Saturday, September 29, 2007

Find Some Bunny To Love

Not long ago, I was forced by my conscience to bring you these stories of man's inhumanity to our bovine brethren. Now comes news of callous disregard for yet another creature of the animal kingdom which holds a soft, warm spot in the warrens of my heart. I am, of course, speaking of...the bunny. To be certain you are in the proper frame of mind to continue reading this incredible, tale of shocking human criminal behavior, here is a picture of the kind of animal about which I am speaking:
Keep that in mind. I mean it, now. Here we go.

People have been seen dumping domestic rabbits all along the South Shore area of Long Island, New York in recent months. One call earlier this month reported a man in a white sedan leaving 20 rabbits at the Massapequa train station before driving away. "It sounds like someone is raising rabbits and trying to get out of the business," said Gerry McBride, who handles criminal complaints for the Nassau Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

This bunny-dumping is a practice that invariably leads to the deaths of said rabbits, who are tragically unequipped to live in the wild. They are often the victims of raccoon attacks, parasitic disease, or starvation. Luckily for some of these bunnies, the Long Island Rabbit Rescue Group is already on it, but they can only do so much. Few of these rescued rabbits survive because so many that are rescued are so young, and infested with parasites, fleas, and maggots. "It takes us six to eight months to [get someone to] adopt them," she said. "They're breeding and dying constantly."

Comments on this story at the Newsday website have been damning. Mary D of West Islip laments, "These animals are so defenseless. How can people be so uncaring?" Susan from Flushing is a bit more abrupt: "Anyone who abuses animals is a scumbag." Greta of AOL, who is a member of the Long Island Rabbit Rescue Group offers this: "bunnies can be litter trained, are incredibly social (more like a dog that uses a litter box...), and sweet, wonderful animals. 99% of the time, "negative behaviors" have more to do with the owner's improper care than the bunny being a "bad bunny". How true, Greta! How true! And if you don't believe Greta (and I!), just look at this picture:

How can you not believe that this bunny is sweet and wonderful and incredibly social? Or prayerful? This bunny is begging you not to dump it in Massapequa Park!

Finally, I leave you with this wonderful short film of the most engaging bunny of all time. Watch it and love it. And then, do your part to love bunnies. All bunnies. Forever.

all bunny pix courtesy of

Monday, September 24, 2007

Politics: The George Costanza Principle, Men Who Can't Manage Their Testosterone (With A Side Of History), A Favorite Quote, And My Two Favorite Dems

What a very long time it has been since I waxed political! One caveat before you peruse this post: it has also been a very long time since I had a decent session in the ol' rack monster. I'm a wee bit cranky, but you know what they say about politics and bedfellows anyway.

Oh, and by "session," I just mean "sleep." Sigh. What were you thinking!?

(=) Here's the thing about The Surge, The Petraeus Report, The Iraq Study Group, The War In General (No Pun Intended). Basically, we keep doing stuff that The Angel of Death wants to do and it has been sucking. I say we apply the George Costanza Principle as it happened in Seinfeld show #86, season 5 (1992-1993). In this episode, George realizes that in his whole life, nothing he has ever done has ever worked out for him. So, in a stunning display of daring and boldness, he decides to do the opposite of everything his instincts tell him to do. And an incredible series of successes follows: he meets a beautiful woman, he lands a job with the Yankees, and he gets a great apartment. So, here's the new Iraq Strategy: whatever W says to do, the commanders on the ground, the State Department, hell--everyone--should do the opposite. That should get this thing wrapped up by Christmas. Of this year.

(=) Next. I keep meeting up with men who want to talk politics with me and they invariably bring up The Hillary Issue. Nine times out of ten, they say, "Well, I just don't think that she can be/make a good president." Yet, when I press them for concrete reasons, they can't really offer anything other than this: "Well, she's so polarizing." Or, "Well, she can't win." Or, "I just don't like her." Which all boil down to this: "I can't set aside my testosterone and vote for a woman because, well...I just can't." Sigh. (Sometimes, I get really, really nasty and go in for the kill with Caucasian guys and ask them about Barack Obama to see if they will find a way to pillow the race issue. But not always because they can futz around about "experience.") Anyway, back to this one oldtimer I'm thinking of regarding Hillary. The real clincher was this: he says to me, "Ideally, I'd love to see this country really get back on track and get a really good stand-up CHRISTIAN in the White House!" Holy Crap. I said, "That's the kind of bullshit that got us into this mess in the first place." He said, "No a real one this time." Oh. My.
In the final analysis, I just keep telling everyone that it's way too early. Way. Too. Early. But for anyone who is intelligent, and anyone who doesn't mind reading something wonderful and historic and very short germane to the subject of a woman in the White House, you might really enjoy this. It's incredible how history continues to instruct those of us who are thoughtful enough to listen.

(=) This has to be one of my favorite quotes recently regarding The Angel of Death. Everyone knows that average Americans' attention spans are pathetic anyway; our interest in his war is even more limited since we know that we can't have any impact on it one way or another:
"You have an unpopular President going onto prime time television, interrupting Americans' TV programs, to remind them of why they don't like him."-- A "frustrated Capitol Hill Republican strategist with ties to the G.O.P. leadership," quoted by Time magazine, on President Bush's recent address on Iraq.

