So Much On My Mind That It's Criminal

In 2013 the Oxford Dictionaries Word of the Year was selfie, the photo taken of one by oneself with a smartphone or webcam and usually shared via social media. That same year, a runner-up was binge-watching. I do not do the former, but I have done the latter, and I have done it often. Selfies always make me look terrible and I hate them. I look tired, old, and as if I have an enormous face. Binge-watching has never done me a bit of harm; that is, until today.

First, a bit of exposition. Some of you may recall that the Dept. gave up cable quite a while ago, and now we live on regular broadcast digital and a Roku, which brings us Jared's Netflix. I've found that I really don't miss anything, especially now that I've found a few new shows to watch. One of them has an actor whose character I like, and it has turned into a Mini-Obsession of sorts, especially now that Daniel Day-Lewis has retreated back into the Gaping Void Of His Creative Space And Marriage. Anyway, the show is Criminal Minds, the character is Dr. Spencer Reid, and the actor is Matthew Gray Gubler.

Here he is with sunglasses and the tously hair, and a little bit of a five o'clock shadow happening.

He's a fan of the messy-haired, but kind of  "Just got off the soccer field, but it won't take me long to get cleaned up before we go out" look.



He's got kind of a "Daniel Day-Lewis Meets Johnny Depp Meets Rob Lowe" thing going on, and I like it.

His character is very awkward and nerdy, however, and brilliant, of course, and he gets debilitating migraines.  (Aha! say all my Readers.) The big thing is, of course, his looks. He has quite a few of the Necessaries: 1. Pretty 2. Longer Hair 3. Slender 4. Great Mouth.

Sigh.

Good Heavens. If he had a British accent, I'd be in tears every time I watched that show.

But I digress.

I had no negative side effects, as I said before, from binge-watching Criminal Minds with MGG in the past, even though it is a terribly and horrifically violent and bloody show. (Honestly, I have no idea how I am able to watch it. It's truly sickening.) The past few days, however, I have watched it a lot. A LOT. There were some episodes that I hadn't even seen before, and last night I watched very late into the night.

But I still woke up early to take the Prius in to get some recall work and an oil change. The place had generously provided all kinds of coffees and teas and some doughnuts. I had a bottle of water. I was playing against my Maryland friend Leanne in Words with Friends on my phone to pass the time. Suddenly, the elderly lady to my left took an absolutely enormous bite out of her jelly doughnut. Huge red clots dropped down through her fingers and onto her pants. My stomach lurched just a little. She grabbed her napkins and began wiping, wiping, wiping, trying so hard to get rid of the evidence of what had happened. The whole napkin was stained with red now. My stomach felt a little queasy, so I looked away and tried to get Lady Macbeth's famous speech out of my head. I turned toward the television and took a sip of water.

On the screen were obscenely large slabs of raw, red meat. The chef (Bobby Flay) selected a long steel knife and carefully sliced away several cuts. The sound was muted, so all I heard was a service tech, who was explaining something to another woman sitting across from me. As the knife continued slicing, I heard, "We didn't find him in there, no, but we found evidence that he'd been there, all right. There was some hair, some shavings, and some other things all balled up. Those kinds of things can clog up the works pretty well. The harsh winter brings them out, and then they need to find a place to hide out and stay warm." Horrified, I was glad to hear the jingle that told me it was my turn to play a word. I played lye for a decent amount of points, then glanced back up at the television. Big chunks of raw meat were being ground up, and then, a quick cut to shots of sloppy burgers dripping with ketchup. My stomach clenched, and I frowned, suddenly suspicious.

I began to observe the staff as they bustled around, smiling at every single person they encountered. No one came near a door without one of Them opening it for the person to walk through. They were so obsequious and eager that it was creepy. Just what kind of place was this? Why were all the people in the waiting room women? Was I the only one who couldn't hear the TV? And why did it take so long for my iPhone to connect to their free WiFi?

But these were questions for another time.  My car was done, and I had to go.  They held the doors open for me, and waved me out, smiling all the time.

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I'm Melting, Melting...And A Little Of My Brain Is Leaking Out

After sixteen consecutive days of rain, we have had approximately eleventy thousand days of temperatures of ninety and above with tropical humidity.  I find myself dopey and numbed by Air Conditioned Cabin Fever.  When I venture out, it feels like I am trudging through a bowl of soup. 

It's abusive.

Very few things make sense, and those things that do are:  trekking across to the neighboring town to go stand in my sister Susan's swimming pool; going barefoot; taking care of my herb garden; watering; and overfilling the fishpond so that Frigidaire-Ziploc and Tina don't cook.

Nothing of value is rattling around in my head, but a few clutterbits are clogging things up, so I'll dump them out and see if you want to pick at them.

1.  Accidental Art:  Rick is Old-Skool about his cellphone, and he wears it clipped to his belt.  Sometimes, it rotates and, when he bends or reaches and, er...laps over a bit, he somehow manages to inadvertently take a picture.  This happened a lot more with his old phone, and he once took an entire movie while he played golf, including the part where he stopped suddenly and said, "Wait!  Do you hear something?  Like something is running, sort of?"  Here is Rick's latest impromptu photo:

 

 

I believe this was snapped as he got out of the Prius at the Angola exit/rest stop on I-90 on our way to Canada.  It was our only stop, and I see a Red Roof Inn sign up there in the background.  This never happens to me.  I keep my phone in my little red Italian purse.  I told Rick he should start a tumblr.blog of these pictures.  Sadly, there are a lot.

