Linguini on the Ceiling

There we were, just sittin' on the bench...

2008-07-24T20:03:00.006-04:00

A few years ago Heir 1 got a speeding ticket during the first year he was driving. In this county that meant he was required to appear in juvenile and domestic court.

Not to give any excuses, but while everyone I talked to related horror stories about their kids doing 95 mph on the interstate or 65 mph down a gravel road, we were there for him doing 40 in a 35 zone. I’ve done 40 in a 35. Daily.

At any rate, there we sat in our Sunday best, just like the instructions told us, in a waiting room full of the lowest life forms the county could scrape out of the sewer – and their offspring. At the time I turned to Heir 1 and said, “If you ever make me sit here again, I will kill you in your sleep.”

Three years later, Heir 2 gets into a minor fender bender and there we were, back on the bench (resisting…the…urge…to…break…into…Alice’s…Restaurant…).

Now I have to admit up front that our length of time spent in the waiting room is completely my fault. We were actually called in right away and Heir 2 went before the judge neatly dressed and with an aura of humility. The officer was not there and the judge proceeded to dismiss the case. We were on our way out when the prosecutor pointed out that the officer had been told to report at 2 p.m. and it was now only 1:40 p.m. Upon hearing that, I paused outside the door in case the judge wanted to call us back; even though the deputy had told us to go on; even though the judge looked like he was going to let it go.

So the deputy calls us back and the judge sends us back to the waiting room until the officer shows up and the docket opens up. On our way back to the waiting room one of the defending attorneys whispered to me, “Next time, keep walking.”

So back we went, only now the room was full. Ya know how three years ago it looked like the court attendees were scraped out of a sewer? Well, take those scrapings, heat ‘em up a bit and let them stew in a dank, dark, nicotine encrusted hotel room for three years and that will give you a rough idea of what was inhabiting the waiting room.

So there we are, sitting on the bench, me in a dress (the dress – I own one) and Heir 2 in dress pants and shirt and a tie, just like we were told, sitting next to women in cutoffs so short their butt cheeks were spilling out, boys with pants down around their crotch, and men who hadn’t bothered to shave or bathe for several days.

“We just may be too naive to get out of this unscathed,” I mumbled to Heir 2.

But he was in shock. He couldn’t speak.

No, not because we had to wait a long time to know his fate; but because sitting across from us was a woman a large as me, but with considerably less and tighter clothing and a tattoo on her ankle. But all that wasn’t particularly remarkable.

It was the mole that horrified us – the biggest, hairiest mole we’d ever seen. Try as we might, you could not not look. It was a mole with its own zip code.

Then there was the teenager dressed like a hooker – a really used up hooker – making eyes at Heir 2 and an old lady with one of those flat-looking tanning bed tans and talon nails who turned out to be the teenager’s mother, all looking like they had a family business of sorts they were petitioning the court to allow them to maintain, what with gas prices being so high and all.

But we sat on, looking like two deer caught in the headlights, trying to discuss happy topics like eventually being able to leave. And I think the bailiff took pity on us and finally called us in. The officer told the judge Heir 2 had a good attitude and was a responsible driver all-in-all (he was one of Heir 2’s Little League coaches back in the day), so the case was dismissed and we hightailed it back to the car before we caught something.

“Mom…that lady,” Heir 2 stuttered on the way home. “I couldn’t…stop…looking…at…the…mole.”

“Yeah, there were some pretty rough characters there,” I admitted.

“But the mole…”

“Yeah, it was pretty memorable,” I agreed.

“And her tattoo said, ‘I (heart) AXOR,” he said.

“Who is AXOR?” I pondered. “Maybe her boyfriend?”

“Uh-uh,” Heir 2 said. “It’s the name of the mole!”

And then there were none

2008-07-24T09:07:00.001-04:00

Before I got married I was unique.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are
1
or fewer people with my name in the U.S.A.

How many have your name?

But not any more.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are
515
people with my name in the U.S.A.

