The July Report: Strap In And Let's Do This

this is from YouTube

 July has been all over the place so far. This post will probably reflect that. Hang on tight because I have no real idea what this may turn into. Let's go.

1. Cervical Facet Arthropathy/Syndrome and Cervical Epidural Steroid Injection:  This all has nothing to do with lady parts; rather, it's all about a pain in the neck. It seems that my most recent falls have exacerbated the arthritis in my neck and exposed a nerve. I've been in pain and physically limited for months and months, and it finally got bad enough that I was referred to a pain specialist. Long story short, we tried medicine, and on Monday a cortisone shot into my neck/spine. If that doesn't hold, next is a nerve ablation. After that, it's surgery to insert pins/rods. I'm Trying Very Hard to avoid that last thing, which is huge and scary and, to me, the very last resort. So far, I'm really pleased with the injection. Fingers crossed that it gives me relief for a long time.

2. Herb Garden Stuff:  I've already made a batch of pesto from my basil and parsley and dried some oregano. My oregano is from a plant I put in more than 10 years ago. I've had to seed dill twice now because of this horrendous heat. I have a volunteer tomato plant somehow in there (I haven't planted tomatoes there for decades), and my jalapenos from last year seeded themselves smack dab in the middle of my rosemary. Today I pulled 14 jalapeno plants and put them in huge pots along the drive. I'll be making pesto again this week, provoking much joy from Jared and Sam.

3. Social Commentary Or Just Laziness? You Decide:  Sometimes on my walk I am confronted with sights that cause me to ruminate for a block or two. As a former English/Literature/Creative Writing teacher and student, I cannot help but see Deeper Meanings in most things. Plus, it's a nice break from reacting with Just Plain Annoyance. Consider these two related things that caught my eye today:

Is this a commentary on the way Organized Sports have a chokehold on our kids, forcing them into a world of pressure and competition far too early? Is it trying to tell us that kids should be spending more time outdoors in free play, discovering the wonders of Nature? Is it saying that too much money is spent on professional sports--salaries, arenas, merchandise, and the like--perhaps to the detriment of our natural environment? That we've lost our way as to what's Truly Important? I like to give my neighbours lofty, artsy, and highfalutin intentions rather than admit they're just indifferent about their yards. It allows me to maintain my Zen whilst I walk.

4. Weekends At The Lake:  Theo was ill over Independence Day with new teeth and a virus, so he couldn't join us, but Sam and Emily (aka Samily) and Zydrunas came for the day. We boated and lunched and hung out. Later that night, Rick and I watched three different fireworks displays from our front yard. We had a makeup weekend last weekend with everyone (minus Emily, who had to work, unfortunately), and it was wonderful. Theo is obsessed with Sam, who he calls Guncle. He drove the boat, talked a lot, danced, and got in the water. He had the time of his life, and we all marveled at how much having him around is like having Zydrunas around. Eerily similar, especially on the boat.

5. Books, Etc.:  I've read two books by Jay Winik about the Civil War. I know I've mentioned them in other Comment sections, so I won't talk about them here except to say that they are excellent and captivating. The writing is engaging and excellent. I grew up vacationing in Gettysburg, and I have a bit of an obsession with this period of history as well as President and Mary Lincoln, reading deeply in these areas. Sadly, I just lost my favourite aunt who lived in Gettysburg and who was a very gracious hostess to our family and to me separately. She was also an English teacher, as was her husband. I will miss her much.

I'm now reading--as a palate cleanser--Parallel Lines by Edward St. Aubyn. It is witty, British, acerbic, and smart. Say what you will about Evil Amazon (and there is plenty to), but they let me read the first chapter of books, and this one had me smiling in admiration, recognition (of how one thought leads to another and another), and amusement. I'm only about 45 pages in, and I absolutely love it. I can't wait to read more by this man. If I were sweeter, I'd type out some passages, but honestly, it's time to prep dinner, and I want to get this published. Go read the first few pages. It's so so good.

