The Skin I'm In

 This morning, after I washed my face in cold water and observed it closely in the mirror, I struggled to choose a moisturizer from among three jars on my dresser. Did my skin need moisture and brightening? Did my skin need moisture and sculpting and tightening? Did my skin need extra moisture and a boost of collagen repair? As I stood there deciding, I could feel my face draw and dehydrate. In truth, I needed all of them--immediately. 

What has become of me?

I am the girl who used to wash her face with whatever soap was available in the dish back on E. 38th Street:  Safeguard, Ivory, Caress, Irish Spring, or Dove. My skin was constantly oily. I used to use straight rubbing alcohol on a wad of toilet paper dabbed on my nose and forehead to rid myself of the shine and the greasy feeling. All of us had that skin, a gift from our Croatian father whose own swarthy complexion never got a wrinkle as he aged. I abused my skin for years, according to dermatologists, using harsh soaps and astringents, Laying Out for a tan and using baby oil. Even well into my thirties, forties, and fifties, I never understood all the Women Who Lotion religiously. 

I am also the girl who had storybook-worthy thick hair. I wore it long, and I had to shampoo it every single day or it would look greasy and stringy, especially at the scalp. It was incredibly frustrating. At times, I even washed my hair with dishwashing liquid, again using whatever was available at the kitchen sink, where all hairwashing was done since we had no shower. (You try washing long, long hair while taking a tub bath.) Forget conditioner because it made my hair lie flat and look--you guessed it--oily. On date nights, I washed my hair in the morning and again when I was getting ready to go out.

Now, I have dry skin and wash my hair about twice a week. My skin drinks in even the richest, most emollient creams and lotions like water. My lips are as dry as that old-fashioned onionskin typing paper. My gorgeous thick hair is a shadow of its former self, and I condition the ends.  I also use a volumizing spray at its roots. It all seems incredibly cruel to me. And terribly unfair.

Perhaps there should be a product for us, The Extremely Dry, that is Industrial Strength. It could come in a huge drum, and we could put on a bathing suit and merely stand in it, up to our nostrils, for about a half-hour each day. We could conveniently locate it near a television so that we could be occupied for that time and not be fidgety. When our time is up, we'd carefully emerge fully moisturized and ready for our day or for our restful night's sleep. Certainly, there are Safety Considerations, and Sanitary Ones as well, but that's for other people to figure out. I cannot be bothered with those sorts of Engineering and Science-y details. 

I feel a little better now, having thought of a Possible Solution. Do you have one? Share it--and your feelings about all this Unfairness--in Comments.

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E Is For Endurance

Here's a short list of a few things which tax my Endurance. They require that I Soldier On gamely and mightily, often times with more Good Nature than I truly feel.

1. My Hair
2. Presidential Primary Season
3. Chapped Lips
4. Rick's Windshield Wiper Behaviour
5. Downton Abbey's Final Season

Please find something to grip tightly and To Steady Yourself, and allow me to Explain.

1. Something has happened to my hair in the past year or two, rendering it limply soft and Completely Impossible. There is no shampoo, no gel, no spray, no hair mucilage invented that can make my hair do a damn thing. Additionally, it is (cue horror movie music) Growing Out, which means it is Completely Awful and an Endurance Test each time I try to, oh, let's say...do any damn thing "with" or "to" it. Thank you to anyone who is crying empathetically whilst reading this.

2. We are now in Year Eleventy of the Presidential Primary Season, and I could throw up. Again. After ramming DTrump down our collective gullets for months and months, pollsters and pundits and news anchors are now gleefully performing gory post mortems on his Primary Corpse. After one primary. In Iowa. Listen, I'd be thrilled if we really could lay TheDonald to rest for real, but come on. One primary. And it was a caucus, which is like a coffee klatch, really. Is it okay if, oh, I don't know, THE REST OF THE COUNTRY HAS AN ELECTION? WITH REAL VOTES/BALLOTS AND SUPER DELEGATES AND STUFF? When is the country going to finally have one primary election date and stop this staggered primary voting? It's insane, and more than we should ever Endure.

3. This has been the mildest winter in years (NEO had temps in the 60's yesterday!), but I am Enduring the worst case of Chapped Lips in decades. Nance, you say, have you tried Burt's Bees, Carmex, Vaseline, olive oil, Blistex in a million varieties, and scrubbing at them with a washcloth? Oh, ha ha; it is to laugh. But of course I have. I have even tried the Super Duper All-Natural Remedy of Plain Honey. Here is what is working the best: None of them. None of them is working.

4. I am going to stop riding in any car with Rick when it rains because he cannot handle the windshield wipers. As soon as it stops raining, or if the rain lessens, that does not matter in the least; the wipers must still be employed continuously as before, even if they are screeching across a completely dry window. This is His Rule, apparently, and it is Consistently Applied. I have tried to Endure this with Extreme Patience And Silence. Believe me; I have. It is Impossible. After many minutes, I completely Lose It. "PLEASE TURN OFF THE WIPERS OR I AM GOING TO KILL MYSELF/JUMP OUT OF THIS CAR/SCREAM MY BLOODY HEAD OFF!", is what I usually say if I don't simply reach over in a lather and shut them off myself.

5. How can PBS and creator/writer Julian Fellowes do this to me? That this is Downton Abbey's final season is too much to Endure! Why do all of My Shows end up gone but terrible and awful shows seem to go on forever and forever and forever? I've become a DA junkie. I've started watching each episode twice a week: once on Sundays, then again midweek when it's offered, savouring each little character moment, each costume, each British-accented word. Oh, how I'll miss it. And nothing--nothing--can take its place.

Oh, darlings.  What do you think?  And what are you currently Enduring?

Today's Top Ten List: Lies My Parents Told Me

Growing up, my mother and father told me all kinds of things. On balance, most of them were Very Good Things, and I listened to a great deal of them. But like most parents, they also told me a lot of things that were simply Not True. Sometimes they were Nice Things, sometimes they were Comforting Things, and sometimes they were Folksy Things that were passed down for eleventy generations or merely things that became part of their DNA once my eldest sister Patti was born and the Parent Gene was flipped to the On position.