How many have your name?

One year later...UPDATED

2008-07-23T12:08:00.000-04:00

Zsa Zsa is still proud of her little brood.

Hokie

Becca (she was Penny)

Sarge

Breeze, who excels in obedience (which I could have predicted -- she's a sweet girl)

Nanouk

Ringo

Sadie (CASD Jgd. CH Gnome Hills Sexy Sadie)

Abby "The Mouth"

Breeze, Nanouk, Ringo and Sadie are all being shown with great success over in Germany and the UK. Becca, I know, hit the canine lottery, which does my heart good (if you only knew how I agonized over whether or not to let her go somewhere else -- you all know how I am about those redheads!). We hope to hear from Sarge -- especially Heir 2, who had a rough time seeing him adopted out. And, of course, Hokie and Abby are Linguini regulars -- though we are looking for good pet homes for them --which I'm trying not to think about or anticipate, but recognize is necessary and -- as a breeder -- the mature thing to do (I tell you this by way of advance notice if things on the ol' blog take another dark turn. I, perhaps, should choose another venue to express my love of all things canine; but that's a whole other post...).

Editor's Note: Had to post this without updated photos from Sarge. But I hold out hope of those coming in soon.

I promise to keep my earphones on

2008-07-20T08:32:00.007-04:00

John Boy started it all. Or maybe it was my nephew Stabile.

I was washing dishes, minding my own business when John Boy comes over and starts telling Heir 2 about this online radio station, blah, blah, blah...make your own station...blah, blah, blah.

"Did you hear what I was telling Heir 2 about?" he asks me.

"Vaguely." I've experienced "online radio stations" before, the joy of a good song ruined by "buffering," and then, halfway through the second song a plea for the "nominal fee" to be charged to my credit card, one of those fees that never quite disappears because your e-mails go unanswered and suddenly you can't find a phone number on the website.

So Heir 2 gets on board and he's all "make your own station...blah, blah, blah...Uncle John Boy's stations...blah, blah, blah..."

Then Dark Garden comes over and he's all "make your own station...blah, blah, blah...John Boy's stations...blah, blah, blah..."

All right, already.

So here ya go: Make your own "station" starting with your favorite artist and the station will give you that artist and similar artists. Fine tune it by approving ("thumbs up") or disapproving ("thumbs down") of the feature until it's only playing the type of stuff you want to hear. Make as many "stations" as you like. Adopt other people's stations and tweak it to make it your own. It's a good way to get out of a musical rut, where you're listening to only what's on your iPod and never hearing other stuff that's available.

My stations are here.

Men at Work

2008-07-19T12:25:00.006-04:00

Here is the usual formula: Dirtman can work alone. Heir 1 can work alone. Heir 2 can work alone. Dirtman can work side by side with Heir 1 or Heir 2. Heir 1 and 2, when properly motivated, can work side by side with each other.

But never – in 19 years – have all three of them worked together.
I cannot tell you how amazed I am that, first of all, all three of them are at home at the same time and, secondly, they aren’t too busy weighing each item they are carting to the fence to make sure no one is carrying more than the other or for a longer time.

And it took the terriers to do it: a simple fence is all that is required to contain four Australian Shepherds, but the Parson Russell Terriers require more obstacles than a maximum security prison. Just when you think they are safely fenced, all of a sudden you realize they are barking their version of “nanny, nanny, boo, boo” on the other side.

And we all know about the particular temptations that ‘Pode can’t seem to resist: meaning, chasing anything that moves.

The Dynamic Duo

2008-07-18T09:46:00.004-04:00

An interesting dynamic has developed between Zsa Zsa and Topper since we’ve moved here.

Zsa Zsa has decided she’s the boss of Topper.

Formerly there was a subtle collusion between the two in that Zsa Zsa would make Topper do her dirty work for her, usually involving knocking food off the counter.