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I think this catches us up. I'd like to say that I'll be better at posting more often, but I think we all know how that will turn out. Thank you to those who do post regularly. I wish I knew your secret. Certainly I have time! Perhaps I'll just say I'll Try.

The Last Of The Wise Words And Helpfulness From The Dept. Of Nance

This week we toss in a little bit of everything, from Parenting to Getting Stuff Done to Whatever Lies Between. A few of you decided to share meaningful sayings in Comments last week, so our series will end here. Did lives change immeasurably from our exchange? I'm betting No, but I never made the claim that they would. Instead, we had a chance to share What Works For Us in hopes that we'd lend a little glimmer of light along the way of someone else's pathway in Life.

Let's get started, shall we?

Reader Denise Fortney, in an effort to teach her children personal responsibility, used to tell them, "If you're going to be dumb, you'd better be tough." The longer version, she said, was, "If you're dumb enough to do it, you better be tough enough to handle the consequences." I think this applies to Life in general, where personal responsibility seems to be sadly lacking. The twenty-four hour news cycle is full of people making stupid decisions, stupid statements, or performing stupid stunts but not taking ownership of them. Or acting surprised when they are confronted with their actions. Good heavens! There are cameras and recorders everywhere. And would people everywhere learn how to simply say, "I'm sorry" and then shut the hell up? Too many apologies aren't.

Bridget, from The Ravell'd Sleave, finds this traditional saying to be very true: If you want something done, ask a busy person; the other has no time. I really get this. When I was working, I did so much stuff! I look back on it now, and I marvel at the Superwoman that I was. There were days when I fed the boys, took them to the sitter, went to school for an early meeting, taught all day (grading papers and creating exams in between classes), picked them up, did the grocery shopping, went home and put it all away, made dinner, bathed kids, graded more papers, then finally went to bed. These days as a retired person, I fritter away so much time and feel incredibly imposed upon if I have to do anything out of my usual little routine. The day I had to go get my oil change almost killed me. When I'm busy, I feel like I'm in Go Mode--I do a ton of stuff. But when I have only one thing to do, I will put That Thing off until I absolutely have to do it.

NCmountainwoman at Mountain Musings shared this as a favourite, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but if one of us is going to be angry, then it might as well be you.” I have to admit that I'm not too sure about this quote, and that either I need some context or I'm just not understanding it very well. I tried to imagine myself saying it to my husband in a discussion or argument under some circumstances such as me confronting him about his habit of leaving piles of mail all over, or the unfinished basement tile project. But I just can't imagine saying it...to anyone. I'm sure I'm just misunderstanding the saying, and I know all of you will remove my blindspot in Comments.

Finally, I wanted to share with you a very practical piece of advice that made a huge impact on my life, both professionally and personally. It's a small thing, really, but the difference it made has been incredible. First, a little backstory:

I grew up in a family of six in a tiny bungalow. We had one bathroom with only a tub. We had two bedrooms for four kids; we three girls shared an attic room. My father never did a bit of housework, ever. My mother did just enough, but laundry alone (and we had a wringer washer for ages) took forever. As a result, things were clean, but not always tidy. We were crowded, and if each of us left one thing out of place, it looked messy.

As a teacher, I quickly learned that Organization is your Best Friend. I put into place so many failsafe systems for grading, recording grades, filing, and make-up work that my students were awed. They could never claim that I lost a paper, forgot to enter a grade, or never got a make-up assignment. The System Never Failed. Ever. Other teachers got sick of hearing about how they "should ask Mrs. D. about her system."

I heard the advice on some local chat show. No idea who it was or why she was offering it, but as soon as I heard it, I knew it was great advice for me. She said, "Touch something only once and act on it immediately." She went on to explain what she meant, but I only half heard the rest. I already knew what she meant and that it was easy to do. Stop piling mail on the counter to look at later--toss the junk and put the bills in the bill folder NOW. Don't drop your clothes on the chair--hang them up or put them in the hamper NOW. Don't leave the clean crockpot sitting on the counter--put it away NOW. Don't let the clean clothes languish in the clothes basket--Put them away NOW. Don't wait to fill out that form--fill it out and put it in the mail NOW.

