Breaking the Block

I have a confession. The gap between postings here at The Dept. isn't mainly a time issue. Yes, it's true that I'm a busy highschool English teacher with a load of over 120 students, of which 23 are Creative Writing I kids who write every other day. And that I am the adviser and editor of the literary magazine. And that I also teach honors-level classes. (please feel pity or suitably impressed here, your choice)

No, the larger reason for the drought between entries is much simpler and more embarrassing. The plain, unembroidered truth is that sometimes, I just don't have anything clever or worthy to share with you, so I wait until I do.

I am a victim of Blogger's Block.

When I first started up this enterprise, I promised myself that The Dept. wouldn't ever degenerate into rants about my husband/family, or pleas for sympathy about a health problem, or simply consist of endless boring memes, or merely be links to someone else's blog/articles on another site. I mean, this is the Dept. of Nance. Duh. I've always had a habit of making things harder on myself as it is. That's something my mother always told me; one of the few things of hers I actually tell my own children. Wait. Now there's a blogpost:

Things My Mother Told Me That I Also Tell My Own Children

1. Do you see how you are?

2. Don't eat that now; you'll spoil your dinner.

3. The skin of the potato is the best part.

4. Have an apple.

But really, that's all I can think of. I'm not really that much like my mother. I'm more like my father, actually, but not so much in the things that he said. More in a philosophical way. So, I guess a better list would be:

Things I Have Said To My Children That My Mother Would Never Have Said

1. Okay, go ahead and fight, but if the loser goes to the Emergency Room, then the winner goes to jail.

2. Honey, go make Mommy a nice Cosmopolitan, up.

3. Boys, I hope you both know that if either of you even thinks of marrying a Republican, you are so out of the will that your heads will spin.

4. Oh it's fine; a little dirt won't kill you.

5. Call Daddy on the cell and if he sounds funny, offer to go and pick him up. We can get his car in the morning.

6. Let's see if the top of the pepper grinder can fit up Sam's nostril.

Now before you all think that my family are a bunch of drunken, brawling Democrats who live in a mudhole, let me tell you that, aside from our political affiliation, nothing could be further from the truth. Honestly, and I'm sure that someone who knows us will vindicate me in the comments. We are just fun people. Who vote Democrat. And teach our children how to make martinis at an early age. For US. And who have fun at the dinner table. Sigh. Never mind. Which reminds me of another bloggable:

My children swear that, at one point, I threw a baked potato at the dinner table at one of them. I have no memory of this incident. None. This Potato Incident, as it will be called, supposedly occurred as a lark, a fun thing, not a retributive act. I maintain that this is yet one more entry for my Journal of Wrongs--a small book I keep at home of all the bad things my family have done to me--in the chapter entitled "Taking Advantage of Mom's Bad Memory", or "Gaslighting Mommy." You see, for about two years, I had a slight memory deficiency--an actual medical condition--which was troublesome for me but entertaining for everyone else. I would have to take the boys to the mall with me to help me find my car at the end of shopping, etc. Well, eventually, they'd use it against me. Rick, craving macaroni salad, convinced me that I had promised to make it for dinner one evening--had I forgotten? Apologetically, I made it. Come on, Mom, we have to go! Where? I asked. You promised to take me to the mall, remember? No, but okay, I would say, ruefully. They scammed me unmercifully until I finally caught on. To this day when one of them threatens to loft something at someone during dinner, one of them invariably says, "Remember when Mom threw the baked potato?!" I draw myself up in my dignity and say haughtily, "I never threw a potato at anyone. You are a bunch of filthy liars." (Hmmm. I should make that #7 on the above list.)

Oh. Macaroni salad. Here's my last blogbit. Once, I was invited to a bridal shower for an in-law, now an ex-in-law, and I was supposed to bring a dish. I didn't like this woman, I didn't want to go to the shower, and I didn't want to actually make anything. So, I literally put a big dish in my car, a few cherry tomatoes, and a knife. On the way to the shower I stopped at a convenience store and bought a couple pounds of macaroni salad. I sat in the car and dumped it into the big dish, cut the cherry tomatoes into little flower thingys, garnished it, and drove to the shower. A few women actually got really excited about the macaroni salad I brought. They asked me for the recipe. SO I MADE ONE UP AND GAVE IT TO THEM! So there.

Does that mean I can't go to heaven now?