 

2.  Tweets For Salvation:  I have been torturing my Catholic sister about this already.  Pope Francis is offering a reduced time in Purgatory for any Catholic who follows him on Twitter.  Holy crap--literally.  What a racket.  What's become of the Catholic Church that I left years ago?  First the Mass stopped being in Latin, then they allowed a bunch of folk guitar music, then everyone had to shake hands in the middle of things, now this!  It's not that easy, however; "to obtain indulgences over the internet or otherwise, believers would first have to confess their sins, offer prayers and attend Mass."  But...isn't that what practicing Catholics do anyway?  Further clarification is offered by  Archbishop Claudio Maria Celli, head of the pontifical council for social communication.  “You can't obtain indulgences like getting a coffee from a vending machine,” he told an Italian newspaper.  (But pretty much like that.)

 

3.  No Frills:  Quite some time ago, Rick and I got rid of cable TV.  We had Time Warner, and it was awful.  I mean, Awfully Awful and in every single way you could enumerate.  Here's the verdict:  We do not miss anything but CNN and MSNBC.  We went to an HD antenna (this one), and really, we have never looked back.  Each day, I look in my sacred Plain Dealer to see what is on cable, and I have yet to sigh, "Ohhh, if we only had cable!"  We have use of Jared's Netflix, and we are reveling in "The West Wing."  So good!  So smart!  And, sadly, still so current.

 

There.  Empty again.  And outside, ninety again.  Humid again.  Horrid again.  I'm off to the grocery store for a few key foodstuffs (shrimp, flatbread, pasta, steaks--all sale items!), then it's pool time again!  Now that I think about it, not too terrible after all.

 

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In Which I Revisit Parallel Parking As Well As Visit With My Mother, Bash Social Networking, And Provide More Insight Into republicans, Royalty, And Fashion

My Spring Break is pretty much over, and while I am always glad to be At Home rather than At Work, the weather was rainy and awful most of the time, rendering me a Cat-hair covered mushbrain.  But, okay.  At least I have a few Cranial Clots to share, however chaotic they may be.

Dodging raindrops one day, I had to go to a Government Office.  As if that was not bad enough, I had to parallel park.  Which I failed when first taking my driver's test.  (About eleventy hundred years ago.) Verdict:  I still suck at it.  But this time, I find that I don't care.

My son Jared is still trying to get me to start a Twitter account.  (Oh, quelle horreur!)  "Mom!" he commanded earlier this week.  "Your Twitter feed would be amazing.  Seriously.  All my friends already said they would follow you."  Oh. Boy. Jared is in his twenties.  And...so are his friends.  This is pretty illustrative as to why I don't have a Twitter account and do not get me started on Facebook.  Also, I have now typed the word Twitter way more times than I have ever wanted to in my entire life; ditto Facebook.

I was not in the least bit surprised when browsing The Huffington Post's website and, coming across this headline Depression at Work:  10 Careers with High Rates of Depression, to find Number 6.  I didn't see Real Estate Developer/Mogul/Sideshow Barker/Closet Racist in there, nor did I see State Representative/Homophobe/History Revisionist/Clueless Idiot.  Among other things. They're just as happy as...well...they can be.  Ignorance is bliss, as Thomas Gray said.

Okay, now here's a thing.  Imagine, just for the hell of it, that Alfred E. Newman and The Angel of Death could have a child.

Did you?  Because if you did, here's who it would be:               





That's Scotty McCreery from "American Idol"

Finally, even if you could try, there was no way to escape The! Royal! Wedding! What a bigass load of hoopla that all was. I just have two things to say. First, if I were the Queen of England, hell be damn sure I would announce way ahead of time what colour I was wearing and Officially Prevent everyone else from wearing it. I mean, I Am The Queen. OF ENGLAND. If I want to wear a buttercup yellow ensemble, no one else--sitting in close proximity of me, nonetheless!--is wearing that colour. Forget that.  Second, why does the Queen always carry that handbag around? What does she need a purse for at the wedding? Or ever, for that matter?  My mother was at my house yesterday morning, and we were watching a recap of The Royal Wedding, and we had this brief chat:

Me:  What is up with the Queen always carrying a purse?

Patsy:  I don't know, but she always does.

Me:  What does she need it for? Especially at a wedding. Just stick a hanky in her glove. Or have her husband carry one for her.

Patsy:  I know.

Me:  Holy crap, Mom. She's the queen! Whenever Rick and I go anywhere, the first thing I ask him is "do I have to take my purse?" What the heck does she have in there, the launch codes?"

Patsy:  Well, she's what, over 80, so maybe she carries her Poise pads in there. (laughs)

Oh, one last thing about the Royal Wedding.

Never.

