clothing. There will be no talk of deadlines, drainfields or (for the love of god) construction.

The puppies, they are excited, as you can see!










I hear we will continue to be able to make ice on Ocracoke Island. Good thing too, since I'm bringing a big bottle of Tanqueray.



I'm very sorry, Powers That Be, that a lot of really wonderful things are happening to me all at once. Please don't strike me down because of it. I promise to find something to suffer about when I get back. I promise I won't have too much fun at the 3rd Blogger Conference West. How about I get a really, really bad sunburn? Will that satisfy you?

Home at last...

Hi.

Remember me? The lady who wouldn’t shut up about the construction on her house?

I’ll stop now. We are constructed and moved and all is right with the world.

There are no moving pictures. That’s because we started at 9 a.m. and finished at 5 p.m. and no one had time to take a freakin’ picture.

With the help of John Boy and Dark Garden, we moved the few salvageable items from the House of Squalor and all the new stuff out of storage, slammed it all into the house and then, like true Italians, cooked a big honkin’ meal.

In fact, I don’t recall much about moving over the 4^th of July holiday. I more remember eating and the associated activities. But we must have moved because this:

…is now this:

And this:

…is now this.

And this:

…is now this:

And this:

Dirtman finally got to set up his Christmas present…

…which the lovely John Boy will now demonstrate.

We even had our first dinner party, which I insist on calling it even though I couldn’t be sure

whether dinner would be the shish kabobs I planned or pizza delivered because I couldn’t figure out how to work any of my appliances (Instructions? We don’t need no stinkin’ instructions.). And so we invited the Providers of Gnome, who are very easy-going people, and because Mrs. POG forced me to unbox all my kitchen stuff, not just the absolute necessities, because she must suspect that I am one of those people who would rather go out and buy a new garlic press rather than unpack the old one. And she would be right. (Mr. and Mrs. POG also own Shenandoah Style, a wine and gourmet shop at the Strasburg Emporium, so they are good people to know when your priority on moving day is what’s for dinner…).

And so life is good, what with being able to sleep all night without the bed attacking and a washing machine that sings a happy tune whenever it finishes a cycle and an office to myself without a trace of Hokie maroon and orange.

Now what have I got to write about?

Quick! Before they pull the plug...

In the process of MOVING!!!!!!

So sorry for the brief post, but they're unhooking us from internet as we speak. Whenever we are back on line, I'll have a lovely post on how it looks when totally disorganized people attempt to move over a holiday weekend.

But, if you see the county of Shenandoah -- we're only visiting the house, NOT LIVING THERE! Got that?

TTFN -- as Tigger would say. (Oh. My. God. I'm quoting Tigger. I'm very tired...)

Furniture for Free! That's right, FREE!!!

Wait! Jag, before you buy. In just a few days this could be yours*! For free! (Of course it has considerably more duct tape than yours and Dirtman is strategically placed so as to hold up the center, but whaddaya want for nothin'...)



*The desk, not Dirtman. (He told me to write that. I didn't think a little ambiguity could hurt...)

In Shenandoah County

So this is what it has come down to:

We go to the House of Never-ending Construction.

We do laundry. We water tomato and herb plants. We sit on the deck and read. The dogs romp in the yard. We occasionally use the bathrooms. We pass by a brand new king-size bed.

There are items accumulating in the refrigerator: bottled water, condiments and leftovers, which is all we ever seem to have in a refrigerator.

Sometimes I dust or vacuum, but mostly not.

When I’m by myself and it’s raining I sit in the library and knit while I wait for the laundry. If it’s not raining, I sit on the deck. I read there too.

In fact, we do everything anyone else does in a house except live in it.

We always end up back in the House of Squallor, sleeping on a broken mattress with wires sticking in our backs.

And all because of the garage door.

Yup.

The garage door.

Apparently, in the county of Shenandoah it is a health hazard to not have a garage door. In Shenandoah County.

It did no good to explain that The House of Squallor has no garage door either. It’s not a health hazard if the house is already there. In Shenandoah County.

The funny thing is that last time the inspector was here, it was a health hazard to have a spare bedroom unpainted. In Shenandoah County. You’d think the subject of the garage door would have come up at that time.