Here then are the

Top Ten Lies My Parents Told Me

1. You're Prettier Than All Of Those Contestants
2. Just Ignore Him/Her And He/She Will Leave You Alone
3. If You Don't Bother The Bees, They Won't Bother You
4. You Don't Need Makeup/Only Whores And Streetwalkers Wear Makeup
5. Piercing Your Ears Is A Tragedy
6. It's School, Not A Fashion Show
7. The Best Thing For A Headache Is Putting Your Hands In Warm Dishwater
8. 8th Grade Is Too Early To Be Shaving Your Legs
9. You Think Too Much
10. We're Not Having Any Pets In This House

I know. Bless their hearts.

1. Both Mom and Dad said this every single time we watched any beauty pageant throughout our lives, and they said it to all three of us girls. We all rolled our eyes because it was Patently Absurd. Some of those women were gorgeous and had perfect bodies. We, ranging in age from Patti--seven years my senior, to Susan, five years my junior, could not possibly imagine how any of this could be remotely true.

2. Absolute bullshit, and almost every day in my family it was proven False by my brother, who terrorized me daily with taunts about my weight. I could never suitably retaliate because he was invincible physically and emotionally. We're very close now, but growing up was hell.

3. Someone needed to tell the bees. I suffered an unprovoked attack--twice--while minding my own business. I didn't even disturb a nest or flight pattern. Ouch.

4. I was in my sophomore year when my mother found my mascara and face powder. She immediately tattled to my father, who gave me a terrible lecture, including the above quotes. Ironically, in later years, every time I would show up at Mom and Dad's without any makeup, my Dad would ask, "Are you feeling alright? You look pale and a little wan." Sigh.

5. In the seventies, everyone was wearing cute earrings. Except me. I waited until I was eighteen and went to the jeweler to get mine done so that I could do it without parental permission. When Dad found out, he was devastated. Somehow, though, I managed to survive it. So did he.

6. As everyone in the universe knows, School IS a Fashion Show. It shouldn't be, but it is. Even as a teacher, it was still, for me, a Daily Walk On The Runway.

7. Oh, St. Patsy, you really thought you were the clever one with this. We all knew what you were up to.

8. No! No, it wasn't! Not when you are mostly Eastern European and your legs looked like gorilla legs and you had to dress for gym. I ended up surreptitiously shaving them while home alone after school one day and took off about a foot of skin on my shinbone because I pushed too hard on the razor. That's another story.

9. St. Patsy still tells me that I Think Too Much. I am not one to brood, but I do analyze. But not overmuch, usually. How is Thinking a Bad Thing?

10. Oh, this one was the biggest lie of all, perpetuated by my mother. For a complete list of the TEN pets "not allowed" in our house and the full explanation, click here and read the post over at Stuff On Our List.

Your turn. What Little White Lies did Mom and Dad tell You?

In Which We Celebrate, For Things Do Get Better

Oh Frabjous Day! Callooh! Callay! Today NEO is basking in the sunshiny Upper Forties and the huge icicles have departed my gutters (or eavestroughs, as some locals here still insist upon calling them). I have seen wee margins of grass here and there as the monoliths of snow pull away from the sidewalks and driveways heated from the sun. And, quite importantly, today I wore only my lined raincoat to the grocery store.

So many lovely, lovely things are making me happy right now, and it seems like So Very Long since something has, so I would like to share.

My Latest Happies

1. My hair
2. Our Canada jaunt
3. The weather
4. President Obama's "Bloody Sunday" speech
5. A license plate I saw

Let me just tell you about those, and then you can chat about your Latest Happies in Comments.

1. My Hair is a constant barometer of my wellbeing. Last year, I decided to join the Pixie Movement (albeit late) and I was alternately pleased and horrified. Very sensibly, my friend Shirley over at gfeeasily said, "I think people are either Long Hair People or Short Hair People and just aren't happy being the other one." Well, my friends, I am a Long Hair Person. Period. My hair is finally grown out to a point where it is manageable and I no longer cry every other day because I Just Don't Know What To Do With It Anymore. The next time I say One Word about getting a haircut, I want every single person in the world to smack me hard. Thank you in advance.

2. Rick and I both knew we needed a change of scenery and that, despite the weather being identical to ours, the wine and comforts of Niagara-on-the-Lake would help us tremendously. So true. We had a lovely time this past weekend and brought home just under four cases, one being a gorgeous buttery Chardonnay. Our innkeepers took us as their guests to a winery party, and we had a very good time with tank tastings and nibblies. We even visited the newest winery, just opened, and because it is such a slow time, got a private tour. While in Canada, we politely asked that they keep their weather to themselves, and they said they would try.

3. What a lift to have temperatures higher than the single digits and teens! We are seeing the forties and maybe even a fifty or two in the next week or so. And sun...its effect on my mood and energy is incalculable. I know from living in NEO my whole life that this is merely a break in the action: our winter is far from over. But if we could get a full thaw and have all the snow gone, that would be terrific. I'm anxious to get back down to the lake and see how things are doing. It cannot be lake season soon enough for me.

4. I was in Canada for President Obama's delivery of his speech at the Edmund Pettus bridge in Selma. When I got home, I had the full text in my inbox, and I read it. I did not get far before my eyes were full of tears. I am always happy when words can move me, and I am always happy when our President makes reference to great writers and great women. I burst into tears especially when he called on the great Walt Whitman, the chronicler of the American Journey, and paraphrased a line that I so often spoke in awe in my own classroom. "I am large, I contain multitudes." Politics aside, it is a beautiful speech. Please click here and read it in full. (Note: Time magazine's transcript is NOT the full transcript, their claim to the contrary.)

5. On our way home yesterday we drove through Cleveland, and I caught a glimpse of a license plate framed by rainbow-coloured peace signs. It read GETZBTR. All I could see of its male driver was a pale hand and sunglasses as we raced past the frozen lake headed into downtown. I hope that the license plate meant GETS BETTER, and that it was part of the campaign IT GETS BETTER, which was started to give hope to LGBT youth. Vanity plates cost extra and have to be renewed every year, so it would be a personal expense if he were spreading that message. I choose to think that he was. Cleveland hosted the Gay Games last year, and they were a rousing success. Ohio is still a DOMA state, and the governor and legislature are republicans. One look at Ohio's district map shows you how horribly gerrymandered it is, but attitudes are changing. The DOMA was voted by the citizenry, true, but so much outside money influenced it that it was criminal. But that license plate...my heart lightened instantly.

