Six Questions

 

Thank goodness for Ally Bean, who gave me something to write about. I'm not feeling particularly Thinky or Inspired lately, so I'm borrowing from her latest post in which she asks and answers some questions about herself. She chose ten from an interview that she read, and I'll see how far I get, depending upon how much I want to chat about each one. I've altered the wording of some questions to better suit my purposes. Let's go.

1. What is a character trait you most dislike in yourself?

Oh, just one? I am not as patient as I'd like. Many people are very surprised by this, especially knowing that I was a teacher for thirty years. Perhaps that's where I used it all up. I find myself always feeling impatient, as if I'm in a terrific hurry:  in the car; in the checkout line; doing tasks at home. I have no idea why. I'm rarely on a schedule or deadline. Fortunately, I rarely show my impatience, so few people even know. 

2. What is a character trait you most dislike in others?

Again, just one? I'd have to say Willful Ignorance. I have the hardest time with stupid people, and with stupid women especially. I get so tired of hearing about Undecided Voters in this election or people who say they don't ever watch the news because it's too depressing or people who say they don't vote because it doesn't matter anyway. I just want to light those people on fire. 

3. Describe yourself in three words.

Intelligent. Kind. Concerned.

4. What do you most dislike about your appearance?

The dreaded menopot/meno belly, that little belly that won't go away now, no matter what. If I hadn't grown up with weight issues, it probably wouldn't be such A Thing with me. Thanks to so much fixation on and bullying about my weight when I was a kid, it's something that has become ingrained. Even when I was ill and size 0 clothes hung on me, I didn't have a realistic perception of my appearance and looked for bulges. To this day, when I see my reflection or a photograph of me, I don't recognize myself; I have no real idea of what I look like. Other than that, I'm pretty happy about how I look, despite the signs of normal aging. I decided long ago that I'd age as gracefully as I could and not be a big baby about it.

5. If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would you choose?

Civility and decorum in the public square. I can pinpoint exactly when rudeness and disrespect took over our Politics, and no, it wasn't when the adjudicated rapist descended his golden escalator. It was the moment when republican representative from South Carolina, Joe Wilson, shouted "You lie!" at then-President Obama during a speech to a joint session of Congress. At first, the retribution was swift and strong:  both parties condemned the action; his own wife called him an idiot; he apologized. Later, however, he had a change of heart and fundraised off the moment, appealing to the worst elements of the party, a faction which has only grown stronger since then.

I'd also like to include in this what I call the Great Casualization Of America. I'm so tired of seeing people wearing pajamas and slippers in public. I hate seeing men wearing baseball caps in restaurants and anyone wearing flipflops or crocs unless they're gardening or boating or on the beach. I can only imagine what is being flipped and flopped up into my food or produce. America:  where khakis are the new tuxedo. Sigh. (And longtime readers know how I feel about feet. Ugh.)

I don't want to end on a low note, and this is getting longish, so let's do one more and leave it at that.

6. Who is your celebrity crush?

Oh, we've talked about this before. Actually, I just talked about this yesterday on Football Sunday over at Sam's house, a quieter affair since Jared, Jordan, and Theo weren't there. (Theo is growing so fast that they had to take the day to go buy him warm clothes.) Not only was there an ad for the new Dylan movie starring Timothee Chalamet, but the Browns were playing, so I could gaze at Myles Garrett. 

Nance:  Oh, Timothee Chalamet. He's just beautiful. And he does all the singing in this film.

Rick and Sam:  (no response; Rick is dozing; Sam is feeding Zydrunas some tortilla chips)

Nance:  You know, I'm old enough to be his Nana. Myles Garrett's, too. (sighs) I don't care. They're just beautiful to look at.

Sam:  Wait. If you could be their Nana, that means I could be...their DAD?! How could that work?

Nance:  They're 27. Their moms would have had to have them at like 19 or something. It has nothing to do with you right now. 

Sam:  Oh. Okay.

(Poor Sam--the Browns continue to look just awful this season. He cannot handle anything else during games.)

Now it's your turn. I can't wait to hear from you in Comments.

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G Is For Gallimaufry

Sigh. I know I'm almost cheating with this one. But G is proving to be a toughie for some reason, the greatest being that I am in a Terrible SAD Funk right now (Seasonal Affective Disorder). February always kicks me around pretty well, and trust me, I am bruised and battered.