How Can This Be Only February? My Tragi-Meter Points To At Least Late March, And Self-Pity Springs Eternal

Sorry to take issue with T.S. Eliot, but I'm here--barely--to tell you that it's February that is the Cruellest Month. When the weather chick gets breathless announcing that we'll climb into the mid-twenties (!!), you know things have reached Maximum Suckage And Holding.

As a result, I'm scattered and fragmented and In The Slough Of Despair, and even Walt Whitman can't lift me this time. (Especially to hear him droned and desecrated by disengaged juniors who, unless Walt has, like, a MyTwitFace presence, really, like, has, like, nothing to say, like, what page is it on again?)

Yet, I press on. Allow me to shake loose a few clingy clutterbits from my random-bin, and we'll see if anything entertains.

+:+The snow, my lord, the snow. There was absolutely nowhere else to put it, and the driveway had two inches of ice on it. Yesterday, the temperature skyrocketed to almost 40, and I was able to go outside and actually look around a little before getting into the car, which prompted this dialogue as I walked near the side of the garage:
Rick: (nonchalantly) Oh, by the way. I hit the garage over there with the snowblower.
Nance: (surveys damaged area, eyes widening, mouth agape) Oh my god! Why...well...what on earth did you expect me to...do with this...information?
Rick: (calmly, not looking at her) Process it and try to move on. And when it gets nicer out, remind me to replace those pieces of siding.
Nance: (staring at him as if he just landed on the planet) What?! Are you...? Do we even have those pieces of the siding?
Rick: (already in the car) Of course.

+:+ Somehow, Piper and Marlowe are...well, fat. On just dry cat food and water. Do not laugh. I am beyond distraught about this, and I have put them on A Diet. I bought diet cat food, and I only feed them twice a day, the recommended amount each time. No table food, and the treats they get are only 2 calories each, and they do not get them every day. Needless to say, they are Very Unhappy, and Marlowe lets me know. Often. Equally distressing is our daily session of Forced Active Play. Piper's idea of playing is to lie there and watch Marlowe play. "Wow," he seems to be saying, "that is a lot of moving around that you are doing over there." He might roll over if a toy comes near him and then bat it with his paws, and sometimes he might stroll interestedly after the laser dot, but not much beyond that. Marlowe is much more athletic, which is due, in part, to her constant and flagrant disregard for the No Cats On Counters rule. And now that she is STARVING, she is up there all the time. A couple of days ago, my brain now turned to mush by School And Snow, The Deadly Combination, I uttered this memorable admonition to her when I found her hungrily scrounging in the (clean) kitchen sink:
"Marlowe! Look at you! Get out of that sink! What are you, some kind of animal?"

+:+ Speaking of felines, Sam's new kitten Madden may have been misnamed. Kaeleigh, Sam's girlfriend, brought up the login screen for her online class and then left her laptop on the table to go get something she forgot. When she came back, Madden was waiting for her next to the computer. Kaeleigh picked up the computer, and in the login box was typed "ben." He still answers to Madden, though, so maybe it's his middle name.

+:+ Politicians have to stop saying that they trust or have faith in the wisdom of the American people. What in the hell gives them this sort of confidence when there is so much proof to the contrary? I can show you, real quick-like, 6 reasons not to have any faith at all in the collective wisdom of the average American: US Representative Michele Bachmann, Candidate Sarah Palin, television show Jersey Shore, spray cheese in a can, the re-election of Bush 43, tea party sign carriers. I could also add reality television and TLC network, really. Birthers. Kardashians. Comme des Garcons toe shoes. Make me stop. Hurry.

The winter is Endless. I can't concentrate on anything, and I have been reading the same book for eleventy weeks. It's good, but I can't read and comprehend right now. I have adult ADD. Or Seasonal ADD. Or, I am just crabby and fussy. Either way, I need...oh, crud. I don't know what I need. Be wonderful for me in Comments.

Happy New Year And Watch Your Back

It is New Year's Day. Rick, Nance, and eldest son Jared are gathered in the living room. Nance is tucked into the corner of her huge easy chair, encased in fleece. Rick is similarly relaxing in his chair and Jared, sprawled on the couch, is drinking Diet Pepsi and eating...something...again. On the television is a Lockup RAW marathon.

Me: Is this really all that's on?
Jared: (rolls eyes at me; speaks only to his father) Dad, if you were in prison, what gang would you join?
Rick: Wow. I don't know. Hmm. Let me think about it.
Me: Seriously? This is our New Year's Discussion?
Jared: (ignoring me completely) I'd probably join the Latin Kings. Yeah, that's the one.
Me: No way. They cut people too much. That's all they do is cut people.
Rick: Yeah, that's true. They're always in knife fights in these prisons.
Jared: (authoritatively) That's just the way they operate. Sometimes you have to cut you some bitches to show 'em you mean business.
Rick: They cut, like, five people a day.
Me: I get up early anyway. If I was in prison, I'd cut five bitches before breakfast.
That way, everybody would know to leave me the hell alone.
Jared: That's what I'm talkin' about, Mom!