(=) Finally, I just have to say that two of my favorite Democrats are doing nicely. Al Gore, fresh from his Oscar win, just picked up an Emmy! And my heart of hearts, Bill Clinton, looks very fit and well and is now on a combination book tour/campaign trail. You know how I worry. Sigh. Those were the days, weren't they? Bill...and Al.... Time to check my "Days Left In Office Countdown" again. Because it WILL END.


Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Ugly AND Dangerous--What More Proof Do You Need?

This is a full-out Fashion Alert! No, I'm not talking about my latest purchase, the adorable red tartan plaid heels I wore to school today with a black pencil skirt, black flirty short-sleeved blouse and wide red belt. Look at how cute these are, and I got them on sale with Jared's discount:

But I digress.

I'm talking about the dangerous, injurious Crocs.

Have you heard of this? Not only are these rubbery miscarriages of fashion absolutely heinous to the eye, but they are now the cause of WORLDWIDE ESCALATOR CASUALTIES. No! I am not kidding. This is fact. There are countless reputable news outlets reporting this phenomenon. Why, as recently as yesterday (18 Sept. 2007), The Chicago Sun-Times online reported that "According to reports from as far away as Singapore and Japan, entrapments occur because of two of the shoes' selling points: their flexibility and grip. Some report the shoes get caught in the ''teeth'' at the bottom or top of the escalator, or in the crack between the steps and the side of the escalator."

One can only imagine the devastating and gory results.

Want to know more? Then do what alert and concerned mom and researcher Jodi McDermott of Vienna, Virginia did when her four-year-old son Rory got his Croc-encased foot stuck in a mall escalator last month! After managing to yank him free and rejoicing that he escaped with almost getting a toenail ripped off, she "came home and typed in 'Croc' and 'escalator,' and all these stories came up,'' she related, the horror still fresh in her voice. And no wonder! Undoubtedly, she was the Croc-Purchaser in the first place. Oh, the inhumanity!

As if the whole thing doesn't have the insidious undercurrent of a Stephen King novel about it already, the plot thickens. Croc officials, when reached for comment, claim that they are already working closely with the Elevator/Escalator Safety Foundation on a campaign to raise public awareness through education about this issue. But spokesperson for EESF, executive director Barbara Allen says that's just not true. Allen said that after an initial contact way back in 2006, no one from Crocs has contacted her since, nor returned subsequent calls made by her office. It's a case of see ya later, alligator.

Those Crocs. I always knew they were just plain no good. And now, there is proof.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Random Male Musings: Seers And Squash

Jared is home from college for the first time since leaving almost a month ago. Today, we took a nice drive in search of some fresh country vegetables, orchard-crisp apples, and a heavenly pecan pie from a pie shop not too far away. As a bonus, the ride provided the following nuggets from Rick and a local farmer.

This as we drove past one of the several fortune teller/card reader/medium residences in our area (Why we have so many, I have absolutely no idea. Undoubtedly, they know.):

Nance: Well, at least that fortune teller's house is well-kept, unlike the one over on the west side.
Rick: You think this one already knows we're not stopping by?

And then, as we were waiting in line to pay for our purchases at a farm stand....

We were getting a dozen ears of sweet corn, and I noticed some very nice butternut squash. It was only a dollar per squash, regardless of size. I grabbed a lovely chubby one and held it in my arms and, together with Rick, stood in line. The farmer, clad in Carhartt overalls and cap, counted out our ears of corn and said, "That'll be $4.85." Rick said, "And this squash, too." The farmer looked at me, smiled, and said, "Then 5.85!" As Rick counted out the cash, the man looked to me, still smiling, and said, "You look good with that squash."

I think I just smiled back.

Last Year on Dept of Nance: Funny?

Sunday, September 09, 2007

Why Daniel Day-Lewis And Ohio Are Really Irritating Me

This morning I got an email that irritated me on two levels: one, the fact that I live in Ohio and two, the fact that a certain famous person steadfastly refuses to do what I want. At present, I have no control over either of these things, so I guess you could say then that the email actually frosted my cupcakes on three levels. Damn. Now I'm really pissed.

Let me explain.

My oft-AWOL friend Carrie surfaced in order to casually mention that she worked the Telluride Film Festival over Labor Day, where she shook the hand of:

Daniel Day-Lewis. Personal obsession de Nance circa 1992-present. Ever since "The Last of the Mohicans" hit the cinemas and my mother called me to tell me to go see it just because the actor who played Hawkeye was "my type." I have stuck by this man throughout the past 15 years, despite his innumerable fashion disasters, all the while hoping that he would someday come back to me. And it has been work, people. Witness:

I think I've more than made my point. As you can see by the most recent pic provided by Carrie, he has not even attempted to improve. It's like he doesn't care. It's like he doesn't even know I exist! Daniel Day-Lewis is the single most compelling argument out there for the revival of the old studio system back in the Golden Age of the big movie moguls. Back then, places like Paramount and MGM owned their stars and those people never dared appear out in public unless they were glammed up and perfectly coiffed. It was in their contract!