And if One More Person says to me, "Hey, at least this winter has not been as bad as Last Year!" I will, with some Pleasantness, smack that Person right in the mouth.

Okay.

Onward, then! (She said brightly.)

This Week's Gallimaufry Of Miscellany

1. Shut Up Shut Up Shut Up. I would pay Actual Money if I could eliminate a Certain Name from all newscasting for the foreseeable future. Someone needs to invent this...this Thing wherein you could program your television and/or remote control to recognize words and immediately silence, bleep, or change them into a word you like better. Wouldn't that be so wonderful? I especially like that last option. I would change all mentions of a Certain Gameshow republican to Daniel Day-Lewis, a name I never tire of hearing. Or maybe something really cute, like Koala Ballerina. Can you imagine it? "In other news, Koala Ballerina, presumptive republican presidential nominee, has taken to Twitter to silence his critics." Or, "republican nominee Daniel Day-Lewis is hoping to meet with Pope Francis in order to put any perceived bitterness to rest."

2. Crazy Cat Lady. In my dining room right now are two boxes; I made a special trip to the warehouse club in order to procure them. They are tricked out, cut up, and otherwise Creatively Fashioned so that the cats will hopefully be interested in them and stop eating my iPhone and iPad charger cords. They are, basically, Busy Boxes For Cats. At any given moment, one of the cats is, instead, sleeping in them. Not sure if this is a Win.

3. Not In My House. We recently redid the home office. I opted for streamlined stuff, a camel/black/ivory colour scheme, and a mix of textures for the room. I did not, however, opt for this:

Someone get a pulse!

Lee Eun Kyoung's Free Hug Sofa. Thanks, but No.

(Even though it sounds like I could use a hug.)

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Adjusting The Waistband On My Cranky Pants

Yeah, yeah, I'm still here, someplace amid a mound of fleece blankets, fleece-lined spandex exercise pants, longsleeved tee, and fleece hooded sweatshirt. Welcome to Ohio, where we like to celebrate the coming of June by having temperatures in the forties overnight and the fifties during the day.

I wish I were kidding.

And let's make sure we add wind and rain in there. So that I can also run my furnace to dispel the damp.

Holy crap. I am hereby lodging a Formal Complaint. Can someone out there see that it gets to the Proper Authorities?

Yikes. Someone is, I fear, a Little Bit Crabby. And a little Snarked Out. Not quite Centered or At One With Her Zen. I'm too cheap to pay for therapy, and even though I could use my Dr. On Demand app and get a free introductory session, I'd rather use all of you. Will you be my therapist and listen to my Issues? Then you can counsel me in Comments, and we can all do likewise for you. Here we go.

::Where Is The Real News?:: What passes for News these days is no less than a farce. It's as if People magazine has taken over journalism. I can feel/hear Walter Cronkite and Edward R. Murrow spinning in their graves. Celebrity births, cutesy dog videos, and marginal events like charity drives and soldier homecomings are common stories on the national news (I'm looking at you, NBC Nightly News). Is there really nothing else occurring of note in the world, even in the realms of science, politics, government, technology, or finance?

::Is This Really Style?:: I sat (somewhat) stoically and quietly by while the Eighties neon colours came back into fashion, and I shut up a lot when everyone made a big deal out of the rope wedge, peasant blouses, and all the other crap that I used to wear back in the seventies as being so fresh and wonderful and Right Now On Trend. But there is No Way that I am sitting still for H&M selling this for $39.95 and even outright calling it The Mom Jean. It's a travesty. Worse yet is this assertion that the once-reviled, touristy and androgynous fanny pack is now de rigeur for all fashion mavens. Listen; the idea of being able to zip around on my errands without my purse hanging off my arm sounds like heaven to me, but if that comes at the expense of having a pelvis goiter, then no, No Thank You. I am old enough to remember the Playtex Girdle commercials and their admonishments about Midriff Bulge. I work hard not to have any Unsightly Bulges. The last thing I want is a Bulge that I paid for. (Oh, and for the record, I am still not wearing these. Certainly you can; I'm not judging.)