Please Resist The Urge To Tell Me "Just Shut Up Already" In The Comments Section. (Remember The Thumper Rule)

If you can possibly stand it, I am going to blather on here and randomly dump all the Head Detritus that's clattering around in my cranium. It's terrible. Honestly, I think I'm at the mercy of so many awful cliches right now (and will someone, for the love of God, tell me how to put the little accent mark on the "e" in Blogger?) that I'm becoming somewhat sad and tragic. I believe I am pre-pre-menopausally hormonal; also that I am suffering from End-Of-Summer Angst; or that I am having a delayed Mid-Life Crisis; and, quite possibly, on the verge of becoming a Bit Of A Cat Lady if I'm not Very Very Careful.

(Some of you may have already noticed that, if I employ the Dash a bit more, I might also be in danger of becoming the Reincarnation of Emily Dickinson.) But--perhaps--I digress.

Next week, I go back to work at The Rock, such as it is. We are in the New Building, but let's face it: if you put leftover spaghetti in a silver bowl, it is still leftover spaghetti. Don't get me wrong, I teach with some of the best people ever and the students there can be a joy. But, realistically, a new building is not changing anything...for me. I can do my shtick in a cardboard box, if necessary. It will be lovely to have a floor with no holes, walls with no chipping plaster, air conditioning (provided that it works, for real), and an environment that speaks to learning rather than mere survival in some cases. But am I looking forward to The Grind again after three months off? No. Unpacking 33 boxes? No. Everything Else? I think you already know the answer.

I spoke about The West Wing in an earlier post, and I'm still watching and enjoying it. My sister used to have a big crush on Bradley Whitford, who played Josh Lyman. She said he had the sexiest walk. Same reason she had a brief thing for Travolta in his earliest days. ( Her big thing was for Patrick Swayze, though. Seriously.) Whitford is in a new show now, and when the previews came on, I didn't recognize him. He looks like some icky stereotype of a small-time PI or liquor store owner with a shady side. It makes me feel bad.

Also making me feel bad: my tomatoes this year are not producing; I'm not paying much attention to my herb garden; we did not mulch the back or front beds; I'm not seriously addressing my Marshmallowyness; I did not get ruthless and clean out the basement crap again this summer. Sigh. I guess this means I'm still not going to heaven.

Best things I did this summer: Get the Kittens. Learn to make refrigerator pickles. Completely relax. Give myself a break. Learn to use the digital camera. Get gently forceful with my stylist about layering my hair more around my face, please. Read the new Emily Dickinson biography. Take all the accumulated change to Coinstar. (Sidenote: How insane is it that BANKS DO NOT HAVE COIN-COUNTING MACHINES? I called both my banks, where I have banked for eleventy hundred years, and both of them said, "Oh, no, sorry. We do not have a coin-counting machine at any of our banks. It all has to be rolled and you have to put your name and phone number on every roll." FORGET THAT BULLSHIT. It was worth it to me to take my two hundred pounds of mixed change to a Coinstar machine and pay them a small percentage.) Go to my neurologist, talk things over, and get my migraine meds readjusted. Zip up to Niagara-on-the-Lake, stay at our favourite inn, visit our friends from Cattail Creek Winery, and also get some more great wines at other places we love. Spend afternoons at my sister Susan's where I swam in her pool and spent time with my mother and my other sister Patti. Take advantage of fresh produce from local farmstands.

Can we talk about My Kittens? Just a Little Bit? I will miss them terribly when I go back to work. I admit that I am a Little Bit Worried about how they will adapt. After all, they're used to having me around pretty much all the time, and we have a very nice routine. They have incredibly distinct personalities, as most pets do develop, and I enjoy them immensely. Naturally, they are The Most Wonderful Kittens In The Whole World, even when Marlowe (the adventurous diva one) can't seem to stay off the kitchen counter when we are not looking (despite being squirted from The Discipline Bottle), and Piper (the affectionate frisky one) plants himself on my or Rick's pillow at daybreak and proceeds to bite at our heads and try to claw our hair out (just playing, of course). They've both grown considerably since you've seen them last. They're healthy and happy and playful. I just happen to have a picture.

Sigh. I know. Despite the fact that he has to curl up about ten times, Piper (the Disembodied Head) loves to sleep in that shoebox. Those two are, as the old cliche goes, thick as thieves. (By the way, I got those shoes at Target--before the boycott--for way cheap on sale.) They're constantly together.

When Jared and Sam (now out and living on their own) come over, they love to spend time with Marlowe and Piper. They are, however, a little concerned that Mom is perhaps a little...er...overinvolved with All Things Kitten. Consider:

Scene opens in livingroom. Nance and Rick are sitting in easy chairs. Sam, 22, over for a visit and to retrieve some things, is observing the kittens playing in the dining room.

Sam: Does Piper like that old Matchbox car I gave him?

Nance: He loves it! And Marlowe never plays with it at all. Must be a Boy Thing.

Sam: I guess.

Nance: (face lights up) Oh! And did I tell you? I'm teaching The Kittens to be bilingual!

Sam: (staring) What?

Nance: Bilingual. I'm teaching The Kittens to be bilingual.

Sam: (slowly turns his gaze to Rick on opposite chair, then back to Nance) No. You didn't. What language?

Nance: Spanish. Watch this. (To Piper) Piper! Donde esta su carro verde?

(Piper looks at Nance briefly, then resumes what he was doing, which was not playing with the green Matchbox car.)

