"Got Your Glasses? Got Your Teeth"orWhat Goes Around Comes Around

I heard it whenever my mother or my aunts went anywhere with my grandmother. We'd all be ready to head out the door and, just before we stepped outside one of them would ask her, "You got your glasses? You got your teeth?"

It was as common a phrase to me as "see ya later" or "drive carefully" and part of the ritual of traveling with Gramma. She would put on her black and white tweed coat then drop a clean handkerchief into her purse, which would snap shut with a waft of violet (the only gum she ever chewed) while one of her daughters would wait patiently by the door. And then, "Got your glasses? Got your teeth?"

It's not like Gramma needed either one of those all the time. The glasses were reading glasses and the teeth were only a bridge that fit way in the back of her mouth that no one could readily tell whether it was in there or not.

When I was very small I wondered what cataclysm had occurred that this was the ultimate question prior to leaving. Not, "Got your driver's license?" "Got enough money to get where you are going and back?" What horrible thing happened in the past that remembering glasses and teeth prevented?

When I got older, though, I was embarrassed for my grandmother. It wasn't like she was senile or even forgetful. She was sharp as a tack and quite feisty. In fact, I can't figure out why she allowed the indignity of the questions in the first place. Usually anyone questioning her got a, "don't tell me..." Think: an Italian Miss Daisy.

So, to this day, I really don't get what started the two questions and why they were allowed to become part of our lexicon.

Fast forward to present day.

Personally, all my teeth are my own and, unless I'm sleeping, my glasses are always on my face. For the record.

Dirtman, however, has a cap on one of his front teeth and recently that cap has succumbed to a particularly nasty habit he has of chewing tobacco. He will argue this point and say the cap coming off has nothing to do with the Skoal but, let's face it -- it can't help. And I will use any excuse to scold him for this particular habit. The fact is, the cap fell out and we don't have dental insurance or the money to fix it. So he uses denture fixative to keep the tooth in (and prevent us from making fun of him).

On top of this, since only one of the lenses in Dirtman's glasses is of any use (he is blind in one eye), he has taken to not wearing his glasses a whole lot when he is working at home. Since I do most of our driving (you're welcome), he can go days without having to put his glasses on.

And so it happened. The Heirs came for a visit and, since I had some free coupons, we decided to go to one of our local vineyards and do a wine tasting.

I must admit, my goal whenever I leave the house is only that I'm somewhat tidy and don't smell. But when we visit places like a winery, I do tend to succumb to cultural pressures and try to look a little less like a homeless person and more like a middle class person who can actually afford a bottle of the wines she is tasting -- in other words, I put a scarf around my neck because that seems to be the thing.

Dirtman has no such aspirations. In fact, Dirtman enjoys testing the limits of what society will allow. He is true counterculuralist -- an individual; a nonconformist. He would never be caught dead wearing a scarf around his neck. Or combing his hair. Or...

Okay, I'll say it: we have to check on Dirtman before he walks out the door. As a public service.

And that is why, as Heir 1 turned the knob to leave for the winery I said to Dirtman, "Got your glasses? Got your teeth?"

Glasses AND Teeth

The Heirs looked at me as I must have looked at my mother and my aunts.

I almost wish it was still the custom to bury people in family crypts. Because that is what I would have carved in the lintel over the door.

On 27 Years of Marriage

Thinner, more attractive...and very, very stupid

Anniversaries tend to uncork all sorts of sloppy sentimentality that almost loses its meaning in triteness. And, yes, I know how cynical that sounds.

Let's just say I don't do goo and treacle and I really don't want to be trite. As of 1 p.m. today, I've been married 27 years and, quite frankly, it hasn't been all Ozzie and Harriet and The Cosbys around here. To cheapen the journey by saying "It's been a wild ride" -- or something equally dismissive -- seems disingenuous.

I'll admit that I married for the romance. It really was going to be "a wild ride." I wasn't going to let life turn me and my husband into just an old married couple marking time until death. We were going to be foxtrotting into our elder years without ever resorting to polyester clothing or early bird specials. I would be his obsession and he would be my rock. We would have explosively spectacular fights and monumental reconciliations.We would be F. Scott and Zelda (before the insanity); Tracey and Hepburn (without the adultery); Bogart and Bacall (without the spousal abuse).

Then we grew up and life happened. I found out that when life kicks you in the gut, you don't have time to look like Lauren Bacall or Katherine Hepburn or have the words to express what you are feeling like F. Scott Fitzgerald. This is when it stops being a "wild ride" and starts being dragged down a gravel road hooked to a speeding car.

