In keepin' with the situation...*

We have had some wild Christmases; we've had some quiet Christmases; we've had some weird Christmases; and we've had some really sucky Christmases.

I've decided to call this year's holiday our Deconstructed Christmas. 'Cause -- really -- I'll be good to get the bathroom cleaned.

It's all my own doing, I admit; which is why I can't really complain. And, while I indulged in a good couple of weeks of self-loathing, I realize that it's all part of the flow. Some years you're Martha Stewart; some years you're Ebenezer Scrooge; and some years you're Bartleby the Scrivner and "prefer not to."

So I've been Bartleby for the past few weeks and  -- waddaya know! -- stuff got done (thanks to Charley and Emily). So I am not the Hub of the Yuletide Universe after all!

Still, there are no piles of tins containing Christmas cookies or no handmade ornaments. There is no wreath on the door since I never made it out to cut the greens and the swag on the mantlepiece is fake.

We'll have ham Christmas day because ham isn't so much cooking as "heating up." We're probably too many to sit at the table anyway -- and I have to admit that just about everyone prefers milling around and picking at stuff. I usually feel like I'm breaking up people having fun by making them file to the table and sit in their assigned seats.

Besides, I think the best times we've had have been when Dark Garden and I just start yanking things out of the fridge and cooking them (and making John Boy taste them first...and poor Dirtman stuck with the washing up). We have created some amazing dishes, only to look at each other and say, "Did you write any of that down? How did we do that?" Sometimes we'll actually remember -- depending on how many martinis fueled our creativity.

Then we send plates of our experiments out to the nephews, who are parked in front of the TV with whatever video game they bought each other. I never worry about spillage -- the dogs are on the job.

I think I've written myself from Bartleby to Martha after all. I amy conjure up some pies. Maybe I'll make up a batch of fresh pasta and do fried ravioli (lately, everything we cook has the added chore of being a test for our restaurant); perhaps some ubiquitous bacon-wrapped scallops...REAL EGG NOG!!!

See? I can manifest Christmas spirit...at least when it comes to food...


*Yes, another movie quote. The 1951 version of A Christmas Carol -- our favorite and most-quoted.

Here we come on the run with a burger and a bun...*

My mother always advised, "The only people you can ever trust in this world is family."

The dynamics of my mother's relationship with her sisters and my grandmother are the stuff of which legends are told. Given the volatility of any interaction between the various players, it's amazing to me that she somehow convinced my father not once (a nursing home), but twice (a grocery store) to throw his lot in with this family whose members wore their issues with each other so prominently on their shirt sleeves and go into business with them.

Of course, conventional wisdom says, "Never go into business with family;" and certainly Ma and Pa are a testament to that. Both ventures left them financially depleted and one landed them in court.

Yet here we are, me and Da Bros, entering into a business together -- something we've talked about doing for years. I could enumerate the differences between my parents' misguided ventures and this one, but I think the most significant is our history of going to the mat for each other. While we have a lot of happy memories of our childhood, we went through some pretty scary stuff that forced us to rely on each other.

A very old photo of the cousins

It's not something we talk about, but it is the reason why we can enter this business knowing that each of us would sooner sacrifice ourselves personally rather than betray each other. (Da Bros are, at this point, becoming uncomfortable, so we shall never speak of this again.)

The Courthouse Corner Cafe will probably open Feb. 1, 2012, in Romney, WV, and will feature, along with the ubiquitous specialty coffees, homemade soups, baked goods, panini and sandwiches. This is a family venture, so along with Dark Garden, John Boy and me, Dirtman will also be involved as well as the Heirs and the Twinz and, we hope, guest appearances by John Boy's son, Jason.

For the most part, it will be me and DG, since one of our favorite things to do on weekends in get together and cook ... um ... stuff. Dirtman has subbed as a barista and Jason and Heir 2 have worked as baristas, though they're both employed elsewhere. Heir 1 worked at Panera Bread for a year; the Twinz -- Mickey D's.

Then there's John Boy, who DG insists will sit in the front of the cafe sipping wine and eating gruel. He might even tell about a little thing called the Pony Express...

Yeah. Right. We're happy to serve you. You gotta problem with that?

*The Flintstones -- come on, People!

The Scent of a Zombie

I'm trying very hard to love Walking Dead.