I think you get the idea.

That piece of advice is now so ingrained in me that it's involuntary, instinctive--I do things immediately as a matter of course. Even when I absolutely do not feel like it, and it's then when I realize how little time those things actually take. The serenity of having fewer loose ends and an always tidy environment is my reward, and for me, so worth it.

I do hope you've enjoyed this Series of Wonderful Wisdom from our mutual friends here at the Dept. of Nance. And, as usual, we all look forward to your discussion in Comments.

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Change Your Life: Fifth In A Series--I Tell You Where To Go And Ask You For Some Help

Before I try to change all of your lives with this week's Sentence, I want to ask you to help me with next week's post. We've reached the halfway mark with today's offering, so I'm ready to take a break or even call it quits and instead showcase some Honest-To-Goodness helpful sentences, sayings, tips, or tricks that have actually improved all of your lives in an authentic way. These helpers can be practical or philosophical, and they can be from any arena of life you choose:  cooking, driving, crafting, relationships, grief, whatever. All I ask is that you do NOT leave them in comments. Instead, please send them to me via email: deptofnanceATyahooDOTcom. I promise to corral all of them and put them in a post and share them with everyone, hoping that each reader will find some Sparkle Of Wonderfulness to make his or her life better in some way.

Again, no contributions via Comments. Email me your Helpful Wisdom, and I'll share all of them in a post next week. Okay, onward.

This week's Life-Changing Sentence is not the worst thing ever. I can actually see some people finding it to be a worthy philosophy, repeating it sagely to others, especially to adolescents in search of popularity.

Here is Life-Changing Sentence Number Five:

Go where you're celebrated, not where you're tolerated.

This Sentence reminds me of Rev. Jesse Jackson's or Simpson attorney Johnnie Cochran's rhetorical style--it's punchy and because it rhymes, it's memorable. (Can't you picture both of them saying this? I can.)

Its source is a motivational speaker and life coach, and the actual quote is "Go where you are celebrated, not merely tolerated", which makes a little more sense, but the sentiment is still implied in the above Sentence.

The philosophy here is good--to a point. It makes a lot of sense to avoid people who, quite simply, don't want you hanging around with them. As I said above, it's a valuable piece of wisdom to give to middle-schoolers who are desperate to break into the It Clique or sit at the Cool Table for lunch. They might endure some miserable conditions in order to do so.  Kids can be cruel and cutting.  Heaven only knows how this all translates to the various social media platforms. I am daily grateful that I raised my sons well before InstaTwitFace and WhatSnap.

As adults--and I know for sure I qualify since I turned (gasp!) sixty earlier this month--we instinctively know this already, but...do we, really? Again, social media and the internet at large have probably not brought out the best in lots of grownups. But overall, we do tend to go where we are wanted and where people are glad to see us. It's behavioral science at its core--the stimulus and response of operant conditioning.  We love a big greeting, a warm smile, a happy hello. Humans generally want to feel wanted.

As adults, however, we also know that there are times when we have to go where we are "merely tolerated." Sometimes we're caught in a less than desirable work situation where a coworker makes our lives miserable, but go we must. Still other times we have to go to a gathering of our spouse's family, perhaps, where our reception is a bit frosty. I'm sure you can think of lots of examples where we have to put in an appearance and Be Tolerated because it is The Right Thing To Do, our comfort to the contrary.

But by all means, yes, if you find yourself saying about Book Club, perhaps, "Hey! Why do I keep subjecting myself to These People?" and there is no Good Reason, jump that ship and don't even wave goodbye. Then Celebrate Yourself and your Freedom. You've made some space in your life for something better.

Here then is Sentence #5 one more time: Go where you are celebrated, not where you are merely tolerated. Did it "give you the power to go on" and "change your life for the better"?

And don't forget to send me your Tips, Tricks, or Words To Live By for an easier or better life to deptofnanceATyahooDOTcom to be included in next week's post. (And not in Comments.)  Thanks.