When life kicks you in the gut you look like hell and you sound like an insane maniac, and sometimes you say and do things you never thought you would say or do, let alone to someone you love. I know, in the teeth of the storm, I retreat into myself; the shades get drawn and my "pithy sarcasm" turns nasty and bitter. Chuck, meanwhile, lives in a happy state of denial and watches a lot of "Restaurant Impossible."

Every couple has their process.

And you love each other through it all, at the base of it all, even when you wouldn't call it love. It's when you have to remember to love; when, for me, I resort to my faith (Matthew 18:21-22) and my belief in the institution of marriage as something that you commit to not only for "worse," but even the worst of the worse*.

Perhaps there are couples who will attest to having the type of relationship I aspired to 27 year ago. If you do, God bless -- I pray you are never tested. I don't say that to be condescending. I say it because I doubt there is any couple that has a marriage that has never been challenged by something. And I say it because I am a better person and we are a stronger couple for the testing.

So if you were expecting some sentimental goo about 27 years of marriage, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I'll keep my sentimentality between me and Chuck -- because he won't tell anyone that I'm not the erudite pragmatist I pretend to be.

*...okay, of course abuse would be an exception; but not even a flicker of consideration in my
case because, frankly, I can take him.

Back-to-school Shoes

Note: Ugly back-to-school shoes

Why haven't I bought my back-to-school shoes?

Why, at 57 years old, do I still at this time of year look forward to buying what were usually the ugliest shoes ever to come out of the mind of humans? Because, back when I got "back-to-school shoes," they had to be sturdy and functional; patent leather mary janes were for church and Keds (and PF Flyers) were for gym class. But school shoes were dark, leather and ugly and I got a new pair every fall.

And so, every Labor Day weekend in those moments just before dropping off to sleep or just waking up, my mind prepares itself for the first day of school. You know, back when the school supply list consisted of: a cigar box (seriously -- in first grade we asked the druggist for actual cigar boxes, which he nicely saved up throughout the year; in later years, you could get cigarbox-shaped boxes that were sold with school supplies), a pack of six crayons, a jar of paste and No. 2 pencils. In fourth grade I was excited that "ball point pens" were added to the list.

Was I the only one who insisted on wearing my new back-to-school clothes on the first day of school...and then sweated through the day because that's what you do when it's 89 degrees out and you're wearing corduroy and a sweater?

When I see kids board the bus these days, it seems so odd to me that there was a time where girls couldn't wear pants to school and boys couldn't wear jeans. No one was allowed to wear sneakers anywhere but in the gym. If you lived within a half mile of the school, you walked or rode your bike. If you rode a bus, you walked a block or so to the bus stop. Do they even have bike racks at schools anymore?

Side Note: This article from The Atlantic should be a must-read for all parents. I'm not saying we should allow our kids to ride their bikes behind the mosquito-spray truck (Umm...explains a lot, huh?) --  but playground equipment these days looks about a much fun as a handicap ramp at your grandmother's internist's office and, for God's sake, when did the school bus start this door-to-door service?

Autumn is bearing down on us and, while others are thinking in terms of apple-picking, raking leaves and pumpkins, I just remember the stress of that first day with all its dread and optimism, its jockeying for position in the classroom and its forming of hierarchies in the playground. And I remember getting home and feeling like I'd gotten something over with and now I could go back to my carefree summer life, only to realize I had to get up and do it all again the next day. And the day after that.

Mostly, though, I think of the new shoes...the ugly new shoes, glowing with cleanliness and not yet broken in, molding my feet to it's structure and eating away at my old worn socks.

The ALS Bucket Challenge and Snarky Memes

The Lifespan of a Trend

First there are the accolades: "What a great idea! Hope it catches on!"

Then there is the excitement: "Let's all do it!"

Then there is the peak: "We're all doing it!"

The tapering off: "We're all doing it."

The trickling off: "Sorry I'm late with this, but now I (your grandmother) will now do this."

To ambivalence: "Are we still doing this?"

Denial: "I never felt the need to do this."

And, finally, the hate: "What sort of idiot does this?"

If you don't want to do the ALS Bucket Challenge, don't. If you don't want to give to ALS research, then don't.

Nobody cared about the California drought before this, including the many golf courses and green lawns found throughout that state. The ALS Bucket Challenge is not causing the California drought or threatening the water supply in Africa.

You can't deny, though, that this "stunt" raised plenty of money to combat a horrible disease. That is a good thing -- get it? Disease: Bad. Curing bad disease: Good.