Lately, though, Zsa Zsa has taken it upon herself to soundly trounce Topper every time she perceives he is breaking a rule. So, when Topper barks at the fence, Zsa Zsa pounces on him and scolds. If Topper chases the puppies, Zsa Zsa pounces
on him and scolds. If Topper gets too excitable when company comes Zsa Zsa pounces on him, scolds and then moves in to be greeted instead as “The Good Family Dog.”

She thinks she’s being helpful and actually is. But it comes across to the casual observer as a chaotic scene of dogs jumping everywhere, when, in fact, it is Topper being enthusiastic and Zsa Zsa jumping on him and Topper jumping away from her.

Then there is her bark, which in and of itself is not so bad since somewhere along the line she had been de-barked, but the half-hearted little “oof” sets everyone else to barking (canine) resulting in some of the humans yelling, which they insist is the Cesar Milan version of “speaking in a calm, assertive manner LOUDLY.” (Just as an aside: dog people who insist that they never yell at their dog are usually the ones who yell the most and don’t even realize it. Just an observation. I will admit that when I see Salt sitting on my keyboard drinking my coffee, I YELL.)

Whoa!

Back to normal

2008-07-16T16:46:00.003-04:00

As much fun as the dog show is, I can’t help but feel relief when we’re done; mostly because, more than anything, I love to be at home.

To celebrate I baked cream cheese banana nut bread (also because I’m the only one who eats ripe bananas and there were four more around than I could consume in one day – tomorrow they’ll be beyond use).

There is a homemade custard stand in Frederick County that makes the absolute best banana custard soft ice cream on the planet. This recipe tastes like a banana milkshake made from that custard – only in cake form.

Dirtman deserves a little special something because, since the show, this is what he and John Boy have been doing.

It turns out neither knows the first thing about putting up a chain link fence, but they’re not doing too badly. I’m sure professionals have a quicker means of doing it, but professionals are beyond our checkbook right now.

Oh, and the reason the bread is cooling so high up?

Ask Banana-Breath.

You know -- those snooty dog shows where people dress up and show off their froo-froo dogs?

2008-07-14T15:30:00.003-04:00

From the AKC website regarding attire at a dog show:

"Be neat in your appearance. Remember to dress
appropriately for inclement weather...

"...Members of the Event Committee represent the entire club. The reputation of a club and its event are dependent on the efforts of the committee...

"...Impressions that are taken home from the event by exhibitors, spectators and judges are a direct reflection upon the efforts of the club and the sport in general."

Editor's Note: You will probably have to click on the last picture to appreciate how absolutely waterlogged the grounds committee became as a result of the deluge at the end of the show. Editor appreciates not being punched in the face as she snapped photos instead of, say, handing them a towel.

For what these things are worth

2008-07-12T17:26:00.001-04:00

You Are an Excellent Cook

You're a top cook, but you weren't born that way. It's taken a lot of practice, a lot of experimenting, and a lot of learning.

It's likely that you have what it takes to be a top chef, should you have the desire...

Are You A Good Cook?

Thanks to Gwynne for the quick post opportunity. This is dog show week, which means I disappear from the 'net.

Maybe she meant in 'dog years'

2008-07-06T21:06:00.005-04:00

Dirtman, John Boy and Sisiggy walk into a bar...

Okay, it was a TGI Fridays, but work with me here.

So I ordered a drink. And I got carded.

STOP LAUGHING.

Actually, I was rather annoyed. On a good day I perhaps don't look my age of 51. But I know I don't look 25, no matter how flattering the lighting or if it's one of those days the planets align themselves just right and the gods are looking favorably upon me and decide to make me look marginally attractive for the moment. (No, no, no, no, no, no. I know some of you are just itching to reassure me that I'm being too hard on myself because usually the reason people write self-deprecating personal facts about themselves is so people will do so. But, really, I need you to understand that I am merely stating fact for the purpose of the story. I yam what I yam and I'm okay with it, honestly.)