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In Which I Discuss The Grief Of Television, SADness, Hitting A Dog In The Face, And The News

Listen, I'm kind of showing up here because I'm afraid that if I don't write something--anything--right now, I might never write a single word in this space again. That would be sad, I think, for me, so here I go.

It would have been a good idea, probably, if I had thought a little bit about this ahead of time, but then I would have shrugged it off yet another day, and soon it would be March, and who knows what would happen then?

Perhaps a couple of General Categories Off The Top Of My Head will help Break My Writer's Block.

1. Television: Oh, yes, I am one of the Philistines Who Watch Television. Or tries to. We gave up cable aeons ago, so we suffer through commercial/antenna TV and use streaming services. When a series ends on Netflix, we are bereft and have that terrible period of grief followed by The Terror Of What To Commit To Next. We just finished Broadchurch, which we loved. But, because the lead actor had such a rapid and heavy Scottish accent, we had to be like The Olds and put on captions.  Imagine our shame and dismay.  And do not get me started about how many times I lose both remotes in the folds of my blanket.

2. Seasonal Affective Disorder: My SAD, which is usually on overdrive right about now, is not so bad. I think it's because we're seeing more sunshine than usual; I'm getting outside more often; and Sam got me a Happy Light for Christmas, which I use on cloudy days. I'm also getting better at what my friend Shirley would call Practicing Self Care.

3. My Pathetic Life: Jared went on an Axe-Throwing Date for Valentine's Day. Yeah. You read that right. Apparently, it's a real thing. He sent us pictures of him throwing an axe at a big slice of wood that was painted with a target. He said he "had a blast" and "hit a couple of game winners." I sent a text back that said, "I would do terribly at that. You should see me just try to throw stale bread out the back door for the birds and squirrels." And it's sadly true. Not only do I have zero arm strength, my aim is laughable. Ask Zydrunas, who has been hit in the face by innumerable ricocheting bouncy balls that I have attempted to toss through the doorway, but have instead rocketed squarely against the wall on either side.

4. My Newspaper Is Toying With Me: My Plain Dealer had the following headlines today, which I will place here for you, exactly and without comment: That 1 Guy Makes Music With His 'Magic Pipe' and France OKs Lightsaber Dueling As Sport.

I hope I'm back, but I can't make any promises. February has been kind of a bitch.

Cleaning Out The Cranial Clutter; Will You Hold The Dustpan, Please?

Time for a little Cleanout of my Cranial Clutter. Let's see what I can sweep out of the old cerebellum.

~*~Anniversary. Somehow, in all the Goings On of August, I completely forgot that the Dept. Of Nance had its 13th Anniversary. It's true; I've been writing here since 2005. I almost cannot believe it myself. Sometimes, I hop into my Wayback Machine (read my archives) and take a look at my life when I was teaching, in my forties, and raising teenagers. And I laugh and laugh at the things I Said I Would Never Do, many of which I am now doing routinely. Oh Life, how you smack us around and teach us to Be Humble!

~*~Eff Word. This week, my hair finally allowed me to go pick out new glasses, which I gladly did. The young woman (probably about twenty-five) who assisted me at the cheapo eyeglasses place was friendly and fun. As we chatted about Being Female and Our Vanity, she dropped two Eff Words, never batting an eye, zipping right past them with nary a concern. Another associate seated within earshot didn't even flinch. I am a Huge Fan of The Eff Word, but there is a Time and a Place, and that? Not It.

~*~Insomnia And Obnoxious Theme Song. I'm currently in the throes of another bout of Insomnia. Sigh. Sometimes when I can't sleep, I watch a few late night episodes of the original Will & Grace show, and I have to tell you, that show's theme song is absolutely the worst. Ugh. Nothing but hard-driven piano that sounds like it is being played by perhaps Herman Munster on crack. It's abusive. Why so awful? Why? I don't know what I feel sorrier for, that poor piano or my ears.