::Is This Real Life?:: In the next several months, it is expected that Donald "The Donald" Trump will announce his bid for the republican nomination for President. Of the United States. Where I live. Rather than be gleeful and entertained at this prospect, I am instead irked and irritated. Honestly, I'm not sure why. Probably because I know he's doing it just as an act of shameless self-promotion, and I'm annoyed that he's able to make such a mockery of a serious office to aggrandize and publicize himself and his empire. He's such a full-scale goofball that his own party will roll its eyes and sigh a lot, but the media will give him a ton of coverage and that's going to be excruciating.

::Real Quick-like:: How much do I need to care about the following things? Right now, I don't care about them at all even though they seem to be Everywhere: Game of Thrones, McDonald's "new" menu, Pinterest (I still don't get it), Sepp Blatter, Kelly Ripa's cleanse, the crazy Tasman Peninsula Dusky Antechinus, Windows 10, and Rand Paul. I will say that I find the name Sepp Blatter to be absolutely terrific. It belongs in the novel Cold Comfort Farm or perhaps something by Flannery O'Connor. Imagine:

"This here guy'll hep ya," said the cop, and he spat dryly into the street. He was indicating a slight, overall-wearing man who was ambling somewhat crookedly around the corner. "Name's Sepp Blatter. Owns the farm up the road. Has all kindsa equipment. He can getcha out." The officer raised his voice and called sharply, "Sepp! C'mon over here'n talk to this guy! He needs a tow." He pitched his voice lower and leaned in a little. "Now here's a little advice, 'n it's free. Sepp don't care much about money, but he ain't stupid neither. Them Blatters ain't livin' high up there, so make sure you offer him somethin' for his troubles. Do it up front, too." The officer winked broadly. "Get whatcha pay for that way."

*****

My session is over; your turn in Comments.

pants in image for sale here

On Luncheon: A Word Of Advice To Those Hampered By Celebrity

Astonishingly enough, my now-frequent luncheons out have gone completely unnoticed by The Media At Large.  It would seem that Hillary is Doing It Wrong.  I've given this quite a bit of thought lately since the former Secretary has been all over the television news, print media, and Interwebs munching on salads with President Obama and rumoured to be lunching with Vice President Biden soon.  If Hillary wants to have a nice afternoon meal (or snack, or cocktail with nibblies) with her friends, and she does not want it to become Journalistic Fodder and a Media Event, she should pay attention to the points I delineate below.

1.  Location:  Hillary went to the White House for lunch.  I go to relatively pedestrian, often chain, restaurants.  There is no way that a bunch of reporters are hanging out in a press pool at the Ruby Tuesday or the Olive Garden.  Additionally, I lunch in Northeastern Ohio, where no one of any consequence lives or works, (unless you count members of the Cleveland Browns football team or the Cleveland Indians baseball team.  Right.  I didn't think so.)

2.  Location 2.0:  Hillary and Barack ate (ahem) outdoors.  As in, outside.  As in, not inside like People.  Also as in, They Were Asking For It.  Now, while I applaud the Secretary for considering being photographed in natural light, this is an Invitation For A Photo-Op.  I, on the other hand, always ask if we can be seated along a wall with no vents so that I am not cold, which pretty much guarantees an obstructed view for cameras.  (It is a Given for all Dept. readers that I will not eat outside. How silly.)

3.  Companions:  Hillary's lunch companions are Washington D.C. elites.  My lunch buddies are retired teachers, teachers on summer break, friends, and family.  I would venture to say that a good 80% of the people who Hillary pals around with or is related to probably are newsworthy on their own.  I would say that a good 99.9% of the people who I can call up and who would know who I was are not.  Newsworthy, I mean.  This is how I can maintain my Cloak Of Privacy and Anonymity, but Hillary cannot. 

I feel like Hillary isn't even trying.  That we have in common.

For me, this whole Going To Lunch Thing is part of my new Retirement Philosophy, which I add to every now and then.  Of course, I forget what I already adopted as part of my Retirement Philosophy in the past, but I just go ahead and assume that I've mastered it and move on.

Anyway, this latest tenet is inspired by a quote from a favourite book, The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton.  In it, a pariah countess tries to explain to a straitlaced admirer why she is going out that evening to a dinner even though it is hosted by a man she does not care for.  She says, "I must go where I am invited or I should be too lonely." 