Each fall I try to find a television show to hang my hat on; another West Wing; another Northern Exposure. House was compelling for awhile until it turned into a soap opera that I thought would be relieved this season by the removal of House's love interest. Unfortunately, once Dr. House no longer had a dramatic private life, he turned into a sort of mean-spirited Yente and you get the feeling that he'd be diagnosing these diseases a lot sooner if he would just mind his own business.

But back to Walking Dead...

I know this is rather an odd choice for me, but my whole purpose in trying to find a television show I can embrace is so that I can join in with conversations and sound like I'm interacting with society on a regular basis. The truth is I don't, really. Mostly I just see my family and everyone in my family is watching Walking Dead.

This required me to spend an afternoon catching up by watching all of season one in one great big bite, thanks to Netflix. I'll admit I almost quit after the first episode when they let the zombies have the horse, but I soldiered on. And, believe me, it wasn't easy watching all those episodes together. Watching people being chased by zombies one hour at a time is one thing. Spending an entire afternoon watching people being chased by zombies gets pretty intense.  (I admit, I de-toxed with a few early episodes of Upstairs Downstairs.)

I've caught up and this season I'm watching with everyone else. Perhaps the storyline in interesting...perhaps not. I can't tell you. I'm too busy worrying about when everyone is going to get their next shower.

This can't be just me. I know for a fact that Dark Garden has concerns about there being rampant body odor among the survivors and I, for one, am amazed that one of the women got pregnant at all, considering the lack of facilities at the campsite last season.

The thing is, this whole showering concern is really affecting how I react to key moments in the plot. For instance, when the survivors were in Atlanta, trying to escape a department store completely surrounded by zombies, I wasn't the least bit concerned for anyone's safety; I was just bummed that it meant no one would be showering any time soon. And then, when they draped themselves with dead person so that they smelled like a zombie so they could escape...and then got into a closed vehicle with each other and drove off...and then embraced their loved ones when they got to the campground...I could only curl up in a fetal position and try to keep my lunch down.

Heir 2 assures me that the writers just figure we assume they're maintaining good grooming habits, but I have my doubts. Otherwise, they wouldn't make such a big deal about when they do actually shower. Sheriff's office: big shower scene; CDC: big shower scene; Herschel's farm: big shower scene.

These people are exerting themselves much too often not to have frequent shower opportunities.

What's worse is that whenever they come to a place where they assured of regular bathing, they are always forced to leave. Even the guy who owns the farm where the group has finally found sanctuary (and plumbing) wants them to move on, though, frankly, I haven't seen any lines to use the shower facilities at Herschel's farm -- just a well they pulled a zombie out of and, well, that just won't do.

I don't think it's too much to ask -- just so I can enjoy the rest of the series -- for a swimming hole...a lake...something.

Oh...and a dog. A dog would be nice, as long as I have assurance the dog will not be killed off.

Jonesing for a bargainorSisiggy's Annual Commercialism Rant

Is it me or are this year's holiday commercials just a little too frenetic?

I've accepted the whole "commercialism" aspect of Christmas. I don't like it, but I accept that it is now so integral a  part of our economy that, if it were abolished, something equally or more distasteful would have to take its place, like baby factories or Soylent Green.

I also accept that, as the economy slides further and further, the holiday season takes on more and more significance to businesses trying to make up for a dismal year.

But does every commercial have to sound like everyone involved is on crack? Does every single symbol of the holiday have to appear in every single commercial (except, of course, the actual purpose of Christmas -- don't want to lose those valuable pluralistic dollars)? AND STOP SCREAMING AT ME!

The problem, as is the problem with most acts of desperation, is that rather than making me want to do something, they just strike me as sort of, well...sad. I feel like I'm witnessing an entire society having a nervous breakdown.

It saddened me that so many retailers opted to open at midnight on Black Friday, requiring their employees to leave their families on Thanksgiving Day. I'd hoped that people would just stay home and show that this was an idea that took one step too far.

Sadly, it worked. It wasn't enough to ruin Christmas -- now even Thanksgiving is tainted.

The thing that strikes me most is that every year there is more and more of a disparity between what I'm being sold -- not only the products, but the whole idea of Christmas frenzy in decorating, gift-giving and activity -- and what I truly want to get out of the holiday season. And I don't think I'm unique in my thinking.