Do you have some problem you want eradicated for which you need to raise money? Try just asking people. I guarantee you won't get far.

Involve them in the effort and you'd be surprised.

That's why people run 5Ks or walk around a track all night long for cancer research. That's why people walk 20 miles around their own town for environmental causes.

So, please, enough with the snarky memes on YouTube and Facebook. Certainly there are more constructive things to be angry at than caring citizens who are just having a little fun while doing a little good.

Besides, if I thought it would raise enough money for the farm, I'd be happy to dump a bucket of ice water over Dirtman's head!

Lost Shih Tzus

ALERT: The following blatherings contain spoilers of all six seasons of the TV show Lost. That's right -- four years after the series ended, I've finally gotten around to watching and commenting on it. So goes my life: four years late with something no one cares about anymore.

Oh, Lost! You left me unfulfilled. But you didn't kill the dog.

I was quite adament about not watching Lost when it first came out. Back then, in 2004, I was fighting a losing battle with media in general and network TV was my last stand. I began hearing all kinds of buzz about the show but, by the time it became evident that it was not just the usual media hype, too many seasons had passed. 

So much has been said about the series, I almost decided not to write about it at all. After all, there was so much speculation while the series was on and, from what I've managed to glean on line, plenty of kvetching when it ended. What could struggling writer from Virginia have to add to the dialogue.

I happened to bring up the fact that I was watching Lost during dinner with my extended family. I had only two episodes to go at the time and, while everyone politely asked me how I was enjoying the show, they refused to discuss it any further until I finished watching the last two episodes.

"Just tell me one thing -- yes or no," I said. "Do the Shih Tzus mean anything?"

(Crickets chirping)

No one had noticed the Shih Tzus. I went on line and Googled "TV Show Lost and Shih Tzus" and nothing came up other than the image of Hurley wearing the "I (heart) my Shih Tzu" t-shirt from season 5.

So there it is. I can comment on the Shih Tzus. First, the "I (heart) my Shih Tzu" iron-on transfer is seen on a piece of cloth in the wreckage of the airplane in Season 1. Then the t-shirt Hurley purchases and wears (that can now be purchased and worn, but only ironically) and then there is the Shih Tzu painting that is dragged out of Jacob's cabin in, I think, Season 6.

My brother John Boy pointed out that I am, perhaps, the only one who would have noticed that. And, granted,  I am more predisposed than most to noticing dog-related themes. I spent all six seasons worried that they might kill off Vincent the dog, only to be ticked off in the end because he didn't get to be dead with the rest of them. I guess he's back on the island...or maybe in some metaphysical way, he's wherever Walt went.

But back to the Shih Tzus. The reason I was so fixated on the Shih Tzus was that I had begun to notice a whole lot of little themes, most pretty heavy-handed (like those chocolate bars), some more subtle (two Mama Cass songs? Bet the ASCAP guys were scrambling for the last one.), and some that hinted at a complexity heretofore unheard of on network television (The Geronimo Jackson album that shows up several times, hinting that the Dharma people tried to replicate moder culture, but didn't quite get it right). Then there were the people showing up on the island and in the survivors' backstories. There were hints that the airplane passengers had been connected even before the crash.

I can't tell you how anxious I was for the last episode when I would finally find out about the Shih Tzus...and also about what, precisely, was so special about Walt that they spent the entire season building up to and where a loser like John Locke learned all his survival skills like knife-throwing and tracking.

So I sat through the endless treks through the forest, countless women in labor (am I the only one who could only say, "oh,no..." whenever they saw someone in the show was pregnant?), that whole Jack-Kate-Sawyer soap opera, the inexplicable arguments everytime they needed a medical supply that was in Sawyer's tent (45 people couldn't gang up on the guy? They couldn't storm the tent when he went off to pee?), and the never-ending fist fights where men were punched in the face, but noses and jaws were never broken.

I figured the last episode would blow me away because that storyline about Desmond and time and Daniel Faraday the physicist with his all-knowing mother was potentially brilliant! Brilliant, I tell you! Here were all these bits and bobs of pseudo-scientific gobble-dee-gook swirling around that would all fit into the gigantic puzzle!

And in the center of that puzzle would be the Shih Tzus.

And so I sat in that stupid temple with the dirty water unnecessarily long and waited. I waited through a slapped-together ancient backstory with YET ANOTHER WOMAN IN LABOR.