Sam: (shakes head, then, to Nance) You really need to go back to work.

Except, I really don't want to.

If You Celebrate Christmas In July And Have A LOT Of Disposable Income, Put Me On Your Gift List. If Not, Help Cast The Latest Film!

Oh, where to begin? I am filled with longing and revulsion, nostalgia and anticipation, regret and satisfaction. How could these diametrically opposed sensations all coexist in me at once? I can answer you with one simple reply:

The West Wing.

Please tell me that you were a fan of this show, this Washington, D.C. politics-fest, walk-and-talk brainfood series of 154 episodes that won multiple Emmys and ran for 7 years (1999-2006). This show was Destination Television for me all of those years, and believe me, it took me probably three years to get my mother trained NOT TO CALL ME on Wednesday nights at 9:00, or she would hear me say this when she said Hello and right before I hung up: "Mom, are you kidding? It's time for The West Wing. Goodbye."

Yes, I am serious.

Watching The West Wing made me wistful for a Bartlet presidency. I wanted a President that smart, that passionate, and that much of a great US historian. I wanted that kind of a committed staff in the White House. And when that show went off the air, I was downright bereft. There's never been another show quite like it, and I haven't seen many of the cast members do much of note since. It's as if they know that anything after that would be quite a comedown.

I started thinking about The West Wing when my sister Patti casually mentioned that Bravo network was rerunning it weekday mornings. Not helpful for those of us who work every weekday morning, but this summer, I managed to catch a few episodes here and there in between KittenOlympics and other summertime things. Then it fell off my radar until I saw this little news tidbit regarding the movie treatment of (John Edwards campaign manager) Andrew Young's book The Politician. Aaron Sorkin--the writing genius behind The West Wing--has decided to adapt and possibly direct the film. As much as I hate to have Democratic Dirty Laundry aired on the page and/or silver screen, I am glad to have this slimeball's true nature exposed. I was one of the many who was blithely taken in by Candidate John Edwards, I'm ashamed to say, so I'll be interested to see the development of this movie as well as its final cut.

And, I am already starting to cast the lead. My first thought to play John "Rev. Dimmesdale" Edwards was Robert Sean Leonard (most recently Dr. James Wilson of the television drama House.) But today, after catching two episodes of The West Wing, and falling in love all over again with one of my Original Crushes, I'm not so sure that Rob "I Am So Pretty" Lowe can't do it. Here's a Casting Triptych of sorts, for your perusal. What do you think?

Or, failing either of those two, who would you cast? (I tried to find one of RSL looking suitably prayerful, but alas! Not successful.)

Now I am obsessing over The West Wing, and guess what? TFB, as they say. The price tag for 154 episodes is...well, pricey! And I broke up with Netflix last summer when, er...economics dictated a few changes around the Dept. Not being one to watch telly on the computer, (Rick had to get a new laptop, and it does not use the magic Hulu cable-to-tv-hookup that his other one did), I'll just have to suck it up and catch a few random episodes here and there to get My Fix.

Sigh. Another one of Life's Little Tragedies. How ever do I manage?

Why Is Television Making My Life So Hard? This Isn't Rocket Science, People! It's T.V.

Not so long ago, I admitted my sad, pathetic albeit somewhat passive Television Addiction and, although it has not waned, it has become a little bit more...discerning. I have broken up with a vast number of television shows that have cavalierly betrayed me, and I have dismissed innumerable Food Network chefs who have sullied their toques by stooping to the Meals In Minutes fad or worse, the shamefest of the PTA Cookbook/Internet recipe. (If I wanted to just slop together something from canned soup, Minute Rice, grocery store chicken, and frozen peas, what do I need to watch a chef for?)

But I digress.

With all the "choices"--and I use the term oh-so-very loosely here--that we have as Television Viewers, one would think that the various Purveyors Of Television would get their act together and be a little less flippant about how they present their offerings. I've already wailed and gnashed my teeth about the unreliability of the television schedule/Local TV Listings; this time I want to bitch about and lament the misleading names of the various cable networks themselves. For instance:

A&E: Initially, this network was termed "Arts and Entertainment." How far it has fallen! Now the A and E apparently stand for "Apprehension and Enforcement." Gone are the biographical films of famous authors and artists; their lineup now consists of shows like Dog the Bounty Hunter, Criminal Minds, and Steven Seagal: Lawman. When did this network change its mission? And if you go to their website, you can't even find the words "Arts & Entertainment" anywhere. They know, at least. They know. Hey, A&E! Relaunch! Put it out there and call it what it is. Maybe C&P--Crime and Punishment Network. But...what would they do with Hoarders?

Lifetime: Okay, here's my issue. Lifetime calls itself "Television for Women." Its website's mission statement contains a lot of posturing about how it is committed to celebrating, supporting, and entertaining women. But, holy crap, have you ever surfed around and hit on that station and glimpsed a Lifetime Movie? Invariably, that movie shows a woman in prison, a woman being beaten, a woman being raped, a woman crying, or a woman held hostage in a home invasion or something. Yikes. Now, I think I can safely say that, as a woman, I am part of Lifetime's target demographic. I don't think, however, that I feel supported, celebrated, or entertained by any of that. If it weren't for Project Runway, I'd be calling my cable provider about putting a block on old Lifetime. It sounds more like television for sickos.