What has lightened your heart lately? Tell us and make us all smile.

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Rally For Thanksgiving: Something Romantic

In college I studied the great British writers. My area of specialization was Nineteenth Century, and I took a wonderful class in Romantic poetry from delightful Dr. Wolfe, whom I have written about here before. It wasn't long before I fell madly and profoundly in love with John Keats, both the man and his works.

Dr. Wolfe was sympathetically tolerant of my disdain for Wordsworth and my impatience with Byron. I was oddly singular in my staunch defense of Keats, and I'm not entirely certain that it wasn't with me in mind that my professor engaged a certain talented speaker for class one day, a young actor who was performing a one-man show as John Keats over the weekend in nearby Toledo.

The day John Keats arrived in class, I was transfixed. Dr. Wolfe had not said a word about the visit beforehand, so we were all taken completely by surprise. Of course, his dress and his accent were authentic, and he was in command of the finer details of Keats' life and sad death. He gave the class what was likely a relatively practiced lecture/show, an abbreviated but more academic version of his stage play. But one of the things I remembered so well was his voice, especially as he recited for us Keats' Ode to Autumn.

It was a golden, bright day in November, and our classroom had a whole back wall of windows overlooking the courtyard. Every time a breeze blew, a cascade of yellow leaves fluttered down. The dry leaves on the walkways skittered and rustled, and the soft brown smell of Fall was in the air. As John Keats recited the poem, his voice was like a purring cat on a warm lap. "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,/Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun...". I was lost; for the remainder of the class, I was in the nineteenth century, and John Keats was my companion.

When the time was over, I was incredibly sad. Hoping to prolong it somehow, I stayed behind for a little while, and I walked with the actor, asking a few more questions and getting the name of a great Keats biographer. He was enthusiastic, friendly, and very nice.

Stepping out into the glorious November day, I lifted my face to the obliging sun. Romantic Poetry was my favourite class of the day, and it was such a gorgeous day! I pulled my textbook out of my backpack and sat down on the steps to read, once more, while that voice was still strong in my mind.


Ode To Autumn

1.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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Do Me--And Edgar--A Favour With This Poem, Won't You?

June, my Golden Month of Summer, burns out at midnight tonight. When I was teaching, June was my True Summer month, for it seemed that once July blazed in, time began running much faster, the days sizzled so much hotter, and soon, my countdown of the days back to school would start in earnest.

This year, however, June proved to be my July. Over almost before it started, June made me feel as if I never stopped driving, doing, and squeezing things in. And now, Poetry Month is over with this post. Perhaps I shall beg your indulgence and discuss poems every now and then regardless of the month. As St. Patsy, whose birthday is in June (hence her middle name!), would say, "We'll see."

My final poem must be one of my favourites, and it must be by one of my favourite authors. All of my Loyal and Longtime Readers know that I have long felt a strange sense of responsibility toward defending the memory of Edgar Allan Poe. Vilified by a rival who wrote a scathing obituary, Poe's legacy was left to wallow in a mire of jealous inaccuracies and sad half-truths. The blanks were filled in by ignorant analyses of his macabre stories and poems, which, because they have first-person narrators, were mistakenly seen as autobiographical and psychological unburdenings.

As if the facts of his poor life, both childhood and adult, aren't pitiful enough.

This poem is sad, but I want to look at something else about it. First, of course, you need to read it. It is the incredibly beautiful

Annabel Lee.


It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe was a careful, meticulous, downright picky craftsman when it came to his poetry. Nothing--and I truly mean nothing--was by chance in his poems. Every single word, line, stanza, set of parentheses, and exclamation point had been sweated over. He was a bit of the egomaniac; he held most other contemporaries in disdain, so he had to be perfect by comparison.

This poem, like so many of Poe's works, has a first person speaker. He starts out very rhythmically, very calmly as he recalls for his listener the love of his life. But by the time you get to the third stanza, and the speaker is recounting a more emotionally taxing part of his love story, the meter/rhythm begins to unravel. Your reading is a bit choppier; it's as if you are perhaps fighting those sobs, that you are breathing a bit heavily, becoming upset. The fourth stanza is the emotional peak of the poem. You can really see the heavy punctuation, the frequent stops for breath. And the speaker stops using euphemisms for his dear Annabel Lee's fate: in the last line, he says "killing my Annabel Lee." Notice, however, that after this catharsis, the speaker begins to reassure himself, and the poem's sound reflects it. In the fifth stanza, he calms and regains the rhythm of the poem, and the language becomes beautiful again; it is about love and how romantic love is enduring. In the final stanza, the language is at its most beautiful in sound and imagery. The moonbeams bring him dreams of his love, and the stars are Annabel Lee's shining eyes. He will be by her side always as long as he is near the sea. The final stroke of Poe's mastery is that the rhythmic sound of this poem, especially the last stanza, is that of the ocean's waves. He uses repetition and internal rhyme to do it (beams/dreams; rise/eyes and "Of the beautiful Annabel Lee", among other things).

A great many of Poe's poems were meant to be read aloud precisely because of his attention to sound. There would be days when I could not get through this one, and eventually, I stopped teaching it. My threshold for beauty was ever inexplicable to many of my sophomores.

Bring joy to yourself and to Edgar and read this poem aloud if you can.  Do it proudly and with great expression.  I know you will be glad that you did.  And so, somewhere, will he.

Having A Reverend Dimmesdale Moment. Back To Poetry Soon. But, Did You Know Miss Indiana Was The New Normal For America's Women?

It's a terrible thing to get up a Good Head Of Steam--and Self-Righteous Steam at that--and run smack up against a Huge Wall Of Startling Self-Realization. It's a humbling thing, too. But because it helps to illustrate my point all that much more, I'm going to Embrace it and lay it all out there, my own cracked armour on display for all to see.

For some reason, in this Day And Age, we still have women who agree to participate in so-called beauty pageants. I am not going to present nor argue their reasons, nor am I going to entertain the discussions regarding whether or not it is Feminist to be the one deciding to put your own body on display for whatever purpose or reward. None of that is my point, and I can end most of the discussions by asking where the Male Counterpart for these beauty pageants is.