Then, The Last Episode. I waited through gauzy, over-processed sappy love connections (did the writers think all the viewers were sixteen-year-old girls?). I waited while people were picked up and dropped off in a storyline about as interesting as a AAA Triptik.

Finally, everyone assembled in the church. Bright lights. The End.

Wait!

What about Michael?

Why do only couples go to heaven? (except Boone, but he had that creepy sister thing going on, so maybe that was his...ahem...love interest?)

When did Penelope Widmore die?

For that matter, when did Hurley, Ben, Kate, Miles and Lapides die?

Who is in charge of the Island?

Where is Miles and Lapides?

What was the point?

What? Did the writers get tired of writing or did they make their storyline so complicated, even they couldn't figure it out? My neat, tidy puzzle ended up being a box of puzzle pieces, only half of which belong in the actual puzzle.

AND WHERE ARE VINCENT AND THE SHIH TZUS?

Just a Couple of Guys

Let me tell you about a couple of guys.

Actually, I was just going to tell you about one of them, in honor of Father's Day. Then it turned out I had to travel to New Jersey this week for the funeral of the other.

The first one is, of course, my own father; the other is my Uncle Ciro, who was also my godfather, who passed away this last Tuesday at the impressive age of 95.

Tom Brokaw called them members of "The Greatest Generation." The television show Mad Men presents them and their peers as misogynistic cavemen. The more I think of both those extremes, the more uncomfortable I am with painting one group of men with one, wide swath. It robs them of their humanity and make too many assumptions.

And yeah, yeah...they were just normal guys. Pa was a salesman; Uncle Ciro was a pharmacist. They went to work, paid the bills, took their wives out for anniversaries and birthdays, fired up the barbecue, popped a beer, always drove. They were the framework and infrastructure that enabled our mothers to focus on nurturing and, if at times they seemed to be less present than our mothers, a lot of ground could be gained by an afternoon at the ballpark or a Sunday picnic. 

Even that is too broad a description of what these two men meant to me. The thing is, even though they were in-laws, Pa and Uncle Ciro genuinely liked each other. And they were both really funny guys. They would find some stupid TV show (their favorite show to rag on was The Lawrence Welk Show), turn off the volume and then dub in some stupid recording they always managed to have around. When my brothers, cousins and I would try to "put on a show," they'd sneak off, festoon each other in Crazy Foam and join the act. There was never a generational separation at family gatherings in those days.

In fact, one of my fondest memories are of the post-dinner conversations, the tablecloth covered with crumbs and coffee cups (and probably a bottle of Sambuca), sitting sleepily on Pa's lap listening to the grown-ups swap stories. They'd talk of people with exotic names and sometimes a story would slip out I wasn't supposed to know about. I'd try to keep very still and very quiet so that there would be no cause for anyone to realize it was close to midnight and I was still up and taking in every word. It was a very secure feeling.

Oddly, as secure as I felt and as calm and light-hearted as my father was, I now know that during some of that time, my parents were going through some major financial troubles. I never knew, never saw or felt any indication of the disaster from which they were trying to recover. 

All I remember are the crazy, quirky, wonderful things that used to just spontaneously happen. We were supposed to be driving the four hours home to Maryland from New Jersey one night when Pa and Uncle Ciro decided that instead we were going to go to the New York World's Fair. One boring, hot summer day in Maryland, we were just about to be sent to bed when up drove my Uncle Ciro, Aunt Marie and cousins Steven and David; they'd been out for a Sunday drive in New Jersey and just decided to visit us in Maryland. 

So you see, I could write about how Pa and Uncle Ciro fit in as members of The Greatest Generation and defend them from being cast as the shallow caricatures of 1960s businessmen. But I'm no sociologist or historian. I'm just a grown woman who remembers two men I love sitting at the head of the table, clinking together frosted mugs of Ballentine Ale, one attempting a toast in Italian (my father) and the other in German (Uncle Ciro) and both laughing at each other's mangled accent. 

"Don't feed the dog at the table -- do you hear me, Jeanne?
If you feed the dog at the table, he'll always be begging. Don't
let me catch you feeding Shane at the table. Do you understand?"
I just quote 'em as I hear 'em.

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."

Faceblock

I've given up Facebook for Lent.

I won't go into the boring details about how I came up with this "hardship" as my Lenten sacrifice. Suffice to say it was an attempt to give up something that wouldn't allow for any wiggle room (I can't help it -- I'm notorious for finding a loophole in my Lenten commitments), was enough a part of my life so I'd notice it was gone (I thought of sushi, but these days sushi is as much a part of my life as arriving in the Bahamas in my own private Lear jet), and wouldn't set me up for failure (I thought of giving up reading or movies on Netflix and On Demand -- but I knew I'd never be able to do it).