So I was annoyed because this was such an obvious play for a huge tip. I know this because it's usually John Boy who still gets carded -- and legitimately so, since he has my dad's "never aging" gene that makes all our family photos look creepy since everyone else is obviously getting older and he looks the same all the time.

Our server insisted on playing it straight all the way, gasping incredulously when Dirtman told her I was 51 (loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, thank you so much for THAT). Of course, this made it even more embarrassing, because you could tell everyone else around us -- most of whom were obviously younger and probably hadn't gotten carded -- were snickering, probably thinking I was actually flattered.

The coup de grace was when we got the bill for one Tanqueray Martini with olives: $8.39.

She couldn't just ask Dirtman if he wanted a lap dance?

The Odd Couple

2008-07-03T08:31:00.003-04:00

Me (to Heir 1 as he exits the bathroom to head to the basement where he lives...with the dogs): Did you clean up after yourself?

Heir 1 (rolling his eyes): Yes, Mom.

Me (Because everything must be listed verbally every time otherwise Heir 1 will insist he was never told to do it): You picked up the bath mat off the floor, sprayed the tub with Tilex and closed the shower curtain?

Heir 1: Close the shower curtain? I should think you'd want the shower curtain open so the tiles dry.

Me: No, you open the curtain so the plastic curtain dries and doesn't mildew. We definitely don't want mildew.

Heir 1 (disgusted look and stomps down the basement stairs): I have mildew FOR A ROOMMATE!

It puts the gnome into the basket...

2008-07-01T21:49:00.002-04:00

...or else it gets the hose again.

Or maybe they hear the wind...

2008-06-30T08:52:00.006-04:00

"What are they barking about this time?"

"I don't know...I'm busy. Look out the window and see."

"I'm busy too. They must hear someone else's dog barking."

"Yeah. That must be it."

"Gaspode is flailing himself against the door."

"Must be a jogger going by."

"Yeah. Must be."

Grooming Day

2008-06-28T15:33:00.006-04:00

Abbey before

Abby after

Hokie during

Hokie almost done

Dirtman before

Dirtman after

This is not a stir-fry

2008-06-25T07:40:00.003-04:00

No it's not. Because if it was a "stir-fry," then Dirtman wouldn't eat it. So this is not the recipe called "Asian Beef and Vegetable Stir-Fry." Nope.

This is called Asian Beef and Vegetables Over Rice."

However there's no getting around the vegetables. So Dirtman still won't eat it, opting for Fruity Dino-Bites instead -- or some such garbage.

Dirtman likes his food separate -- i.e., the most expensive manifestation of food around. He's going to have to get over that.

The Heirs and I were happy, though.

An entry strictly for Terry Pratchett readers

2008-06-23T17:36:00.004-04:00

Me (on my soapbox): Until you all learn to respect each other and get along, we're never going to get anywhere. And if you don't learn the lesson now, we'll lose even more ground and that's your business, but every time you guys lose ground, you drag me along with you. And I'm tired of...

Heir 1 (patting me on the shoulder): Don't worry, Mom. I'll share my box with you when I'm living in one.

Me: Thanks a lot.

Heir 1: In fact, if I make enough money to move out of the box, I'll let you have the my box for free.

Me: Thanks.

Heir 1: In fact, I'll even put the box in my garage.

Me: And I can hang out on street corners with my filthy little terrier and sell sausages.

Heir 1 (smiling lovingly): Foul Ol' Mom.

Our Gnew Happy, Jolly Gnome!

2008-06-20T08:13:00.005-04:00

Meet our gnew gnome, a birthday gift from Heir 2. He looks like such a jolly fellow...

Um...

What, exactly, is he doing with his hand?

Oh, never mind! He's a happy, jolly...gnome...

...what is that smile about...

...jolly...happy...and that look in his eyes...

OH! Now I get it!

He's stroking his snail!*

* Heir 2 bought this over the counter at Big Lots and the special pose was the exact reason why. The Heir have plans for this gnome.