Somehow, with millions of good people out of work (like us!), a reindeer sweater-clad blonde skipping maniacally down the aisle grabbing random stuff from displays without looking at what she's buying, not thinking twice about pilfering from someone else's shopping cart*, seems downright obscene.

And before you hop on me about how all this "commercialism" is going to pull us out of an economic slump and suddenly put everyone back to work, I'll have to beg your pardon. After they've squeezed every last dollar out of us over the holiday season, Walmart will lay off all those extras employees and offer their same crappy service; the extra money will not be used to bring out-sourced jobs back to the United States; it will not provide workers with the proper benefits so they no longer have to rely on social services.

By this time we should all know what it will do: more money for retailers only means a handful of executives will get a bigger bonus.

Which, I suppose, puts into perspective the commercial featuring a Lexus in the driveway with a bow on it.

*This aspect of the commercial I'm speaking of -- I think it was Kohl's -- seems to bother a lot of people. Me? Not so much. I figure it's expected behavior given the entire motif of the ad.

Me, Zsa Zsa and Pandora

I've taken to having conversations with Pandora.

For the most part, when I'm at work, I'm alone. My work during this time of year is quite repetitious and basic, requiring very little concentration. So I listen to Pandora all day long.

So there we are: Me. And Pandora. (...and Zsa Zsa, who is depressed because there aren't that many volunteers this time of year. She is used to crowds of people fawning over her.)

I really do admire the genome aspect of Pandora, but I suspect I'm expecting it to pick up on things that may be too nuanced for it to understand.

Like when I "thumbs-down" something, it seems to go over-board in trying to appease me. If I'm on my New Age station, it will always follow a "thumbs down" with Enya. If I'm on my "Cheesy Geezer" station, it's Sinatra. The Folk station gets Dylan. The rock station -- John Lennon. The classical station -- Mozart. And the opera station -- always, always, always Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma -- a young Pavarotti's Nesssun Dorma.

And, honestly, I think sometimes Pandora is messing with me.

For instance, I have a variety of stations ranging from classical to rock. But every single station insisted on playing Israel Kamakawiwoʻole's "Over the Rainbow/What A Wonderful World" -- and, for awhile -- always at 3 p.m. I never requested it, but I did give it a thumbs up on one of my stations -- it's a campy, okay kind of song. But it seemed that it would play several times a day -- on any freakin' channel I was on. 


I was forced to ban Israel Kamakawiwoʻole and I have guilt over that.


And why can't Pandora "get" that, just because I thumbs up Ray Charles, I don't want James Brown screaming in my ear?


And...and...Pandora? I like ONE SONG by Sarah McLachlan -- and I've thumbs-downed every single song since then. Do you GET that I don't want any more Sarah McLachlan?


And enough with John Tesh -- what makes you think I want to hear John Tesh? I don't care WHERE he is playing; I don't care WHAT he is playing. The fact that I have for two years thumbs-downed every John Tesh offering should let you know I FREAKIN' DON'T WANT TO HEAR JOHN TESH.


I know. I know, Pandora. As much as I listen to you, I should be a paying customer. But I work for a non-profit. I DON'T GET HOLIDAY PAY FOR CHRISTMAS AND YOU WANT ME TO PAY TO "THUMBS DOWN" JOHN TESH?????


ANSWER ME!!!!!!

Think positive...NOW!

It's a phrase that absolutely sets my teeth on edge, almost as much as when someone orders me to, "Smile!"

"Think positive!" The only people who have ever said that to me have said it to either manipulate my actions for their benefit or stood to gain more than I would -- usually financially -- from my having "positive" attitude.

Aside from being rude and unfeeling, the phrase should be restated to mean it's true intent: "Think positively about what I want and to hell with your feelings."

Don't get me wrong -- I am a great proponent of positive thinking. I could not have gone through some of the challenges of my life -- and Linguini readers know they have been many and brutal -- if I hadn't consciously developed an immunity to all the negative energy swirling about me.

I can recognize when, as a family, we've entered "rut mode," where, after a setback, we begin feeding off each other's fears. But even then, it's not my place to order everyone to "be positive." And I'm well aware of the wisdom of the phrase, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." Certainly there have been times when I've had the power to set the tone for the household and knew I'd better pull myself together before someone does something drastic.