It's been a long time since I really recognized the Lenten season. Growing up as a Roman Catholic, the point was never fully explained to me. I knew the Biblical reason -- the 40 days before Easter, representing Christ's 40 days being tempted in the desert -- but the practical value of what I was doing was always lost on me. I'd either give up something that I wouldn't miss (kale) or I'd give something up...but not quite; like the time I gave up science fiction movies...except on Sundays...or except regular programs like Star Trek...or except if it involved a nuclear bomb, because nuclear bombs were real and not fiction...

This was not uncommon for most of the Catholic rituals and traditions -- we were just supposed to do without really knowing why, other than, if we didn't, we were officially committing a Mortal Sin (deep echoing voice), which meant an uncomfortable trip to the confessional. It is only now that I'm older and have been out of the Catholic Church for almost 35 years that I understand the value of some of those practices as a spiritual tool.

So just as I've come back to the comfort of reciting the rosary as a mantra to enhance my prayer life, I recognize Lent as a time of reevaluation and repentance without the crushing fear of Father Giratti yelling at me to, "Speak up!"

Facebook, I thought, was an automatic habit that eats time and, I admit, controls how I present myself to the world. Also, this would be a good practice in keeping my ego in check: is an observation still clever if there is no one to give it a thumbs up?

At first I thought I'd wimped out choosing Facebook -- I don't spend that much time on it, mostly because I don't have a huge amount of "friends" and those I do have are, like me, people who don't spend that much time on it.

Still, even checking the site takes time, so the first thing I notice is that I'm not online as much.

Granted, we're only into Day 3.

I was going to take the link to Facebook off my toolbar. I tend to automatically go to click on it, just out of habit and then have to stop myself. But I've kept it up there as a reminder of the self-evaluation that is the entire point of the Lenten season.

Each time my cursor hovers over that blue logo, I'm reminded how easily I'm hypnotized by culture and acting unmindfully.

An Awesome Post AboutMy Awsome Endeavors toObtain an Awesome Job

If you are looking for a job, being in your 50s sucks.

There. I said it.

I know -- it's tough out there for anyone job hunting. But when your employment history pre-dates your interviewer's birthdate, there is an entire minefield of issues to overcome.

I really thought I had a handle on what to and not to say to an interviewer. I knew not to romanticize the way things used to be done or to throw in old war stories of how tough it was back in the day and how easy all these young whippersnappers have it with their newfangled computers. I knew not to be condescending to someone younger than me and by no means act like I knew more than they did. And -- though it took every ounce of self-control -- at no time did I mention all the misspellings and grammatical errors in every piece of professional employment correspondence I've ever received from an HR department.

Little did I know how sensitive a 30-something can be when interviewing someone who can't help but remind them of their mother -- and not in a good way. Usually, I'm not only defending my own employment history, but also the pre-conceived notions born of whatever messed-up mother-child relationship my interviewer is working through with their own mother. Your mother may be a critical hypochondriac, but I am not her. 

I've been on very few face-to-face interviews. I'm told that's step 2 these days. I have done numerous phone interviews, which I suspect are done because I fit a demographic they don't really want, but have to prove they're at least giving a chance to. Either way, it's so easy to say something innocuous, only to have it blow up in your face. I can usually point to the exact moment an interview fell apart.

For instance, there was the interview I did for a bank teller job. I know that these days a bank teller is expected to do more than process bank transactions; they are also the first line in selling more banking products. See? I did my homework. And I formed my answers as such.

So, even though I was't expected to do much selling back when I was a bank teller, I was prepared with an answer when the interviewer asked this question:

Interviewer: (obviously reading from a script): "Can you give me an instance from when you were a bank teller where you sold a customer a product or service?" (Note: She asked me. I was not offering an old war story.)

Me: Well, if I knew a customer had a heavy balance in their savings or money market, I would suggest a Certificate of Deposit.

Interviewer: But how would you sell it?

Me: Well, I have to admit, it wasn't too hard to sell when you told them the rates were over 10 percent.

Interviewer: (Icy edge to voice) You could get into a lot of trouble misquoting a CD rate. How would you sell it without exaggerating?

Me: (Clueless as to what she was saying) I didn't misquote the rate. It really was around 11 percent at the time.

(Can you feel it all falling a part? At this point, I could. I was getting sucked into telling a "back in the day" story.)