But no and we just sigh and accept that communication in the construction industry is non-existent and someone is making up and changing the rules as they go along. Someone who hates us.

So we continue to do our laundry, water the plants, read and sit.

Then we go home to The House of Squallor.

In Shenandoah County.

A Controversial Birthday Present

From Mamma K and Michael. I was going to put this on my charm bracelet, but I didn't want it getting lost in a crowd. Now, apparently, rumors are flying as to who is the Aussie on the necklace.

I have no comment.

I also have to thank Mamma K for providing the fodder for one of this week's Spot-on columns, to be posted Wednesday. Next time you see Mamma K, sing her the Viking Spam song.

Point of Gnome Return

And thanks to our wine mentors and good buds April and Steve...



...there is once again a gnome on Gnome Hill. (No thanks to certain festering boils on society's tush.)

(Editor's Note: The final naming of the destined-to-never-be-inhabited-house is by no means settled. In view of the sheer number of bathrooms, Flushing Meadows has been suggested, a name Sisiggy reluctantly agrees is appropriate, but not quite so charming as Gnome Hill, which had been abandoned in light of the fact that gnomes were no longer on the hill. But since a gnome has officially returned to the site, the name is now back on the short list. This will not be put to a vote because Sisiggy strongly suspects most voters enjoy flushing.)

A meeting of the minds?

Dear Mr. IRS guy or gal,

Really, it was a blogger convention. We talked about blogging. Here is my receipt for the gas to drive to Northern Virginia, where we did, I’m sure, mention blogging.

I think. There was a lot of cheese. I remember that.

I seem to recall Jag bringing up blogging and I’m pretty sure I answered her. Then Trasherati changed the subject to something else, but I’m positive we came back to it. Blogging, I mean. Then we ate some more cheese.

The wine receipt? It was part of a….uh….team building exercise. Yeah. That’s it. A team building exercise. You pour wine into a “never-empty-wine-glass.” Seriously. You drink and drink and the wine glass is never empty. It truly brought us all together, except for those of us who don’t do team building exercises.

So it was necessary to break out the Limoncello. Strictly for the sake of unity, you understand.

How did this benefit my blogging capabilities?

Oh.

Well…it…er…we…discussed… the socio-economic…ramifications…of periodic communicative… stuff…

Did I mention we broke out the Limoncello?

And cheese.

What did I learn from the evening?

Ummm…AH! Evidently I have absolutely no shame because just as Trasherati’s husband arrived we all decided to discuss tampons and estrogen. Surprisingly this did not faze him in the least.

Hmm…what else. Oh! It takes overstaying your welcome and two double shots of expresso before you should get behind the wheel of a car after the never-empty-wine-glass, Limoncello and, yes, the cheese.

There was a whole lot of other food, some of which required cooking even though there wasn’t supposed to

be cooking only cheese, but I can’t in all good conscience claim that as a deduction.

Is it still deductible if you admit you had a wonderful time? When it’s my turn to host the next….er….blogging convention….will that make my hot tub deductible?

Sisiggy, Jag, Trasherati

How Spicey McPustule lost his college money

DO NOT go on the roof, Spicey McDweeble...



I said, GET OFF THE ROOF, Spicey McDeafness...


Are you on that roof?




I can hear you up there...


Get down off of there before you...

break your neck!


Told you so.*

*The preceding has been brought to you by the soon-to-be-grounded Spicey McPinhead whose college account will be used to repair the roof that he seems to think is his private balconey.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that...

I'm usually pretty sedate with the whole jewelry thing (which is pronounced "jew-el-ree," not "jew-ler-ee," by the way. I actually hear "professionally" done commercials pronounce it incorrectly). Since I'm short I have to keep things in proportion anyway, but I don't often go in for kitchsy stuff.

But in Harpers Ferry at the Mountain Heritage Arts and Crafts Festival, Dirtman found these for me.



An early birthday present.

They're from A Glass Act, who also makes, among other things this lovely piece which we bought for the Never-Ending-Construction House.

Perhaps, if I can grab the stuff before it get carted off to storage, I will post the other "gifts" we bought each other this weekend, since Father's Day and my birthday are sharing a date once again this year. (We will also take each other out to dinner on Sunday, if we know what's good for us.)

I held back from wearing the martini glasses to the abysmally long high school sports banquet last night (for which Spicey McDandruff owes us big time).