Mtv: Allow me to show my advanced age here, and those of you with grey hairs are with me already. The "M" in Mtv stands for MUSIC. Why is it, then, that there is absolutely no music played on this network? When this station first aired, it was an all-music video venue. It was, quite simply, MUSIC + TELEVISION. As in, you could watch your music. What happened to my Mtv? Now it's a cesspool of stupid, inane, low-wattage reality shows with such illuminating titles as Sixteen and Pregnant, Sloppy Ho's, and Disaster Date. Time for the "M" to be changed to an "R"; it can stand for Rejects, Ridiculous, Remedial...oh, any number of far more descriptively accurate adjectives.

TLC: The Learning Channel has a real identity crisis. Like A&E, you're hard-pressed to find what TLC stands for on their website, which is as much a hodge-podge of...stuff as their network is. What, exactly, are we supposed to learn? Well, gosh! All kinds of junk! We can learn about hoarders on TLC, too, along with What Not To Wear, cake decorators, strange sex, cops, toddlers in beauty pageants, tattoo artists, and "little people"--whether they make chocolate or not. But, just so you don't think that TLC isn't truly about learning, they also include a small widget on their sidebar called "How Stuff Works"! Hey, thanks, TLC! Learning is fun! TLC needs to get real with itself. It's not about learning at all. It's all about rubbernecking. You know it and I know it. People tune in to watch Jon and Kate crash and burn, to watch the overly-tattooed people look freakish, to watch the obliviously scary mothers doll up their toddlers a la Jon Benet Ramsey and hawk them like prostitutes down the runway. It's the Voyeur Channel. The Trainwreck Network. (Help me here, Readers--I know there's a good one out there....)

Plenty of people tell me that they just don't watch television anymore. What with the endless commercials, availability of Hulu and other online outlets for their favorite shows, and the DVDs of entire series, they just don't bother. Still more tell me that they simply aren't interested; they do other things with their time. Not me. After a long day of Teen Wrangling at The Rock, I enjoy blobbing out in my big chair with my blankie, letting myself be entertained, even if it's somewhat mindlessly. I have to be able to shut it all down--all of it--and some TV time lets me do that. And if I get to look at Hugh Laurie or laugh at the same episode of The Office that I've seen a million times or appreciate the good writing of a new show that's funny and smart (for a change!) while forgetting a particularly tough day at school, then I'm good. Real good with that.

If Television Is Going To Be My Life, Then I'm Going To Get A Hell Of A Lot More Out Of It: The Birth Of DoNTV

So much about my television viewing habits has begun to concern me. No, really, it has. Isn't it bad enough that I make a point to separate the TV Section from the rest of the Sunday paper and keep it on the coffee table so that I can refer to it daily? That I shriek like a martinet if anyone even looks like he is going to set a Pepsi can or beer or wineglass upon it, thus rendering it unreadable?

No. It is not. For it gets even Worse.

Friday night is "Hulu Night." Rick hooks up a cable from his laptop to the television and, after our lovely dinner, we spend the evening watching the shows we missed because (A)we were busy, (B) we were rendered comatose by our pathetic lives, or (C)they were on at the same time as another show we also like to watch.

I know. Just shoot me now. I am only fifty. I should still be out doing exciting things like...oh, not knowing the names of all of the contestants left on Top Chef and Project Runway. It's clear that I have a Problem.

Sometimes, just for fun, I like to read from the TV section the little plot blurbs about the shows aloud to Jared. I love those little summaries. I often wonder who writes them and how I would go about getting that gig. Some of them are unintentionally hilarious, especially if I don't watch the show. This one, for a new show called the forgotten, (lower case is apparently required), cracks me up: "A dead John Doe left beaten on the street leads the team into the world of professional football." OKAY! Also merry is this one for Dirty Jobs, especially if you read it with a real happy voice: "Mike travels to Miami to recover and crush abandoned boats and then heads to San Francisco to recover old mattresses!" HOORAY!

Today, I was reading a few out loud for giggles when I came upon the blurb for the now-tragic show Jon & Kate Plus 8. I'm sure we all know the sad soap opera behind that reality show, but that's not what I want to chat about. What I want to chat about is how this is a show: "An expert helps guide the family in an attempt to organize their basement." Okay, huh? Seriously? I mean, I get how herding a bunch of similar-looking kids as they toss toys at each other and an anal-retentive mom attempts to make sense of it all while reining in her OCD might be sort of fascinating--for about ten minutes--but really? A WHOLE SHOW?

The more I thought about it, the more irked I got because I knew damned well that the show paid for this Basement Organization By A Trained Professional. How fair is this?

So, here's the deal, America (or at least the minute percentage of America which reads the Dept.). I would like to, in one fell swoop, take care of my Television Problem and several of my...Other Problems by having My Own Show. I'll call it DonTV. I will ink a deal similar to the Jon & Kate deal as far as budget. Here are some of my blurbs:

*An expert guides the Dept. in an attempt to organize their basement.

*Nance decides to hire an expert to help guide her in selecting a new wardrobe, complete with shoes.