Interviewer: (chuckling) That kind of rate would never...

(I should have just backed off and made up some hard sell line about the wonderful virtues of a one percent return. But NO. Stupid me, I had to defend the fact that 11 percent wasn't hyperbole...and I had to do it without using the word "hyperbole," which I think would have made matters worse.)

Me: It was the Reagan era (shuddupshuddupshuddupshuddup) and interest rate were incredibly high. Look it up; it was a phenomenon. (STOP TALKING!!!!!!)

Sigh. It was all downhill after that.

Another bank teller interview:

Interviewer: What was your favorite part of being a bank teller?

Me: Well, we got to know most of our customers and it was nice and friendly. (Requisite "I'm a people person" answer required for any position involving contact with the public) But I also really enjoyed helping other tellers when they had trouble proving out their drawers. It was like a puzzle and I loved proving it down to the penny...

Interviewer: (interrupting) What services were you able to direct your customer to? Accuracy is all well and good, but...

(Wait. What? YOU'RE A BANK AND ACCURACY IS "ALL WELL AND GOOD?")

Interviewer: (continuing)...did you enjoy presenting new products and services to your customers?

(I know, I know. I should have taken her advice and focused on how much I enjoy...cough, cough...foisting products on people...cough, cough. Instead, I jump on the "accuracy is all well and good, BUT" part of the conversation.)

Me: Well, you see, we really weren't expected to sell to customers (NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!) and in our annual reviews, our accuracy is really what my manager was concerned with.

...And there it went.

Then there was the interview panel I went before for one very diverse office job. Part of the job was running a cash register, an exact copy of one I've used before. On the panel was the current employee (being "promoted") who had devised this elaborate system of "cashing out" that required adding up handwritten receipts, separately adding up sales tax,  and subtracting refunds from both. I innocently (honest -- I wasn't trying to be sarcastic) asked if the register was broken that it couldn't run the report automatically, to which there was an awkward silence since apparently no one realized the register had that capability.

Stupid me -- I thought, Aha! They were trying to see if I had the chutzpah to point this out. Failing that, I thought it would certainly be a good reason to hire me -- that I knew a piece of equipment better than they did.

It wasn't until after the fact I realized they could never hire me -- I'd embarrassed them.

I've had my resume evaluated and gone through mock interviews with a consultant. We've gone over wardrobe and how to use the proper slang (I was actually encouraged to over-use the word "awesome" -- not, I might add, a synonym for "awesome," -- but the actual word "awesome" over and over and over again). I can't tell you how this grates on my brain.

Really, my interview skills turned out to be not all that bad. So said one consultant around my age, who was offering her consults for free. She confided in me that she was offering these consults in order to launch her own business because, after a year and a half of searching, she couldn't get hired either.

Actually, interview skills are a tiny portion of the problem. Just getting a response from an application is a practice in futility; and, believe me, I will apply for anything. They won't even let me dress as Lady Liberty and flip a sign outside a tax prep office (though, I can see their point -- an old lady out in the freezing cold flipping a sign is just...well...sad.).

Still, I soldier on. This week I applied for a job as an insurance adjuster, newspaper reporter, convenience store clerk, administrative assistant and a dog bather. I can't tell you how very, very AWESOME I feel about my chances.

Lost in translation

First Scenario

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

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

Dirtman: Yeah.

Me: You know they're not...

Dirtman: So, three.

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

Second Scenario

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

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

Dirtman: Oh. Alan Rickman.

Result: We watch Bottle Shock.

Conclusion

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

Dear New Year...

Dear 2014,

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

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

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

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

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

Sisiggy

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

Aggressive Holiday Decorating(with illustrations)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Just throw it out.

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

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

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

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

Holds up this:

Heir 1: You will literally hang onto anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

On decking halls...or hovels...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toppergetdown

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently, it's tradition.

All of a sudden...I am that mother

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

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

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

I spend most of my time being

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

bewildered by the Heirs.

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

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

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

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

Phone conversation: 

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

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

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

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

*This will open a whole new category of joke: 

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

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

Zsa Zsa2001 -- 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence is Golden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's news?

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


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

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

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

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

At the Fair

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

Chicken pictures are always funny. No exceptions. Ever.

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

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

 I mean, honestly: How goofy can you get?

                   
                     I had to ask...

Madison County 2013 Fair Parade

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

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

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

I refer again to the heat...

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

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

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

Some clown got in the way of the camera.

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

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

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

A little promo for the farm

And one thing about local parades. Really...

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