In other Linguini news, which isn't really our news, but more Mamma K's news, look what magically appeared in her livingroom last Thursday with absolutely no effort on anyone's part!
Mamma K just woke up and there they were, right Mamma K?*



That's Polly and her eight (OMG -- eight!) puppies.

Ms. Zsa Zsa is pea green with envy, what with all the attention she just knows her former nemesis is receiving from Mamma K, though she inisists she's too young to have puppies "like that cheap tart, Polly."

*In actuality, Polly's puppies have been a much-anticipated event, at least around here, and Mamma K was there helping Polly out from puppies one through eight, documenting every move in her little book. The next afternoon we weighed each puppy (which was also recorded in her little book) and the pictures look only slightly like she's making a puppy salad.



We've decided to do a re-shoot tomorrow.

I wish I'd known Mamma K when I whelped my puppies. I'll bet she wouldn't sit in the corner and read the Washington Post, peaking over every now and then to say, "Oh Yeah. Breath."

The Prime of Miss Jean...er...Sisiggy

Okay. It’s official.

I will never be “put together.”

I had hopes, even at this advanced age. I thought that maybe, someday, given the perfect alignment of the stars and synchronization of serendipitous events that for perhaps a minute or so I might achieve that “put together look.”

But I know it is not to be. If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now. And at this stage, really what's the point?

I can tell myself that if I had the perfect shoes or if my shirt were just a tad smaller or the sleeves a little bit shorter, “the look” would be mine. But no. This will never happen.

Not only will it never happen but, if I had the perfect shoes or if my shirt were just a tad smaller or the sleeves a little bit shorter, on that particular day my hair would have a dorky cowlick. This is a given. It’s always something, to quote Roseanne Rosannadanna.

I does make me feel better to know that there are others like me. You’ve seen us. Nice outfit, nice bag, nice hairdo, and the shoes…….ooooooh, the shoes…just…miss…the … mark. Or the jewelry is too small. Or too big. Or too loud.

Perhaps we can form a support group.

Take the world’s simplest outfit to put together: t-shirt and jeans. What can go wrong? Two universal wardrobe elements. You don’t even have to check for holes anymore! You would think this would be the ideal uniform for the terminally scruffy.

But my t-shirt is never the right size. It’s either too long, too short, too big or too tight. And jeans? It’s either that the waist is up around my ribs or the crotch is down around my knees.

And should the t-shirt be the right size and the jeans fit me perfectly, there’s always, always, always the hair factor. Jeans and a t-shirt require clean, shiney, but not too pouffy hair. Casual hair. Kind of free-style, blowin’-in-the-wind but returning to flowing tandem-strand action hair. But the day my jeans and t-shirt fit would be the day I slipped with the conditioner bottle and, having taken the last shower in the household for that day, would only have cold water with which to rinse it out, resulting in lank, lifeless wavy strings. Except for the grays. They would be up and pouffy and waving a greeting to everyone.

I guarantee.

And so I am now embracing my inner and outer slob that I now realize is eternal. Don’t pity me. I know that everyone has a cross they must bear and mine is the burden of infinite dweebdom.

If you aren't yet sick of housing updates...

This:is now this:

This:
Is now this:


This:

Is now this (my office):


And then there are these (the Heirs' rooms):




And the master bedroom (okay, no sleazy comments about the equipment, you pigs):



And this (dining room) (It's not yellow, it's cream, I tell you. Cream):
And this (living -- er--great room) (Okay it is yellow, but I ordered cream):


And this (library):


And, Sisiggy says with a great big sigh, is my bathroom:


Of course, Zsa Zsa has her own view of the new house.

Editor's Note: Okay, so there's no pithy and insightful writing. But Sisiggy has waited a long time for this house and, lest you think she may actually be living it up in her new house, we offer this, the guest room:


Shenandoah County doesn't feel we are able to occupy this house without paint on the guest room walls. Mine is a life of irony.

To the relief of the non-dog people...

...and for all you dog people (and you know who you are) and those who are wannabes:

Ms. Zsa Zsa has started her own web page, though I have a feeling that the terriers will manage a post now and then, when they can sneak online. And, of course, Topper will be permitted a post when it suits her majesty.