My one day of the year

2008-06-19T10:20:00.004-04:00

I’ve had some pretty spectacular birthdays. I’ve had two surprise parties: one when I was nine, the other when I was 16. I’ve gone to impressive, upscale restaurants on a few birthdays. I even dragged Dirtman around antiquing on a couple. And one birthday I got Topper.

Honestly, I enjoyed and am grateful for every one of them. I am of the firm belief that everyone needs that one day to be special, so I never listen to people who wave off observance of their birthday with “it’s just another day.” It’s bad enough that we live in a world that makes it so easy to take each other for granted.

So I’ve been lucky enough to be surrounded by people who reciprocated these sentiments. I don’t know why, then, this year seemed so much sweeter. And I noticed this not only yesterday, but Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day too; even our Memorial Day weekend picnic.

Is it that I don’t expect to be happy? Or, ex-Catholic that I am, that I don’t deserve to be happy as penance for screwing up so badly? I hope not. I like to think it’s a combination of grace and the machinations of my family.

Heir 1 took me out to dinner (well, me and half of Heir 2). He took me to the absolutely best Chinese/Japanese buffet. And he didn’t get all proprietary when Dirtman wanted to come too and ask Heir 2 along (Dirtman paid for himself and the other half of Heir 2). Then Dirtman took us all out for real custard ice cream.

So, with pooled resources – which we do a lot lately – we were able to go out to dinner as a family for the first time in a very long time.

And then a kicker: Heir 2’s birthday gift. Another gnome, only not just any gnome. A gnome specifically for my Deviant Gnome collection (you all remember Loretta -- picture at right -- who arrived via JAG and Trasherati)!

In fact, the Gnew Gnome is so special, he deserves his own layout tomorrow, when I can give him the time and space he deserves.

Anyway, as we were driving home I was thinking about how much I had enjoyed the day. Maybe it was the realization that, while I’m required by natural law to love my sons, I find myself liking them as people also. I mean, if I weren’t related to them, I’d want to be related to them; I’d want to hang out with them for fun.

Maybe it was the realization that a familial crisis like the one we’re experiencing has torn apart the best of families and marriages and that, instead, it has drawn us all closer together. And, believe me when I write this, the pressure to go into “everyone for himself” mode has been enormous. It has been the personal decision of every single one of us to close ranks and work together.

And it was the realization that I didn’t have to say any of this because we all felt it and that was enough. I will, honestly, never forget this birthday.

Mama Mia!

2008-06-18T09:29:00.000-04:00

At first, when Fluffy started hanging out on the ground level instead of with Heir 1 in the basement...with the dogs, Whiskers was all, "Oh! My mom's come to visit me and cuddle with me! I'll be nice and accommodating because eventually she will head back down south where she belongs and I can have my room back to myself."

Fluffy would jump up next to Whiskers and they would groom each other. And Fluffy would jump up to eat out of Whiskers' bowl and Whiskers would be polite and let her eat first.

This attitude did not last long. Now Whiskers is all, "Get this witch back down to the Pit of Despair," meowed out of the corner of her mouth. And Fluffy is all, "Will you look at her hair, always in her eyes like that, and you'd think for once she'd bring someone nice home; someone Italian or, at least, Catholic and maybe keep her opinions to herself the next time she meets someone nice like that."

And then Whiskers is all, "Mu-therrrrr." And Fluffy is all, "Why don't you try smiling sometimes. No one like a Gloomy Gus."

And then Whiskers crawls under the bed and intends to stay there and write poetry.

Is it supposed to look like that?

2008-06-17T09:32:00.006-04:00

I don’t know how food traditions get started, other than local abundance of certain items. I try not to be too awfully judgmental when it comes to cooking methods and I’ll try just about anything once.

I am not totally averse to sticking vegetables in cream sauce. It has its place with certain vegetables (Did I ever mention how much I hate the term “veggies?” No? I’m mentioning it now.) Creamed spinach is a traditional German dish my grandmother on my father’s side taught my mother to make – strangely, without using milk. I also grew up with cream sauce on cauliflower.