*Frustrated by her sons' inability to fledge from the nest, Nance hires an expert to help guide her and Rick in an attempt to get them to move out into an apartment and live on their own.

*Rick and Nance hire an expert to help guide them in the redecoration of their home.

And finally, the season cliffhanger will be

*Upon retirement from teaching, Nance hires an expert to guide her in the search for her new residence in a warmer and more Democratic-leaning part of the country.

Oh, I like it. All I need is the right network. What do you think?

I've Got A Few Proposals (As Usual), But Still The Government Refuses To Let Me Make Americans' Lives Better.

Wow. This has not been The Summer of Nance as I had planned and hoped and wished it would be. After last summer being tres crappy due a frustrating litany of pain-therapy-pseudo-rotator cuff surgery-that wasn't, and having to put EmilyCat down, I vowed that the Summer of 2009 would be a self-indulgent Seasonal Romp Of Nanceness. Forget it. The lousy economy has hit the dept. as it has many other NE Ohio households, let's just put it that way.

I spend an inordinate time puttering around the yard, and when that's done, I plop in front of the television.

Are all of you aware that there is, literally, nothing on television during the summer?

Clearly, this is the next problem that the dept. of nance is needed to tackle. Despite changing my blog's tagline, I am still ready and willing to become a nonpartisan government department that will take on Any Urgent Issue and solve it with all alacrity, civility, and common sense. I firmly believe that American Television has become just such an Issue.

I already have a very simple plan that has been motivated, in part, by recent events. (And by "events," I mean, of course, "celebrity deaths.") Certainly I am sympathetic to the delicate nature of these passings. It would seem, however, that I am in the minority, judging by the barrage of news reports, "in memoriam specials," re-airing of past interviews, and constant on-the-spot reporter segments from hospitals, mansions, impound lots, you-name-its since Thursday, 25 June. It has clogged the airwaves and pre-empted what little programming there is. And, not to be crass, but celebrities just keep dying. That phenomenon, plus some other television proclivities I've noticed, have led me to make the following Proposals.

PROPOSAL I. The All Tribute Channel. (I was going to call it "The All Death Channel", but that was a bit much, I realized, even for me.) This channel could be reserved for all the celebrity memorial documentaries, interviews, autopsy report tracking, custody battle information, funeral red carpets, etcetera. That way, it doesn't dominate the rest of the channels, and the morbid amongst us can get their fill.

PROPOSAL II. The All Law and Order Channel. Okay. You all know how I feel about Mariska Hargitay. And I fell in love with Sam Waterston back when he played Nick Carraway in the film version of The Great Gatsby, and I love him still. But there are now approximately, by my last count, eleventy hundred spinoffs of Law and Order. And they are on thirty-five cable channels at virtually any hour of every day. Let's get organized, people! Put them on one channel, period. Sheesh! Not. That. Hard!

PROPOSAL III. Stick To A Schedule. How hard is this? There is absolutely no rhyme nor reason to what is going on, ever, on any given night on television. Last Tuesday, there may have been one show on; this Tuesday, there may be a feature-length film in that very same time slot. Perhaps the newspaper's television grid is correct; more often, it is not even close to being accurate. In despair, I flip to the Cleveland Indians baseball game to watch this last-place team lose yet another game. Or, to the Chicago affiliate to watch the Cubs destroy my life.

Are there any GLIMMERS OF HOPE? Yes. We here at the dept. love to indulge in what we term The Smartest Shows On Television. In no particular order they are:
1. Wipeout
2. I Survived A Japanese Game Show
3. The Big Bang Theory

(Sadly, watching Meet the Press makes me sad now. David Gregory is just terrible. Terrible. And have you noticed his awful, awful tie and shirt combinations? What happened, David Gregory? Why did you do this to me after I championed your cause so fervently? )

Anyway, present your Proposals in comments, and I'll see what I can do. Oh, and if you've got any good new nonfiction titles to pass along, do. I'm completely without reading material as well. There's just nothing to read out there! (When will Doris Kearns Goodwin write the definitive Mary Lincoln biography for me? When?)

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

I've become so disillusioned with so many television shows over the past year or two. So many favorites have let me down, and hard. It's difficult when you've become invested in a character and he gets killed off, or a plotline suddenly veers off unexpectedly and "jumps the shark." Or even a nightly lineup gets shuffled around, and there goes "Destination Television!" Sometimes, the network simply cancels a show right out from under you. It's bitter, so bitter. But this time, I have to do all the dirty work myself. I have to break up with someone who I used to enjoy spending time with. I liked her down-to-earth chatter and her no-nonsense but still good food. I'd come home from school, change into my comfies, grab something to drink, and plop on the couch and spend a half hour with down-home Butter Goddess, Paula Deen.

But not anymore.

Now Miss Paula has joined the ranks of Giada DeLaurentiis and Sandra Lee as my Armageddon Brigade of Kitchen Idiots. I cannot stand to watch any of them, even to sit and constantly criticize, snipe, harp at, and malign them as they "cook."

Here, therefore, is my open Dear Paula Breakup Letter to Miss Deen. Sigh.