My purpose for raising the topic is due to the uproar on social media following the appearance of Miss Indiana in a bikini during the Miss USA pageant televised 8 June 2014.  Here she is.

To quote one news outlet: "Nia Sanchez, aka Miss Nevada, may have won Miss USA this week, but it was Mekayla Diehl, 25-year-old Miss Indiana, that grabbed Twitter's attention. Why?...Diehl, who is also the first registered Native American to represent Indiana in the pageant, stood out during the bikini portion of the two-hour-long competition for the fact that she had 'womanly curves'."

Here also is Miss Indiana's Facebook page, where it is revealed that she is 5' 8", 137 pounds, and a size 4. She has also inspired a teeshirt that reads I'm The New Normal. People from all over the country have posted positive messages, thanking her for being a role model for normal women everywhere. One woman enthused, "God picked YOU to travel this road and speak for others! You are so poised and a true inspiration."

I have no problem with Miss Indiana, aside from the fact that she makes the egregious lose/loose error in spelling.  She is lovely and seems to be sincere about her Platform for her pageant issue.  (Her shoes in this photo are absolutely unforgivable, but maybe they were not her choice.)

No, Miss Indiana is fine.  But can someone, anyone out there, please tell me how a Size 4 is curvy and The New Normal?  Are American Women so incredibly brainwashed by airbrushed magazine advertisements and anorexic fashion models and wispy, starving film actresses that a Size 4 looks chubbily robust to us?  Was there really someone out there--or several Someones--watching that night saying, "Whoa!  Get a load of Miss Indiana!  Bet her car knows the way to all the buffets in Muncie!"?

That was the gist of my Rant to my husband after I read a few blurbs about the Voluptuously Curvaceous And Womanly Miss Indiana.  I had just gotten into my Zone, using a ton of SAT Words and Emphatic Gestures (for lack of Pretentious Capitalization), when suddenly, I stopped and fell silent.  Shocked, I looked up at Rick.

"Oh my god.  Oh. My. God," I said, as the realization struck.  "I'm no better than any of them. What have I been crabbing about for weeks now?  Why have I been so down lately?  Because I have gained weight. Because I'm not a Size 2 anymore like when I was working.  Because now, thanks to my new migraine meds and menopause and a lack of killer stress, I'm never seeing a Size 2 again. And Size 4 is looking iffy. Because I'm Huge.  Holy Effing Crap.  Do you know how, even when I was twenty, I would have killed to be this size?  What is wrong with me?  I am so much smarter than that, but...apparently not.  Even I have fallen for the years and years of marketing and airbrushing and false representation of the Ideal Woman.  I'm fifty-five years old, educated, well-read, a Feminist, and the most pressing issue on my mind right now is that I hate my body because I can't fit into certain clothes like I used to and that they aren't labeled with a certain number which I find desirable or acceptable."

And at that moment, what made me really, really sick and disgusted was that I knew, deep down inside, if my neurologist told me that I could either be a Size 2 again or have no migraines ever again, at that precise moment, I would have chosen being a Size 2.

Something is terribly wrong.  With me, yes.  I'm admitting that, owning it, and without delving any further into my personal trove of the wherefores behind it, putting it here for the Interwebs to see.  Beyond my faults, however, are those of the Others.

It's Terribly Wrong that, despite the public health campaigns regarding eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia, the bulk of advertising continues to promote only one body type, a sylph-like, slender, and angular female with jutting hipbones and no discernible padding underneath her skin unless it is zeppelin-like breasts for a bra manufacturer.

It's Terribly Wrong that, when Mattel redesigned Barbie's body, it was not so that it was a more realistic reflection of what a young woman's body really looked like. It was in order "for her to have more of a teenage physique," says Mattel spokesperson Lisa McKendall. "In order for [the new doll's debut outfit] to look right, Barbie needs to be more like a teen's body. The fashions teens wear now don't fit properly on our current sculpting."  It's also Terribly Wrong that this occurred in 1997, and almost twenty years ago, the writer of the article observed, "Barbie may not be the cause of eating disorders and body hatred, but her universally recognizable profile makes her a flashpoint, an image of female perfection, a symbol of the drawbacks of any such images, and a convenient scapegoat for our cultural troubles with them."

Pageants are part of the problem.  Miss Indiana is being lauded by many for things like "starting the discussion" and "raising awareness" and "being a role model."  I have to disagree.  Until there is an identical pageant for men in which they are walked in front of a judging panel in various outfits, asked questions, required to showcase their talent, and perform some hokey song and dance in a state costume along with a host of other inane activities, I can't see a true and meaningful purpose for any pageant.  For anyone.  Hasn't anyone--any woman--ever asked herself why there hasn't been a male pageant like the Miss USA, Miss Universe, or Miss America pageant?

What sponsors would pay for time on that?  What network would want that ratings dog?  Who would watch it (besides Mumsy and Popsy of each contestant)?  And let me tell you why it is a ratings dog.  This.  The summary is all you need to read.

But there I go, preaching again.  There's nothing worse than the sinful preacher preaching against Sin.  (Ask Hester Prynne.)

I'm currently on a jaunt in Maryland.  While I'm here, I plan on doing a great deal of deep breathing and re-centering.  It's obvious that I need some Redemption.  And a helluva lot of New Normal.

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What's In A Name? Dollar Store Scents Coin A Few Choice Ones

Lucky for you, Dearest Readers, that my travels lately have once again taken me to a Dollar Store. I am in search of an odd-sized bottle to replace an under-the-sink soap dispenser in the kitchen that somehow got broken. The manufacturer only has the newer model in stock now, so we are left to scrounge around and find something that will work. So far, no luck, but my latest foray into cheapo stores has at least provided me with blog fodder.

Did you know that you don't have to spend a fortune on perfume? Your local Dollar Emporium has many fine scents available at the low, low price of One Dollar. Let me present them to you.