The thing with cream sauce is that it tends to mask or dull the flavor of the vegetable. I accept that everyone has that “evil” vegetable (kale) for which masking is a good thing. But, other than kids natural aversion to anything green (my nephew wouldn’t even eat green Jello), vegetables aren’t that bad and not that strong of flavor.

Imagine my horror, my incredulity, my utter shock when Dirtman informed me within our first year of marriage that he puts cream sauce on asparagus. What kind of warped, maniac practice is that? What did asparagus ever do to his family? And even worse: In order to cook the asparagus to put into the cream sauce it is boiled into a wimpy, weepy stalk. Oh, the humanity!

Well, I set him straight about that filthy habit, make no mistake. We’ll have no defiling of such a noble vegetable as asparagus. Around here asparagus is cut at an angle and stir fried briefly in only the best extra virgin olive oil and sprinkled with just a touch of Kosher salt. The asparagus maintains aspargusian integrity, let me tell you.

Once we settled the asparagus fiasco, you would think Dirtman would accept that widespread use of cream sauce was absolutely anathema within the confines of this household. But no. Every spring he would lament not having fresh peas and new potatoes in cream sauce.

That’s right. Peas. Potatoes. Cream sauce.

Peas and pearl onions in cream sauce – maybe. Potatoes in creams sauce – scalloped potatoes; add some cheese – au gratin. But peas and potatoes creamed?

Apparently this is a southern thing. Is this a southern thing? Is it some kind of southern code: When in doubt – cream it? What is wrong with you people?

I am, though – I insist – a good wife. And as such, decided to humor Dirtman. It only took me 21 years to do it.

He was kind enough to, at least, help shell the peas.
Then I cooked the potatoes, added the peas, creamed the lot of it, shoved it in a bowl and served it up with a salad. Lovingly.

Heir 2 had Cocoa Puffs and Heir 1 hid at work.

Dirtman ate it. He did. I sat at that table and watched him put creamed peas and potatoes into his mouth, chew and swallow.

So, I guess this is what it’s supposed to look like and taste like. Dirtman seemed happy. I guess that was the point. It certainly had a strange mouthfeel to it.

Now I must conjure something disgusting from my background for him to eat. Only my grandmother never passed down the recipe for the roasted sheep’s head or the tripe marinara over pasta.

Fathers' Day at Dark Gardens house

2008-06-16T10:32:00.004-04:00

Bandit-toes

Va. Tech-toes

Mojit-toes

Coma-toes*

*(Not really. I really just putting my feet up and Zsa Zsa decided I needed to stay put for awhile.)

Is there pork in the treetop?

2008-06-14T15:29:00.003-04:00

Dirtman: Did you tell him to do that?

Me: I haven't said a word.

Dirtman: Then why's he doing it?

Me: Why do you think?

Dirtman: Two full moons this month?

Me: Not that I know of.

Dirtman: Go ahead. Tell me the truth. I'm dying, aren't I?

Me: We all are, when you think about it. But, no, not anytime soon.

Dirtman: You've promised him money.

Me: Can't promise what you don't have.

Dirtman: Then why? Why? I must know why.

Me: Just check the calendar.

Will work for (dog) food

2008-06-13T08:30:00.002-04:00

So during Dirtman’s and my continuing quest for better pay without increased fuel expense we try in every way to mitigate our living expenses which, honestly, means we eat a lot of beans and work it off by hanging clothes on the line. If anyone asks I say we’re eating healthy and caring for the environment.

But – go ahead and say it: “Sisiggy, you’ve got six dogs.”

Mmm-hmm. And two kids. What’s your point?

Okay, okay. I get it, even if that is the reaction of non-dog people only.