Dear Miss Paula,

Believe me, it pains me deeply to have to write you this letter. For years, I watched you faithfully and enjoyed you immensely. How fearlessly you tossed stick after stick of butter into every recipe! How your Holy Trinity remained Butter, Mayonnaise, and Canned Creamed Soups despite our nation's Obesity Epidemic. I defended your folksy southern pronunciations: "spatchler" for spatula; "awl" for oil. I even overlooked your use of "cheese" as a verb, as in "Y'all can wait for the last fifteen minutes to cheese your casserole", meaning "to top with cheese." I simply grinned indulgently when you constantly looked obliviously into the camera as you massaged oil into a cut of pork and said rapturously, "Y'all know how I like to rub my meat." I simply ignored your use of the term "tin foil" even though foil has not been made of tin for...well, EVER.

But when your popularity began to soar in the past couple of years, something happened. You began to market your Countrified Schtick Personality. And magnify it. Suddenly, your accent became more pronounced. Down-Home Expressions peppered your commentary like Cajun seasoning. You got another show, Paula's Party, and on it you acted like a Saturday Night Live actor doing an extreme caricature of you. On crack. And Spanish Fly.

And then there was the crap you started making on your regular show.

I think one recipe says it all: Cheesy Ham and Banana Casserole. Good Heavens. The title alone is gut-wrenching, but the ingredient list (deli ham, bananas, bacon, cheese, potato chips, and, for that little je ne sais quois, nutmeg) is enough to set anyone off on a vegan and Luddite lifestyle. Urk.
At the risk of losing readers--and my own gastric wellbeing--here is a picture:
What were you thinking? Were you hoping for instant inclusion in The Gallery of Regrettable Food?

In any case, it's over between us. I can't have any self-respect and go on watching you, and I can't have any love for food and go on watching what you do to it. Goodbye, Paula Deen, goodbye.

Moving on to Anne Burrell,

Nance

The Nance Show

It is almost time for the cable bill to come, and that means it is almost time for Rick to sigh heavily and say to Jared, Sam, and me, "This is ridiculous. This much just to watch television?!" Naturally, that is our cue to defend our Pet Channels so that the Budgetary Axe of Death does not fall:

Jared: Life without ESPN, ESPN2, or FSNOhio is not a life I want to live. Are you really prepared to have that on your conscience?
Me: I have to have the Food Network. We've gone over this a hundred times.
Sam: What's this now?

Shortly after that, I also remind him that the cable bill also represents our internet connection. He mumbles something from behind his laptop and proceeds to ignore us for the rest of the evening. He forgets that the majority of his surfing and eventual stopping takes place on cable-provided programming, too. His television watching is just not nearly as interactive as mine is; therefore, it is quieter and not as noticeable.

I am, by nature, a chatty individual, and the fact that the television is supposedly a one-way entertainment device doesn't deter me in the least. I'm quite free with my comments, advice, and dialogue along with the program on the tv. As a matter of fact, Jared thinks I should have my own show something along the lines of Mystery Science Theater 3000, only with a cooking format.

Are you familiar with MST3K? It was a silly show hosted by a human and three robots who sat and watched really awful movies and kept up a running commentary--usually witty and critical--during the films. Sometimes they'd do alternative dialogue, too.

Well, instead of watching bad films, I'd watch the cooking shows of Food Network "stars" that I really dislike. I'd criticize and generally eviscerate them as they cooked, then do my own recipes after their segments. It wouldn't be hard. I already do it at home. There's nothing I like better after a hard day at school than coming home, changing out of my Mrs. D. clothes, kicking back on the couch with Jared and watching Everyday Italian with Giada de Laurentiis, who I simply cannot tolerate as a cook. She is, in a word, terrible. I unwind from my day by ripping her apart, from the fact that she cannot accurately estimate nor measure to her constant use of the word "perfect" and description of every single herb as "lemony." She is also the only Italian I know who refuses to cook generously or even enough. Her guests must have to stop at McDonald's on the way home from dinner at her house.

Anyway, after I got done blasting Giada (or Emeril or Tyler or whoever was on the hotseat that day--but never Paula Deen, NEVER MISS PAULA!) I would then cook a better and Nancer version of whatever dish they had completely screwed up.

Every so often, I might mix it up and have a segment on of the Food Network people I like. Like Alton Brown or Paula Deen or maybe one or two segments that I can tolerate of Michael Chiarello--when he's not saying the word "caramelize" every three seconds and demanding that we see him as a raging heterosexual. But I'd have to see how it goes.

And I'd never have a guest on. Because they might want to talk, too. And I'm just not up for that.

Last year on Dept of Nance: Guilty Pleasures

DoN Skews the Nielsen Ratings

This morning I stumbled upon The Brini Maxwell Show on The Style Network; I was trying to get myself off the couch and into the shower in order to face my day before noon, honest I was.

My husband and eldest son wandered in, and soon we were all watching, transfixed by the oddness of this show, hosted by a man in drag dressed in vintage 50-60s June Cleaveresque couture espousing hints for living the gracious lifestyle. My son shook his head. "I can always tell when Mom has the remote. It's guys in drag, Brits, or costume dramas."

I keep trying to think of the ultimate: something with all three.