As a mother, I'll admit when the Heirs were younger there were times I had to remind them that most of what we worry about never happens and to take responsibility for their own, personal "rut modes." But to tell them how the "should" feel ("Think positive!") would have been a betrayal of the latitude given to me as a parent.

I recall an incident when my mother was dying of cancer. I was working in the comptroller's department of a bank at the time, living at home and trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. This was a time before "hospice" when terminal patients were either kept in hospitals or sent home for relatives to make do as best they could.

It was a horrible, horrible few months for Da Bros and I, not to mention my father, who had essentially shut down, leaving poor 15-year-old Dark Garden not only without a mother, but also without a father.

This wasn't a situation I shared with everyone at work. I didn't want to become "the lady with the dying mother." However, whereas I usually functioned as the office comic, not to mention the department diplomat who smoothed over office politics before it had to go to personnel, I was now more sedate and quiet and, frankly, clueless when day-to-day employee kerfuffles were escalating.

Most of my co-workers and management were satisfied with the explanation that I was "going through some stuff." After all, my work wasn't suffering. But one supervisor -- a woman who got her job mostly because she was married to the son of the bank's CFO and who had been cushioned since birth by money and plain, dumb luck -- just couldn't let it go. She called me into her office to tell me she couldn't help noticing my attitude and perhaps I needed to "leave my burnt toast at home."

And then, when I offered the "going through some stuff" explanation, she uttered the words that ring in my ears to this day: "You need to think positively! It will turn your life around and everything will change!"

Now, not only did I feel miserable because I was 22 and my life consisted of working, going to hospitals and tending to my sick mother and that, ultimately, my mother was going to die anyway, I also felt guilty that I felt BAD about it. Call it a Catholic girls guilt or whatever -- the fact is, that in the throes of my grief and pain, I was made to feel that somehow this was all my fault because I couldn't manage to FEED GOOD about it. And, truthfully, I felt that way for a long time.

I know now, 32 years later, that I was called into that office because I was no longer doing the supervisor's job of employee relations for her. I think of what a more enlightened Sisiggy would have said and even considered, for a time, returning there to deliver my scathing diatribe.

Alas, the bank no longer existed. A few years after I left to move to Virginia, the entire company was investigated by the fed, and most of upper management was found guilty of various forms of financial mayhem.

Still, I have this vision of visiting her in her reduced circumstances, patting her on the hand and advising her to "think positive!"

What reminded me of all this was I was shopping at a department store recently and ahead of me a very talkative woman was checking out, going on and on about why she'd purchased each item or why she chose one thing over another or why her son hated this, but loved that and blah, blah blah. The clerk, as it appeared to me, was focusing on the transaction and not responding to the inane chatter of the customer. This was bothering the customer no end and she kept looking toward me and rolling her eyes as though we should join forces against mute department store clerks.

As the clerk handed the customer the receipt and said the obligatory, "Thank you," Ms. Motormouth looks at her closely and says perkily, "You should smile!"

The clerk had this stricken, deer-in-the-headlights look on her face and I think she almost broke down and cried. These days, especially, you don't know people's story and what they're going through. What I saw in that clerk was a raw, depleted soul, white-knuckling it through her obligations with the last of her reserves being asked by a privileged, insensitive airhead to validate her skills as a savvy shopper.

Now, I'm don't normally jump into the fray on things like this. But that clerk looked so stricken and then looked at me as if to say, "Now, what are you going to hit me with?"

I looked at the Perky Pollyanna walking toward the exit, shook my head and said, "What an idiot!"

We both smiled. And breathed.

SOMEONE didn't get the memo about the day's plaid motif...

SOMEONE didn't get the memo about the day's plaid motif..., a photo by Sisiggy on Flickr.

Take a hike walk

I must admit to being a rather pathetic hiker -- which, frankly, is a doggone shame when you live in the Shenandoah Valley and it's fall.

Back in the day, I could blame my hiking woes on an inexplicable acrophoia. I don't know why I have this and it totally baffles family and friends who don't have it. I know a lot of people equate the fear of heights with vertigo, but that's not exactly true. Vertigo makes you dizzy. For me, acrophobia feels like a vacuum pulling me to the edge.