I decided to be mindful of this, so when I was invited to a retirees' monthly luncheon for the staff of the junior high where I served one year, I went.  And I also went to the retirees' lunch for the high school.  Both were pleasant, and at both, my colleagues said, "I never expected to see you at any of these!"  And even though I normally do not care to eat lunch, I found that having a Bloody Mary can be wonderful. 

One drawback to that, however, is that it often ends up costing as much as a Lunch.  Incredibly, my Bloody Mary at the Olive Garden cost eight bucks.  And all I said was, "I'll just have a Bloody Mary."  What arrived was a tarted up Bloody Mary containing a skewer with a few olives, slices of pepperoni, and cocktail onions.  A couple more slices of pepperoni lay atop the drink.  There may or may not have been celery.  I was so stunned, I can't remember.  When my check came, I was glad I had an old gift card my husband's boss had given him. We don't care for the Olive Garden, but I'm happy to eat Bloody Marys there for lunch on his dime.

Oh, and one more drawback to the Luncheon Bloody Mary.  I am often not tall enough to drink it using a straw.  Who the hell are these things for, the starting centers in the NBA?  Why are they served in fourteen inch tall glasses full of ice, slippery with frost, garnished with a half-cup of foliage, then set down in front of me like a challenge?  Yesterday, out lunching with my friends Pam, Sheila, and Sue, my drink arrived and I felt like a toddler who refused her booster seat. 

Amid the laughter, lunch was lovely.  We talked about things International and Cultural (Croatian customs and Belgium); Education (why are the wackos afraid of Common Core?); Nature (the Pony Swim at Chincoteague); and lots of other things.  Probably not much different than what Hillary and the President talked about, topically.  And all without the crush of reporters and photographers.

So, Hillary, give me a call or zip me an email.  We should definitely do lunch. 

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.

Seeing Double--This Is What You've Driven Me To: The Blogpost Equivalent Of The Gameshow Channel. I Hope You're Happy.

Been a while since I did one of these silly little posts. Seems like it's been tough throughout the blogosphere to generate any interest in anything lately, so I'm going to take it easy and toss off a little cyberfluff.

If you watch Project Runway, you probably sighed a little this week when they let designer hottie Logan go. It was time--he was starting to get all "I think I'm rocker edgy, but really, all I can do is black and sleeveless, and I know I need to mix it up...somehow"--so he made a Judy Jetson waitress outfit. (last outfit shown) That Fashion Don't got him Auf'd. But do not despair! If you need a Quickie Logan Fix, just tune in to House. His twin, Jesse Spencer, works there playing Dr. Robert Chase. Don't believe me? Take a look:


Okay, as if I haven't already put my Sad, Pathetic Television Addiction out there, here's another one. Have you been watching Top Chef Las Vegas? I'm putting my money on chef Kevin Gillespie, who is a very nice guy who can cook, unlike the cutthroat and cyberbot-esque Voltaggio brothers. (Those guys give Sibling Rivalry a whole new meaning.) Anyway, see what you think about this:


There's just NO WAY the guy cannot be merry! His lookalikes star in TWO Christmas specials!

Next, all four of you Dept. readers know of my Breakup with David Gregory. But that has nothing to do with this. I used to laud DG for his bold cravatical choices in the past, especially his unabashed Wearing Of Pink. Lately, however, David has Fallen From Fashion Grace with a bigass thud. I have no idea what has happened. Anyone who still soldiers on and endures Meet the Press knows this is true, and when David appears on The NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams, I am forced to reckon with Mr. Gregory's newfound sartorial predilections, which seem to be akin to none other than Bill the Butcher:


Those of you who have been watching with any regularity at all know this to be absolutely true. His propensity for mixing patterns has become a disease. Ugh.

Finally, some of you may be aware of my vast and somewhat uncharacteristic/surprising store of sports knowledge/interest. (Could I use some more backslashes? I'll see.) It's a source of amazement to my students, especially the boys, who see me as a high-heel-wearing chick who wouldn't know the difference between a free throw and a punt. Even I am sometimes a bit regretfully flabbergasted at how many professional athletes I know by sight and how much I know about various aspects of basketball, football, baseball, and their related topics. (Most of it picked up in self-defense, living as I do with three men.) All of which is to say that this last pair doesn't even require you to know Toronto Raptor power forward (that's basketball, by the way) Chris Bosh. Just know that he is who I thought of immediately when my student Jessica B. brought me this souvenir from her band trip in Florida:

Do not tell me you don't see this! Imagine them both pink....Ha!