Anyway, I was lamenting about my guilt in hanging on to my dogs to someone I knew would understand – another dog person. Only this wasn’t just any dog person. This dog person was Topper’s breeder, the owner of the stud of the litter we whelped last year and owner of Bayshore Kennel and Farm.

Frank is a major, major personae in the dog show world (though he will deny this and tell you he hates dog shows and dog people and, on some days, dogs themselves) and it is a mere stroke of good luck that our move places us about a mile from his farm.

Before I go on, let me describe what is on Frank’s farm. Frank likes rare breeds of everything: fainting goats (that do), Longhorn European Cattle, various breeds of chicken, geese and sheep, and one emu. Then there are the dogs and cats: Chinese Cresteds, Aussies (of course), Border Collies, Parson Russells, a rescued Greyhound and blind Longhaired Dachshund, and Munchkin cats.

It is a little known fact that in my younger days, in order to put myself through school, I worked as a dog groomer – even went to school for it through some complicated plan of my parents to ultimately have their own kennel that was supposed to put me through school after I got the kennel up and running (this plan lasted exactly seven months, by which time I had graduated from grooming school and was already finding out that getting paid as a groomer is a dicey thing).

So I’m explaining to Frank about my dogs and how lucky we were to find a place to rent and how I knew that non-dog people were judging us because we are keeping them. Two days later Frank called to ask if we could spare a few hours a day to help out at the farm: me in the grooming room and Chuck around the farm.

If I thought we were going to be “the hired help” and treated like the lowly scum that may very well steal the lawn ornaments, I was mistaken. Frank and his partner Chris treat us like we’re visitors who happen to be kicking in some help with the chores. And then they sell us Eukanuba dog food – Eukanuba – at cost.

I know this can’t last. Sooner or later one of the millions of people who have received my resume in the past month are bound to call me, if not for the job I applied for, at least to clean their toilets.

Meanwhile, I write for a pittance and groom for food.

The Exceptions to the Rule

2008-06-11T09:27:00.005-04:00

If Fluffy needs a friend...

If I blend in with the furniture.

If I don't think you can see me.

There's no one in the place, 'cept you and me

2008-06-10T03:46:00.001-04:00

Why I feel compelled to do this is beyond me. And why I further feel compelled to post it on Linguini is even more baffling. Yet here we are. It’s a quarter to three…

Well, actually it’s 3:15 a.m., but Set ‘Em Up Joe is running through my head right now. That, and I’m So Tired by the Beatles: “I can’t stop my brain.”

This is what I do lately in the middle of the night. It’s too late to take anything to help me sleep and still be up to help with the dogs. And lying in bed with my brain running amok is extremely dangerous.

So I get up and play Spider Solitaire until I win. Only sometimes I win too quickly and then what?

So tomorrow I will be compelled to nap. I haven’t napped since I was two. My mother used to try to make me nap, but I’d just sit there. You could always tell when I was truly ill if I fell asleep during the day. Then I’d be, like, 103 degree fever ill. Other than that, I’ve never napped.

What is it about the middle of the night that makes everything worse? The only difference between now and during the day is the light. Yet every problem is magnified in the dark and my perspective skewed. I can’t conjure up optimism at 3 a.m. Some primal fear of the dark, I suppose.

I envy Dirtman’s ability to sleep anywhere at any time. He sleeps so deeply nothing wakes him up, short of me yelling and shaking him. And he never dreams – not that he remembers, even when he first wakes up.

Me? Even when I’m asleep, I wear myself out in my dreams. From 11 p.m. to 2 a.m. I’m busy, usually looking for people or things. No, there’s nothing cryptic in my dreams. I spend the night gathering everyone together to leave for…wherever. But someone is always missing and I’m in a panic that I’ll be compelled to leave them behind. I wake up exhausted, but unable to fall back to sleep

Which is where we are now – me and Zsa Zsa, my nursemaid.

I’ll post this and probably wake up tomorrow morning and pull it back down. But I’ve always tried to keep Linguini honest and, honestly, this here is part of the daytime zaniness.

So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road.