Perhaps you want to remember your Youth. Those days when Mother loomed large in your life. When her advice and admonitions helped you remember what it took to grow up to be The Kind Of Woman Who Would Make Her Proud. For you, may I suggest:

Some women want to project a pleasant, nonthreatening demeanor. They don't want to be a sexy siren; they merely want to convey a kind femininity. Yes, they want to say, I'm a woman, and I'm easy to get along with and somebody's mom. I have extra Kleenex in my purse, and I volunteer at the school twice a week. If you need me to stop and pick up an extra bag of ice on my way to your party, just ask! No worries! This, then, is the perfume gift for her:

She's unabashedly a redhaired, freckle-faced lass who comes from a long line of Catholics. Her brothers and uncles are all policemen, except for Uncle Casey, who's a priest, and three of the women in her family are nuns. She can out-cuss and out-drink all the other women on the block, but they don't care because she has a heart of gold. And now there's a perfume just for her:

Let's say that your mother sent you to Fat Camp where you lost fifty-three pounds and found your breasts and a waist. Now that you're tanned and slimmer, and all those days of swimming have bleached out your hair into a shimmery blond, the boys back at Verizon Co. High School, Inc. are taking notice. You are getting the big rush, and how! Before the twerking starts, you might want to dab a little of this on your neck and wrists:

Gentlemen, consider your needs met as well at your local Dollar Superstore. Allow me, if you will, to showcase just a few.

Men, what is it that you want--and I mean REALLY WANT--from your deodorant body spray? Do you want an odor-killing formulation? Do you want a lady-killing scent? Well then, do I have something just for you:

Dude! Are you, like, totally over all the phony smelling GMO colognes out there? Like, do the American sensibilities offend you with their constant homage to chemicals and forgetting the earth and our environment? If you could, would you totally smell like...oh, I don't know, the earth, and herbs, and nature? Right on. Dude! I feel you, and so does this cologne, which is French for like black tarragon, which is like decomposing herbs. I know, right?

Hey, guys. R u tired of hearing everyone get on you about ur speling? If everyone noes what you mean, then whats the big deal? If ur not gunna be a english teacher then who cares? They'res more important things too worry about then this. Besides which their's even a colone that proves its no big deal. Hear it is:

You know, Dearest Readers, I do these things so that you don't have to.

I Enjoy Being A Girl, But There Are Limits

I wanted to get this particular question out of the way well in advance of International Women's Day, which is 8 March.  When you click the hyperlink I provided, please take especial note of the fact that currently, the UK is holding twice as many events as the USA is to commemorate this day.  I realize that it's technically not a competition, but after I read this article in which I learned that a "report from Brigham and Women’s Hospital released yesterday found women are routinely bypassed as medical research subjects — starting at the selection of male lab mice over females — which means women end up with health recommendations that are really meant for men."  Even though a law was passed in 1993 tying National Institute of Health funding to the inclusion of women in study samples, "two decades later, research specific to women is still lagging".  Senator Elizabeth Warren (D-MA; Real Life Superhero) has gotten a sign from the Commissioner, so she is already on top of this.  Even if she has to spin Earth counter-clockwise, things will happen, believe you me.

Anyway, I digress.

This question is sort of a frivolous, Girly-Type Question, and while it may be trivial in light of Larger Women's Issues, let's face it:  we can't always be building low-income housing or trying to tinker with soybeans to find a reliable strain that is drought-resistant.  Sometimes we need a little bit of Steroypical Me Time.  So...

Do you get regular mani/pedis?

Heavens no.  And I say that with absolutely no judgment at all towards the activity or those who perform the job or those who enjoy getting either or both.  Or even the expenditure involved although I have to say that I'm largely clueless as to the cost of any of them.  I know dozens of people who luxuriate in getting a pedicure, my sister included.  I know dozens of people who get all different kinds of manicures. Bridal parties do it as a group activity before the wedding.  Friends go as a matter of course, sometimes as a standing outing.  It's simply not my thing.

Let me start first and foremost with a pedicure.  I can give you my reason in a single word:  feet.  I talked about this topic before, here.  No one, and I mean no one, touches my feet.  I don't even like typing or looking at the word feet.  No way I'm going to allow a stranger--a stranger!--to get intimate with my feet and my toes and all that.  Ugh.  I shuddered just then.  I honestly did.  The very idea.  I don't even like Rick to touch my feet.  And don't get all ooeygooey about the so-called merits of a foot massage.  I almost just threw up in my mouth. Urk.

I could use a manicure right now, actually, but forget it.  I had one once, and it hurt like hell.  My nails are about the thickness of the papery stuff on a head of garlic.  They are also weak, bendy, peely, and small.  My cuticles, which are always dreadfully dry, continuously try creeping up my nails like you see on really elderly people.  When I get brave and push them back, my nail bed is so sensitive that it feels like some kind of torture.  Do I lotion my hands?  Yes.  Do I soak them before trying to manicure myself? Yes.  Did I go to a very good manicurist?  I thought so.  Much of this dryness and thinness is due to my migraine medication.  It's a tradeoff.

Long ago, back in the 80s and 90s, I had lovely, long fingernails.  I would grow them out and use all different kinds of polish.  One of my favourites was a knockoff of the popular Chanel color at the time, which was a very very dark mahogany.  There was another one called Black Cherry which looked black but had a distinctly red hue to it. And I loved, loved, loved a classic red.  But if even one nail broke, I'd cut them all down and grow them back together.  I hated the way it looked if one was different.  But those days are over.  It's okay, though.  I can type much better with very short fingernails.

If I could have long fingernails back and get a manicure, I'd get a French, I think.  It's basic and always looks so finished and sophisticated.  I've never been a fan of painted toenails because all it does is draw attention to feet.  Nothing good about that.  Ugh.

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I May Be Older Than Dirt, But At Least My Hair Looks Good And My Wine Cellar Is Stocked

Testing, testing...one, two, three.  Is this thing on?  Anyone out there?  Anyone at all?  Hello? If even one of you wanders over and hangs around to read for a moment, pretty soon another one will join you, then a crowd will form, and then--even though I've been lousy about writing--I might get my readers back.

Let's start with a brief update to some topics I discussed in earlier posts. Even though I'd like to think that my bitching and inherent intelligence wins out in all cases, the truth is more often that Fate intervenes, and my Tragedies wind up resolved in some way.  If it's not a case of conflict or tragedy, it's merely a follow-up or related story.