That's it. I can't do it anymore. I need a drink. Go twit or spacebook or something. Sigh. Not that I am bitter.

Just Because We Can, Doesn't Mean We Should, Unless You're Talking About Cleaning Out My Basement

Very sorry for the monstrous gap between posts. Went on a jaunt, then came home and promptly fell ill. Still not feeling up to par, but oh well. We do what we must.

Onward.
This little newsish item caught my eye for some odd reason. A clump of Elvis Hair, vintage 1958, went up for auction and actually sold for $15,000! But allow me to clarify: this is hair believed to be Elvis's. Heaven only knows what, if its provenance was more reliable, it would have sold for. Perhaps eleventy billion. Especially since an Elvis Shirt went for 52K. Just a shirt--not something that actually may hold the DNA of The Pelvis himself. (Who may or may not still be alive, by the way.)

Personally, I have never understood the Mystique Of Elvis. I never liked his music, not any of it. I don't get the pilgrimages to Graceland or the people who buy the Velvet Elvises (Elvi?) or the collectible plates or any of that stuff. But the hair thing really creeps me out. What will the buyer do with it? Ever since reading and seeing Jurassic Park, the story in which scientists successfully extract dinosaur DNA from prehistoric bugs preserved in amber (the dino blood was still in the insects' system after they bit them) and then recreate the long-dead species, I can't help but think about the motives of some people. Oh sure, for some fans, it's merely a desire to hold on to something that belonged to someone they admired. Or to own a piece of someone famous. For others, celebrity memorabilia is an investment like stocks or gold.

But in this age of highly advanced science and technology, it sure would give me pause if my dad or daughter or husband were a bigdeal celebrity. The weirdo stalkers are bad enough. Can you imagine if some superfan with big bucks decides that he wants his own Beyonce 2.0?

Hey, did I just write a Script Treatment for a movie?

Anyway.

On a related note: The seller of the Elvis Clump, a Mr. Pepper, was apparently a friend of Elvis's and a president of one of his many fan clubs. Actually, the seller had to have been the friend's estate, because Mr. Pepper died in 1980. So, it seems that perhaps Mr. Pepper's family may have been de-cluttering things a bit and found that the Clump and assorted shirts and Pez dispensers really weren't doing much more than taking up space. I can relate. I bet you can, too.

How do you know what to save anymore, and for how long? It's just terrible. My kids are 24 and 21. Confession: I did not save all their baby clothes. Am I a terrible person? I also did not save every single card they gave me, nor did I save every single one of their elementary school papers or projects. Did I just lose my Mommy Card? I can't stand saving a lot of stuff. I don't want to end up on that tv show "Hoarders."
Right after the tragedy of September 11, I was talking to my friend Ann, and she said, "One of the things that struck me when I saw those towers come down was all that paper. Everywhere, there was paper. Right then and there, I decided that it was time to get rid of all the junk in my house. Because when I die, I don't want to burden my family with having to go through all the papers and all the crap in my house." She was so right.

That, however, was eight years ago, and although I made a similar pledge right along with her, I have a bunch of crap in my house that would not bring anywhere near fifteen thousand bucks, total. (Although I do have a clump of Rick's hair from when he had to get his long, long, LONG hair cut in order to get a "real" job many years ago. Anyone interested?) Rick even has his first five-speed bike that he bought with his very own money back in, like, 1875 or something. Why he has it, I'm sure I have no idea. It's lying in the basement, dusty and forgotten, but he needs it. It is a valuable relic of his Past.

And me? I am, at present, trying valiantly to think of a valuable relic of my Past that I am stubbornly holding onto. Aside from the abstract and intangible, I honestly cannot think of any. As I have often wondered before, I fear I have become Sentimentally Autistic; in my desire to always move forward, I willingly leave things behind, knowing that the truly important things travel always within me.

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?)

Stop That Stimulus Vote! I Want To Add A Few Billion To Combat Rampant Stupidity

All right, everyone. The time has come for the Dept. of Nance to answer the call of duty...er, hold on. Make that The Call Of Duty (there, that's better; if ever the shift key were called for, this is it). There is just way too much Stupid going on out there, and it is High Time that someone did something about it. It's patently obvious that no one else is stepping up, so once again, I am offering my services. Certainly, President Obama can do far worse than to offer me a position in his Administration. My credentials are above reproach, my wardrobe is impeccable, and my admiration of President Lincoln and his wife is indisputable.