John Boy has gamely tried on a few occasions to drag me up a mountain only to be disgusted by the sniveling puddle of goo I become when confronted by a rock outcropping.

I remember one ledge when we hiked up Rag Mountain. In retrospect, it really wasn't a ledge. It was quite wide and, while it was a straight drop down from the edge, the rock was plenty wide and the exposed edge only about few feet wide. A normal, thinking person -- even one uncomfortable with heights -- would focus on the path ahead and step over the rock ledge -- it was that small.

All I had to see was a peek at the valley beyond and I could feel the suction from the edge and knew I would be sucked out into the air it I even tried to set foot on that rock. And so I went into a total meltdown.

I don't remember how I got past the ledge -- I think John Boy had to literally drag me across while I closed my eyes. He was quite angry with me, especially because, now that my nerves were completely shot, I was whiny and cross for the rest of the hike. So John Boy solved this by getting well ahead of me (pretty easy to do) and allowing me to catch up while he rested.

Of course I deserved it and, having enjoyed what was, to him, a leisurely hike back down the mountain, he was maddeningly upbeat all the way back home from Virginia to New Jersey.

That being said, John Boy does have a reputation for overestimating the abilities of his hiking partners. The result of this is that he cannot often talk anyone into hiking with him unless a second opinion can be obtained as to the intensity of the trail.

You would think such experiences would turn me off hiking completely. But there were enough good memories for desire to stay with me, even though I'm not exactly hiking material. Granted, I still have not overcome my acrophobia; but there are plenty of trails in Shenandoah National Park where that is not a problem.

These days I have to admit that I just don't have the strength -- for whatever reason (had I health insurance I would find out). I tell myself it's age (though John Boy is four years older than me...).

Fortunately, somewhere in the bureaucracy of the national park system are people who understand how I feel and they have made it possible for me to pretend I'm hiking. To John Boy, these would be "walks." The longest of them is a mile loop. There are very few inclines. Some of them are even paved. I come out of them in pain and totally exhausted, but I'm determined to keep it up until I can tackle something substantial

It's Dirtman, of course, who accompanies me on these excursion, even though they are probably equally lame to him as they are to everyone else. When we're done, though, he acts like I've conquered Everest or made it to the North Pole.

The pictures accompanying this post are of the Storybook Trail on the Massanutten Mountain here in the valley. I used to bring the kids up here back when we were homeschooling because there are stations along the trail that tell how the Shenandoah Valley was formed.

So, along with the gorgeous fall foliage, I can remember the echoes of my little boys running about on all the subtrails that loop back to the main, paved trail. Our dog, at that time, was our first Australian Shepherd Dundee, who worried himself over the fact that Heir 2 kept disappearing, reappearing and disappearing again.

Now it's Dirtman, Zsa Zsa and me (the Heirs think calling the Storybook Trail a "hike" is like calling computer solitaire a "video game") and that's fine too. We pack a lunch, take a walk and take the long way home over dirt roads.

I sleep the best after an outing like this.

Can you tell The Leash is an insult to Zsa Zsa? Well it is. She would no more take off than she would sprout wings and fly. We frustrated her because Dirtman was always ahead of me and I was always limping behind -- she couldn't keep her herd together! Just another example of "My Dog Thinks I'm a Moron."

Note: My blogging manners are atrocious of late and for that I apologize. Of course, I have excuses for my silence, but I'm not going to go down that path right now until I can succinctly give it all perspective.

Only the women can relate to this...

Who thought up the name "menopause?"

It should be "meno-STOP."

Complete with the capital letters.

A Study in Stupidity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two Geeks Texting

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

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

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

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

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

Functionally Groomed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Get Thee to a Nunnery

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Hence, the name "Catbird."

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

He looks like he's wearing a toupee*.

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

Extreme Curmudgeonly Complaining

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dog Days of Summer

This weekend went to the dogs.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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







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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait for it...The Grapes of Wrath

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Biggest Fan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Hokie...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is something about summer that triggers memories.

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

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

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

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

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

So I attached myself to Lisa.

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

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

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

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

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

And the concert was very good

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. Brave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I threw the autograph out.

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

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

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

I felt immortal.

As one does at 20.

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

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