Remember my lamentations regarding Fructis Hi Rise Root Lifter?  Well, the fine people over at Garnier can bite me.  First they discontinue my go-to hair gel and replace it with some lousy tree sap derivative, then they get rid of my FHRRL.  As I mentioned previously, rather than be a ranting snotface about it, I merely wandered into My New LuvStore, Sally Beauty Supply, and was recommended this stuff in the picture.  It is wonderful and fantastic and makes me say, "Fructis you, Garnier."  And the price is better, too.





My countertops are in, and if asked to describe them in one word, that word would be WHITE.  SO.  WHITE.  WHITE WHITENESS.  It's a big change from the red, and I have to get used to it.  The veining is a little more noticeable on a large slab, and I keep feeling like I have to wipe the counters until I remember that what I'm seeing is the stone and not marks on the counter.  Now I'm just anxious for the floor to get done so I can have it complete.  We've decided to tile above the backsplash, white with just a few random red and black tiles.

Want to feel your age?  Go to San Francisco.  I just got back from spending a long weekend there with dear friend and reader Mikey, and I was the single most elderly person in the entire city.  Without question.  No matter where we went. I mean it; I was conspicuous in my elderliness.  At 54!  Thankfully, I was able to meet up with Julie for a day and even though she is several (6) important years younger than me, at least I felt not quite so dried out and ready for the grave.  I am old enough to be Mikey's mom, but in San Francisco, they banish everyone who is forty and older.  You have to be a twenty- or thirty-something, tech-savvy, and willing to walk eleventy miles in order to get from your car, which is parked on the side of a neighborhood street, to any event or restaurant or venue you wish to attend.  Parking lots are anathema to San Franciscans.  Ha!  Pretty soon, once a few visit Ohio, they will want our water and our nice, big, adjacent parking lots!

Or maybe not.  This is what was waiting for me outside my airbus window as we circled Cleveland to land.  Oh.  Yay.  More snow.  It snowed like hell overnight, and my little suburb got about another six inches.  There is a foot of snow on the ground at my house.  There is a warming trend right now--we are in the low to mid forties for a few days.  Then, another polar vortex is breaking away and visiting again.  Sigh.  I didn't feel as resentful and angry or frustrated or even sad like I thought I would when I got back home and back to Winter again. From Friday until Tuesday evening, I had worn blazers and a light raincoat, and hadn't even gotten a bit of the typical San Francisco misty weather. I had seen two kinds of palm trees and even some azaleas flowering.  The magnolias and tulip trees were blooming.  And Ohio?  Certainly nothing like any of that.  But in spite of all of that, once at home, I felt rejuvenated and grateful.  I had escaped Winter, if only for a few days.  I was luckier than Rick, and luckier than most.

Wine seemed the best souvenir, so I shipped about a case home while we visited Sonoma.  Especially intriguing was a brut, a sparkly fizzy treat made with the usual chardonnay grapes but also some pinot noir, too.  The pinot didn't add any color at all, but lent the wine a beautiful round, lush character that normal bruts don't have.  California zins can't be beat, either, so several bottles of that got shipped, too.  And the Sonoma winemakers are adding Malbec to their Meritage blend, which makes it robust and bold, giving it an almost amarone richness.  That's on its way, along with a nice grenache for anytime sipping.  Probably something else too, but I can't really remember.  I simply tasted, made notes, then arranged for shipping and moved on.

Finally, Ms. Caroline from over at AsiaVu has invited me to participate in a meme.  Every time I hear the word "meme", I think of this:



Anyway, as so many of you know, I rarely do memes, but when I make the exception, I tweak and customize.  That will be my next offering, and it will be soon.

Thanks for hanging around!

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And Now, A Public Service Announcement For My Readers

The Dept. of Nance prides itself on being a timely commentary on our Culture (or, in some cases, our Lack Thereof).  That alone is a Public Service.  Today, however, the Dept. is providing you with a Consumer Alert! so that you can begin preparations for the imminent demise of some products currently available on your local marketplace shelves.

How am I in possession of this Closely Held Knowledge? you may ask.  Based upon my personal history, I can accurately predict which products will be discontinued, pulled from the NEO market region, reformulated, or sold only in certain warehouse clubs of which I am not a member or are not located in the Midwest.  This has happened to most of the products I have developed a bedrock loyalty to, that have made me happy, that have solved a problem for me, that made my hair look wonderful consistently, or have merely been a damned good product for the price.

Did you ever use/love/eat/cook with/depend upon:  Garnier Fructis Body Boost Hair Gel?  Bath & Body Works Breathe Comfort Vanilla Milk Scent?  Mr. Yoshida's Gourmet Sauce?  Reynolds Plastic Wrap?  Flex Shampoo?  The Original Herbal Essence Shampoo? Aziza Mascara? Olay face soap?  Purina One for Overweight Cats?

Well, NOT ANYMORE!  Gone. Done. Discontinued or Reformulated into useless crap. 

I know because I loved them and used them all, only to sadly bid them goodbye.  First, there were marvelous markdowns; then, they became difficult to find; and, in the final stages of their death throes, I'd find stashes of them at discount grocers and dollar stores.  It was So Sad.  So Terribly Sad.

Get ready.  Here is the latest roundup of products that I have loved too deeply and now must lose:

FOODS
1.  KC Masterpiece Teriyaki Marinade
2. Trader Joe's Meyer Lemon Cookie Thins
3.  Contadina Extra Thick n Zesty tomato sauce
4.  Bertolli EV olive oil

HBAs
1.  Organix Cherry Blossom & Ginseng shampoo
2.  Garnier Fructis HiRise root lifter
3.  TreSemme Superior Hold hairspray #4
4.  Clear Care contact lens solution

HOUSEHOLD
1. Awesome

Allow me a brief commentary for each section. 

While I certainly can and often do make my own teriyaki marinade, I don't always feel like it or have all of the ingredients.  KC Masterpiece is the only one I have found to have the taste I like without being overly salty or fake-tasting.  It also makes a decent stirfry sauce base if you add it at the last minute as a glaze.  This has disappeared at the local chain and suddenly appeared at the discount grocery.  And if some of you have not yet tried TJ's Meyer Lemon thins, go now and get a box.  Holy crap, are they good.  Crazy good.