But I digress.

My point, and I am well on my way to making it, is this: Stupidity is once again running free in America, and the media is perpetuating it as a legitimate news source rather than calling it what it is or, better yet, ignoring it because it is...stupid. My job, which I will eagerly and cheerfully undertake, is to smack down the stupid. Immediately and with great zest. If necessary, I will provide intelligent commentary, replete with polysyllabic words just to counter the effect that the stupidity may have had.

Had I already been on the job, here are a few Stupid Things I would have already taken down.

Item: The No-Jacket VS. Jacket in the White House Controversy. "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you all for coming. Let me assure you, President Obama is never unaware of the gravity of his responsibility, both to this great nation and to the Office of the Presidency. His sartorial presence is but a miniscule part of the Oval Office, a room in which the defense of your rights, the Constitution, and the refurbishing of America's image across the globe must take priority. At this epoch of economic distress, it may be that the visual metaphor of your leader sitting down in shirtsleeves, ready to roll them up and engage in hard labor to get you back to work, is perhaps more encouraging than you know. Now haven't we all got something far more deserving of our distress? Because, really, this is, in a word, stupid. Good day."

Item: "Everything I've ever needed to know I learned through sports," chirped Sarah Palin to Esquire magazine. Among other g-dropping, folksy, inexplicably goofy things. Really, Sarah? Everything? You know, Esquire, after she said that, I would have stopped the interview. Because that's just stupid. I've never played sports in my life. Millions of people, millions of them much smarter than both Sarah and I are, never did either. This quote is the equal of Sporty Sarah's avowal to Katie Couric that she did, in fact, read "all of the newspapers." Why is the media still covering this woman? I'm torn here, you know? On the one hand, she's a complete embarrassment to the republican party, and if she's their face and frontrunner for 2012, I couldn't be more delighted. On the other hand, however, she sets Women back about 200 years every time she opens her mouth. She might need a little Back-Room Stupid Smackdown: "Look, Sarah. I know you cannot possibly help yourself at this point, and I appreciate any woman trying to run a little game on the Big Boys in politics. But do yourself a favor and read a hardcover book, subscribe to a newspaper and read it, and since I know people like you subscribe to Reader's Digest, start doing the "Word Power" section. If possible, try not to speak any more until you perform these small tasks. Thank you."

Item: Octuplet Mom Is Swamped With Media Deals. Because so many people want to know how they can be the unemployed single parent of 14 kids, and live with their parents, yet claim that their childhoods were "dysfunctional" and that they "just longed for certain connections and attachments with another person that [they] really lacked,...growing up." That they "...didn't feel as though, when [they were] a child, [that they] had much control of [their] environment. [They] felt powerless." Remember, this woman's parents (who perpetrated the claimed dysfunction) now live in the home and provide child care! The Octomom, 33-year old Nadya Suleman, is now being repped by a public relations group who is sifting through book and TV deals. The PR firm has already had to discount published reports that one offer was for Suleman to host a television show on parenting. Now that would really have been the Epitome Of Stupidity. But this whole thing is stupid, stupid, stupid from beginning to end. And don't even start with that "Who are you to judge" bullshit. I'm a rational, sane person, that's who. And if you're 33, living in a house with your parents, have no job, already have SIX KIDS, then you don't go and have EIGHT MORE. PERIOD. Especially if part of the reason you were out of work is because of anxiety over the last time you had a baby. And because your back is injured. Do you know how much backwork is required in being pregnant and caring for SIX kids, let alone EIGHT? And what the hell happened to Doctors' Ethics? A big dose of STUPID, that's what. I don't know if a plain old Verbal Smackdown will do it in this case. I might just have to get physical.

LINE 'EM UP !!!

Ahem.

This is only a small sampling of Recent Stupidity that needs to be smacked down. Michael Phelps, grab a towel and get over here. Your poor mother.

In The End, It's All Politics--But The Politics Never Ends

Like the Obama campaign, I have been trying to calculate when to release this post so that it gets as much attention as possible and gives me the maximum bounce in the polls and is not overshadowed by the 2008 Olympics Live from Beijing. You know...8-8-08 and all that crap.