Also, I blame The Missus. Rebecca Miller, a filmmaker herself (daughter of the late American legend playwright Arthur Miller and who used to be an actress also) is apparently all caught up in her "art" and doesn't care what her husband looks like. Hell, judging by the photo up there, and others I've seen, she doesn't care much what she looks like, either. These two are letting a major opportunity go by to be a real filmmaking tour de force as a couple: articulate, talented, and attractive, both behind the camera and in front of it. They could be the darlings of Hollywood instead of Runners-Up on Blackwell's list and mentioned on and E!.

Heavy sigh.Come find me, Daniel. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far. Come find me.

All of which leads me to my other source of irritation, which is living in Ohio. Where I never see anyone famous, ever. Let's face it. It's Ohio. Oh. Boy. What do we have here to draw the famous and celebrated? Oh, yes, we do have the number one amusement park in the world, voted as such for ten years in a row. I haven't been there in 22 years, and it's 45 minutes away from me. But we have the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame...AND MUSEUM! For which the inductees receive their awards and hold their New York City! Alas. Even our little presidential candidate isn't taken seriously here. I think you are getting my drift.

Here is a list of the famous people I have met. And by "met" I mean "have actually spoken to personally, not seen in a lecture or concert or sporting event or across a room and hollered at." Get ready. I do hope you are sitting down.
1. Otto Graham
2. Toni Morrison
3. There Is No Number Three. That's it. My list is over. I am an embarrassment.

Other bloggers have met wildly famous people. Ortizzle met a king and Paul McCartney. I have to give you hints to help you with the identities of the two that I met. (Hint: the first one is a former Cleveland Brown football player; the second, a Nobel Prize-winning author.) And now my friend in Colorado has had the luck to shake the hand of and probably chitchat with our shared obsession, Daniel Day-Lewis. At least he still looks like crap.

But the weather here sucks real bad.

Vintage Nance--Things That Make Me Giggle

Monday, September 03, 2007

News From The Fashion Fitting Room Front: Bluejean Bulletin

Every woman knows of the Top Three Fashion Terrors To Shop For. For those who are Not Of A Certain Age or who are simply so incredibly addicted to shopping that you are braindead, they are, in order:
1. bathing suit
2. bra
3. bluejeans

This weekend, Saturday to be exact, I went in pursuit of #3.

I probably should have gone in pursuit of #2 instead since I have been wearing the same one, unhappily I might add, for the past few years. Don't judge me! Do you know what it's like to look down into my bra each and every single day and see something eerily reminiscent of two morose teabags lying against the sides of their mugs, fearfully awaiting the boiling water? Ever since losing so much weight so rapidly, I have no idea what size I might be anymore, and this bra is the only one I own that is even remotely close to fitting me. And I cut the onerous tag out of it eons ago. Oh, and don't even suggest a professional fitting. I've seen those old ladies on tv and it just creeps me right out of my skin. The stuff they say is enough to make me tear up.

But I digress. I think I was talking about shopping for bluejeans.

Okay, then.


I hit Express first because when it comes to pants, that is the store that never fails me. I am a straight-up, don't-even-have-to-try-it-on size 2 at Express. Until it comes to jeans, apparently. Now, it is not enough to just have "X2" jeans at Express. They have to have personality jeans as well. Their jeans have names: Stella, Eva, and Zelda. The names have little profiles, like Zelda is "shy around boys." Give me a break. If Zelda is so shy around boys, then why is she "ultra low rise and slim fit" which is jeanspeak for "so tight and slutty that I could not breathe or sit down without exposing my crack"? I ended up with a non-personality pair of bluejean trousers from their more, er...sedate line of real people pants that had no Name Ending In A.

As we browsed the outdoor shopping, "Lifestyle Centre"--these hoity-toity upspeak names kill me, they really do--we decided to stop at the Gap. I am old enough to remember when Gap jeans were the ugly stepchild of Levis, and no one would be caught dead wearing them. Now they are de rigeur and there is a Gap on every corner and in every Lifestyle Centre of chic cities and upscale districts. Anyway, Gap was having a sale on selected pairs of jeans, so I was ready to try some on. But...holy crap. There were eleventy billion kinds of jeans. I eavesdropped on an instructional talk that a gorgeous and knowledgeable salesgirl (of about 14) was giving to a similarly overwhelmed woman about the vast array of bluejean choices available, but soon I became bored and confused. I simply grabbed a 2R in every single style and headed into the fitting room. Readers, I had about 30 pounds of jeans in my arms. At least.

Boot cut, classic, curvy, long and lean, essential, flare, skinny, was insane. I ended up buying a pair but I have absolutely no frikkin' idea which one except that it was not one of the ones that was on sale. Of. Course.

And! All the ones I tried on were size twos, but not all of them fit.

How is that possible? And why do we accept it?

Heavy sigh.

I am not looking forward to bra shopping.
Vintage Dept. of Nance--a special day at physical therapy
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