I am painfully and mortifyingly aware that the preponderance of my health and beauty aids are for my hair.  Currently, I am ignoring my hair, in that I am not going to the salon and am trimming my own bangs.  I saw my stylist about a month ago, and she said, "Oh, are you growing out?"  I said, "I have no idea what I'm doing."  (Sadly, this is true of about 85% of my life at present.  I'm leading a Nike-Inspired existence in that I'm Just Doing It.) Anyway, if it were not for the three products above, I would not leave the house.  And I blame Shirley for leaving the Organix in my shower last year when I visited.  She is my Shampoo Pusher, and now I am hooked.

Finally, we here at the Dept. are just as environmentally conscious as the next person as long as that person is not wearing hemp capris and shoes made from recycled soda bottles.  But there is only so much that vinegar, baking soda, and lemon juice can be relied upon to do.  What's left is handled by a spray or two of Awesome.  Got a bloodstain on your towel? Awesome will remove it immediately.  Got a grease splatter from stirfry that the dryer set in?  Awesome will take it out.  Is there mildew all over your patio furniture?  Awesome.  Ink on your car seat?  Awesome.  Wine on the tablecloth?  Awesome.  I am not kidding you, this stuff is...awesome.  AND IT IS ONLY A DOLLAR for a 16-oz. bottle.  Oh, it's probably loaded with awful chemicals, but holy crap.  It's nuts how great it works.  And I personally used it for all of the above scenarios. 

It is only a matter of moments now before these wonderful products will be gone.  (Look what happened to the Mars bar.  Not even available in the USA.  And I loved them oh so much.)  You know I'm right.  It's happened to you.  Tell me all about it in Comments. 

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In Which I Present A New Poet, Envy My Hair Products, And Write Such A Lot Of Stuff

Did you ever have the sensation that nothing was happening in your life, yet you were very, very busy?  I'm feeling that way lately, and I have to tell you, it's all very odd.  Of course, these days, if I have anything to do, it seems like a big deal.

While I have a moment in my Big Honking Schedule, I thought I'd share a few Cranial Crumbs and tidy the space up a bit.

---|Google Is So Deep.  Sometimes, when I'm doing a little research, Google likes to wax poetic in order to give me some perspective and some spontaneous poetry.  For example, I was searching for something which began with the word "white." I got as far as wh, and Google began a poetry slam (punctuation is mine; line break is all Google):

white pages,
where's my refund?
what's the word,
white pages Ohio?

Wow.  This really identifies the urban angst that is Out There, in The Mean Streets.  Google really gets it.

I admit it.  I like to nudge Google and make my research queries in the form of a question.  I got this far in my most recent query and Google took it away:  "Why are m-":

why are manhole covers round?
why are my boobs sore?
why are my hands always cold?
why are my cookies always flat?

Why, indeed.

---|Kickoff!  I don't give a damn about football of any kind, but I got very excited about the Cleveland Browns first draft pick this year.  Why?  Only because he has the Best Name Ever.  BARKEVIOUS MINGO.  Oh, yes, say it over and over again.  How fantastic of a name is that?  I heard that name over a year ago and made a Solemn Vow to someday name something BarkeviousMingo, all together like that, because it is a kickass name.  He goes by a wimp-out nickname, KeKe, but not in this house.  He will always be BARKEVIOUS MINGO at the Dept.  The Browns did a great job in the Name Department.  They also drafted a Leon, a Jamoris, and an Armonty.  Nice work.

---|I'm Organic, At Least.  It occurred to me the other day that I would love to be my shampoo.  You probably would, too.  Just read the label.  I really want to be a "sensual and alluring blend."  Don't you want to "have great body and sparkle"?  Wouldn't you like to hear someone tell you that being with you is "rejuvenating"?  I sure would. 

---|'Tis The Season.  Friday was my birthday, and one of my best gifts was the weather.  I actually wore flipflops out in my yard and was able to garden.  Naturally, that is the only time I wear flipflops.  Sadly, I know that A) most teens have been wearing flipflops for months now, and B) most people wear flipflops to weddings, restaurants, funerals, and other public places.  I think my Original Point was, however, that the weather was warm enough that I could both garden and wear summer shoes.  Sigh.

---|Animal House.  Finally, just some general silliness.  Since Rick and I got rid of cable, we're forced to talk to one another more often.

Nance:  Where are you going?
Rick:  I'm gonna go change before dinner and before I jump in the shower.  I just feel gross.
Nance:  Into what?
Rick:  Huh?
Nance:  What are you going to change into?
Rick:  An elephant.
Nance:  What kind of elephant?
Rick:  A baby one.
Nance:  Oh, good.  How cute.
(Later, after dinner, Rick gets up.)
Rick:  Okay.  I'm gonna go grab that shower.
Nance:  Why not just use your trunk?

Go ahead.  Google that.

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Two Weeks

Northeast Ohio has finally decided to join the rest of the World and welcome Spring into its cold, frosty bosom.  The windows are open to the warming breezes here at the Dept., and I finally allowed Rick to put the snow shovels back into the garage until October when they will be needed once more.  I've used fresh-cut chives more than a couple of times, we have a fine, fine crop of weeds in the pea gravel between the flagstones in the back garden, and the pondfish are swimming around a little less lethargically.

It's about damn time.

On my various errands--many chauffering St. Patsy to her various Medical Necessaries--I am often enthralled by the many glorious flowering trees so many people are privileged to have in their yards.  One oft-travelled route takes me past no less than five towering tulip trees in full bloom, their spent pink and white petals creating a pastel coverlet on the new grass beneath them.  They are incredible. On that same drive is a bonfire of forsythia at the entrance of a pine forest.  It looks as if a half-dozen bushes grew together unfettered by boundaries both upward and beyond.  Blossoming trees froth with pink like bubbles on a strawberry soda, while the terraced elegance of rare dogwoods look serene and aloof. 

When I was a kid, we had a big, gnarled, knotty apple tree in our backyard.  Its branches spread far and wide, and it blossomed heavily every other year.  My father loved that tree.  Every single one of us was photographed up in that tree, from newborn to college.  Grandkids were, too, the ones who were around while Dad was alive.  The apple tree produced a ton of apples, too, but the bugs and birds always got to them before any one of us could.  "Honey, you ought to get some spray and spray that tree," my mom used to say.  My father would look at her like she had told him he should cut the tree down.  He couldn't imagine spraying any sort of pesticide on his tree.  He figured it was perfect the way that it was.  It wasn't there for the apples, anyway.  It was there for its beauty.