There is, quite possibly, only one thing that I am sicker of in the news these days than The 2008 Olympics Live from Beijing (8-8-08), and that is Brett Favre. So, let me just say this: Brett Favre is just a football player. He did not discover a cure for AIDS or cancer. He did not build low-income housing for the poor, nor is he rescuing millions of people in danger in Darfur. He did not biologically engineer a new species of drought-resistant grain to feed the starving, nor did he build a fuel cell that will allow my car to run on water. He is a snarky prima donna who has decided that he can't live without his little sport and wants to return to it and is astonished that people moved on without him. SO! PEOPLE! MOVE ON!

Moving on.

(Note to general media and ESPN--see how I did that?)

I will say one little thing, however, about The 2008 Olympics Live from Beijing (8-8-08), and this it is: the government there has the right idea. They have published and distributed to their citizenry a little booklet that instructs them all in the finer points of acceptable dress and behavior. I am certainly on board with that. This is exactly what we in the United States need Government for. It is painfully obvious by a cursory glance in any public venue that Most People are simply unable to do this themselves.

This booklet in China was written by--get this title--the deputy director of the Office of Capital Spiritual Civilisation Construction Commission. Holy crap! It contains these fashion admonitions:
*don't wear your pajamas in public
*don't wear white socks with black shoes
*don't wear more than three colors in your outfit

It also contains these behavior rules:
*no spitting
*stand with feet slightly apart or in the shape of a V or Y when standing
*no public displays of affection
*handshakes should last no longer than three seconds

As you may recall, I have offered to make the Department of Nance a bona fide Government Office and take it upon myself to be the Authority about such things as these. I wouldn't even expect a bigass title like the Chinese guy up there. (Although, wow. That's way impressive.) I also find the Chinese rules to be reasonable and would echo them in my own booklet. But, how do you get your feet in the shape of a Y? Hmmm....

I would probably add a few, as you can guess:
*no Crocs or flip-flops at all; you cannot control yourselves
*no miniskirts or belly shirts if you are over 25
*no sweatpants in restaurants, ever
*no visible underthings of any kind ever on anyone
*no talking on your cellphone at a cash register
*no talking on your cellphone in the restroom
*no children under 17 in any movies rated R whether an "adult" is present or not
*no food or drink allowed inside a live concert or play or musical venue during the performance

That's just a preview, plus my arm hurts. A LOT.

Finally, let me say this--I live in Ohio, also known as The Swing State to Rival All Swing States. We are bombarded with television ads from both candidates on the half-hour. And I have to tell you that I find the McSame ads so incredibly offensive, so obviously mudslinging and defamatory that I cannot even begin to tell you how angry they make me. The one where he actually asks the question "And who is to blame for high gasoline prices?" and then shows a picture of President-Elect Obama and plays a track of a crowd chanting Obama's name makes me ill and is so patently absurd that I cannot believe it is still running. It's even been mocked by members of his own party. And do NOT get me started on the "Celebrity Ad" where he compares President-Elect Obama to Britney and Paris. And his comment to a questioner at one of his "events" was that this ad was him "just having a little fun." He reminds me of the odd, slightly creepy uncle who likes to tickle kids until they beg him to stop, but he doesn't; they start to cry and then he says, "Oh, come on! We're just having a little fun!"

As a teacher, here are a few reasons I'll be voting AGAINST McSame:

*he supports a plan that would base my salary on students' test scores. That's like your dentist being judged by how well you brush or floss at home. Who controls parenting/the home environment/nutrition/access to materials? (AP 7/8/08)

*he wants people to buy their own health insurance on their own rather than get it from their employers. He proposes a new tax on people who do get health care from their employers. (CNN 4/29/08)

*he voted against 5 billion dollars in public school funding while voting for 70 billion dollars in tax cuts for millionaires. (vote #269, 10/26/05; vote #83, 3/21/07)

*he supports No Child Left Behind, but voted to kill efforts to fully fund it. This single piece of legislation is hamstringing our schools and teachers and, ultimately, our kids. (CNN 11/3/05; AP 4/13/07; H.Con.Res.95, vote #114, 4/28/05; S.Con.Res.18, vote #68, 3/17/05).

Go here to get a free Obama button. Be on a mission. Be the change you wish to see in the world. Get enough to give to friends or leave in places for people to pick up. You never know.