When I got a house of my own, I wanted a few things in my yard.  One, I wanted a lilac bush.  Two, I wanted rose bushes.  Three, I wanted a flowering tree.  My lilac bush got a powdery mildew or fungus or something, and little by little, no matter what we did for it, it kept dying back.  My rose bushes just never did well, either, and even my father, The Rose Doctor himself, couldn't get the soil right for them.  And the flowering tree? 

We had two huge silver maple trees on our teeny tiny lot when we first moved here.  One--which we had removed--was pretty much right in front of half of the garage.  The other was in front of our house, on the curb lawn (which I had always called a tree lawn).  There was no space anywhere for a flowering tree.  Many years later, when we redid our backyard, taking out all the grass and landscaping it into a back garden, I told our landscaper that I wanted a flowering tree someplace in the scheme.  "Can't do it,"  Marv said.  "They get too big.  Besides, the only place you have to put one, really, is too close to the pond.  They drop stuff.  Clog up the skimmer.  Make a huge mess."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  I appealed to Rick, who pressed the case to Marv again.  But it was true.  There wasn't any place for a flowering tree.  "Everyone gets all excited and jazzed up about flowering trees," groused Marv.  "It only lasts two weeks. Two weeks.  Then what? Just a tree.  No one thinks about that."

He's right.  No one thinks about the other fifty weeks because they're too busy glorying in those two weeks.  Two weeks of unabashed beauty.  Two weeks of affirmation that yes, winter is not going to last forever, that spring is coming after all.  Two weeks of hope.  Two weeks of remembering that the world has lovely things to share.  Two weeks of appreciating Nature's gifts after a dark and cold winter.  Two weeks of knowing that something simple can still have the power to awe you.  A wonderful two weeks that make me smile, appreciate, and remember.

I miss my father every day although he is with me always.

Dept. Of Nance Endorses...

Despite tremendous pressure from all quarters, the Dept. of Nance is withholding its Official Endorsement of a Democratic Candidate for President at this time. Ohio's Primary is not until March 4th, and there is still sufficient time for all Buckeye State voters (and Marylanders, and Virginians, etc.) to carefully and thoughtfully consider both viable candidates for the Highest Office In The Land. (Huh? "Other party?" What "other party?") Far be it from me to exert any outside pressure upon anyone still considering his or her choice at this time, especially when both Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton are scheduled to be in Cleveland, Ohio, debating the issues at Cleveland State University, moderated by Meet the Press's Tim Russert and/or Brian Williams, of NBC Nightly News fame.

I am still seething over the incredibly archaic practice of these ridiculously front-loaded primaries in which first, a couple of states are fussed over and "frontrunners" are declared; then, a few mores states get to decide who half of the country gets to vote for. Finally, on a "Super Tuesday," the remainder of the candidates are fodder for that half of the country, and when the rest of us get to cast our ballots, it's like the dingoes in the Outback snarling over the bones. What the hell kind of system is that when a field of more than a dozen is cut back to five before everyone even gets to vote? It's time for a National Primary.

But I digress. Sigh.

Despite the fact that I will not endorse a Presidential Candidate at this time, the Dept. of Nance is happy to give its Official Endorsement to the following:

The Novia Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. This dog is my new favorite dog to watch for in all televised dog shows, replacing both the Boxer and the Bernese Mountain Dog. It has a very lovely face and demeanor, and looks placid and friendly. It's unusual and has a cool name, and as a bonus, is Canadian. I read up on it, and it has a life span of 14 years and is good with children. Also charming is its proclivity to "round up and herd smaller pets."

Nutella. This is, quite simply, an orgasm in a jar. I thought I had gotten over this chocolate and hazelnut spread about a year and a half ago, but it's not so. I cannot have it in the house and feel safe. On a graham cracker, on a banana, or just on a spoon...excuse me. I'll be right back. Or not.

L'Oreal Voluminous Mascara. I cannot live without mascara, yet I am cheap about makeup because I think most of it is a scam. Clinique, Lancome, all that crap that is in the big department stores--I used to use it and lament the big bucks it cost me. I always came back to the drugstore brands, and later I was vindicated by Paula Begoun (author of Don't Go to the Cosmetics Counter without Me) . My eyelashes will never be without this product. I am vain; I know it and I'm not going to lie. This stuff is about $7.50 a tube. Sometimes Walgreen's puts it on sale for $4.50, or on a BOGO. I stock up like it's chocolate.

Bunnies. Cutest animals ever on a consistent basis. Whether they are full-grown or babies, bunnies are always cute. They are grossly underutilized in advertising media. I will never stop championing their cause. As a matter of fact, I may start putting a daily or weekly bunny in my sidebar until someone finally gives Bunnies Everywhere their due. Bunnies--Not Just For Easter Anymore.

Lay's Classic Potato Chips. This is the World's Most Dangerous Snack Food. I have been known to threaten severe bodily injury just for the folded ones.

Pilot's Precise V5/7 Rolling Ball Pen. Teachers everywhere know what a pain it is to find a perfect grading pen. This is it. It is smooth, fine, and does not tire after grading eleventy billion horrid essays about "How the Salem Witch Trials were a test of Puritanism." Plus, it has the added benefit of the little window in the barrel to (A) show the level of ink and (B) allow you to tell a student that it is filled with the blood of former Creative Writing II students.

Project Runway. I hate reality television on principle because it isn't reality. I mean, how many times are you ever stuck on an island or dared to eat pig testicles or paired up to samba with a has-been prizefighter? Exactly. But Bravo TV's Project Runway (aka PJR) is a creative show full of talented young designers who have to cobble together clothes that show their design point of view within a shockingly short time limit and with a new challenge each week. It also forces very disparate personalities to work closely together, and this is fun to watch. Add to that the fact that I love to listen to gay guys snipe at people and critique fashion, and I'm in heaven every Wednesday at 10 PM EST. One designer recently eliminated actually quipped, "Life is too short to have on a bad outfit." Words to live by.

I'll be watching the Interwebs closely for all of your endorsements, DoN readers. Isn't Democracy wonderful?