Why Daniel Day-Lewis And Ohio Are Really Irritating Me

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

Let me explain.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

But the weather here sucks real bad.

Vintage Nance--Things That Make Me Giggle

O! Whatever Should We Do Without Men?

What a fat lot of lazing around I've been doing here at The Dept. and it's given me time to do one of my favorite things: go on long stretches of just meandering through my thoughts via the remote control. "Sitting and flipping" is what I like to call it. I don't really watch anything on the television; instead, I use it as a catalyst for thinking about things I haven't really given consideration or time to in a long while. Oh, lucky you!

My first thought arose when I watched Richard Engel, The Baghdad Dish, on MSNBC. Unlike a great deal of attractive men, he is incredibly articulate and intelligent. It has been my experience that most goodlooking men should just shut up and stand in the corner, looking good. That really is all that we require of them. But Richard Engel--he can, and should, keep talking. Do you not know of him? Here he is, in all his straight-teethed, lovely-haired glory:

(photo courtesy of msnbc.com)

But, lest you think I am completely shallow, I can also appreciate the slightly imperfectly handsome man, such as Jake Weber, who plays the husband on the television show Medium starring Patricia Arquette. He has an endearing British accent which the show has not in any way felt necessary to explain; he plays a math-geeky engineer who is a terrific father of three blondie daughters; he is incredibly patient and loving and helpful-strong, not "I'll just take over because I'm the man and you obviously are having a meltdown"-strong; and there are times during the show that he absolutely melts me. Have you seen the show? I now watch it only for him. Here he is:

Not my type at all, but as I said, sometimes it is not the look, it's the guy. Which is still something that many, many men just do not get. Which reminds me of a great quote from the book Bridget Jones's Diary. I will paraphrase it to get to the most germane part here: some "men--are so catastrophically unevolved that soon they will just be kept by women as pets for sex...outside in kennels"(Fielding 67). I might add here that, except for the "outside in kennels" part, many, many, many men would be just fine with this.

But, I digress. There's one more man I thought about and want to discuss.

Inexplicably, I join the legions of women who find themselves drawn to a most unlikely paramour. What is it about him? It's not the conventional handsomeness of the Baghdad Dish, nor the cuddly security of Mr. Medium. This guy...there's just something about him. He's charismatic, he's enigmatic, he's got an attractiveness all his own. And he's a brain, too. I'd love him in real life as well. He's even more of a character there:

Hugh Laurie, also known as Dr. Gregory House, has captivated almost every female I know. We alerted each other when he was going to be on "Inside the Actor's Studio." We fought to stay awake to watch him host "Saturday Night Live" (and those of us who couldn't do it and are too pathetic to record on our VCRs--ahem!--were thrilled when it was rerun so soon!). We Hugh Laurie fans congratulate ourselves on having such a smart, unusual idol. And, like many Brits, he isn't constantly in the news doing something horrifically embarrassing or stupid. Seems like the American celebs have the monopoly on that. And, though it pains me to say it, so do the women.

Which brings me to another one of my points, and yes, I have made one or two already.

Really intensely, insanely, heartrendingly handsome men should just do that and nothing else. Be goodlooking, be beautiful, and shut the hell up. Oh, okay...go ahead and do a little acting if you must. But face the fact (literally)--you are gorgeous and that is your thing. If you open your mouth and try to sound relevant or political, or even like you know where there are starving children, you will sound like an idiot. Besides, no one will be listening anyway. She/he will be watching how your mouth moves when you say your Ws or the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you get all sincere. Or try to.

Sigh. It is your cross to bear.

DoN Weighs in on Infidelity

Leanne and I are in the checkout line at the grocery store. We load the items onto the conveyor belt and wait while the cashier makes a career out of the customer ahead of us. Naturally, we scan the tabloid rags and magazines in the racks along the aisle.
"What about Jude Law?" she says. "Would you take him back?
"No way." I shake my head. "I mean, the nanny, for godsakes. How cliche."
"Yeah, right." Leanne chucks the August 8 issue of People onto the counter.
I audibly gasp. Those blue eyes...rakish brows...gold-shot hair...is that the hint of a dimple on his cheek? I can almost feel the skin under my fingertips as I imagine...I...somehow exhale. I look up.
Leanne rolls her eyes. "Thought so."

Damn her.