~*~Videotapes. I finally made myself clean out the cabinet housing our now-nonexistent videotape collection. Is it Really A Thing that the Black Diamond Classic Disney videotapes are worth money? And that the Fox Original Star Wars Trilogy Boxed Set is valuable too? Because I have the latter and five of the former. And they are available. Aside from that, I had Sam hook up the old VCR and I watched a few hours of the boys when they were little. My immediate response was to be overwhelmed with so much love--and an odd feeling of sadness. They were So Little. They looked so fragile to me. I hope I Did The Right Things. I know I always wanted to and tried to.

Catch me up in Comments.

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Way Back When Wednesday: The Pace Of Childhood

It was inevitable. Sometime in late June, a day would arrive when the burden of our Summertime Freedom was too much. Laura, Lisa, and I had already rollerskated until our knees and elbows were scabby and sore. We had played jump rope until arguing over misses and whose turn it was had frayed our friendships more than the street surface had frayed our skipping rope. Our koolaid stand idea never got off the ground, and we got tired of hearing our mothers say, "You kids get out of the house and go play outside!" That's when my mother would say, "Go get a big blanket, spread it out in the shade, and play dolls."

By dolls she meant, of course, Barbie dolls. My two friends across the street had Barbies, too, and tons of clothes in vinyl zippered cases. Our front yard had a nice shady maple tree, so we always played at our house. My mother provided the blanket or big comforter, and pretty soon we'd each be at a corner, setting up our Barbie's "house" and sorting her clothes. A few hours later, we'd be called inside for lunch or dinner or something, loathe to gather up our things and end our playtime.

We were probably eight or ten years old, not unusual for doll-playing back then. And sometimes it wasn't Barbies when we played dolls. If we all got Crissy dolls (with beautiful hair that grows!), then we played with those; if we had Barbie's cousins (Francie?) or sisters (Skipper?) or whomever, we played with those. We pretended they were going to work, going shopping, going out on a date, heading to the beach, or meeting for lunch. They had conversations and shared clothes and those teeny little shoes that never stayed on. We played for hours.

It is with some sadness and disappointment that I have noted Barbie dolls being given as gifts to children as young as two and three years old. On Mattel's website, some Barbie dolls are recommended for ages 3+, such as Barbie Video Game Hero, Barbie Fashionista Dolls, and Barbie Dreamtopia Bubbletastic Fairy Doll, to name only a few out of dozens. I guess I'm wondering why--and more importantly, just how--babies are playing with Barbies.

So much of Life has become accelerated for kids. I remember chaperoning prom and being astonished that there was a Garter Dance, once only a wedding reception ritual. High school students go to Florida, the Bahamas, and on cruises for Spring Break, the traditional rite for college students. And the elaborate setups involved now for merely asking someone for a date to Homecoming or Prom far exceed most people's proposals for marriage.

Where are these young people speeding off to? What is the ultimate destination, and how will they know when they've arrived?  It's exhausting.

Back to Barbies.

I actively played Barbies until junior high school, I think, and so did my friends.  And I had a built-in playmate with my sister Susan, five years my junior, when we weren't fighting.  Or when she wasn't bending my Barbies' legs backward and ruining them, leaving gaping holes in the rubber and exposing the plastic joints, rendering them stiff-legged and very unladylike forever.  (Probably Susan still owes me about four Barbies, but I've never collected.  She's likely compensated me in tomatoes and home-canned goods.)

I often say that I'm glad I raised my sons before the ubiquity of smartphones, social media, and the Internet.  And I am.  It was hard enough there at the end of their adolescence with AoL Instant Messenger and a shared Sega Genesis.   I could always remove the power cords for the computer and the game system when necessary. There was no way I would have survived anything else.

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Welcome To The Show! I Hope You Brought Your Melted Butter, Or, Come To Think Of It, A Mallet Might Be Kinder.

Welcome to Getting Real With Nance. Today's show will feature Nance Getting Real on a variety of topics, mainly because she's Crabby, Over It, and generally Irked. Let's jump right in and join her Already In Progress, while vacuuming.

Nance: I mean, it just does not matter! I brush them every single damn day, yet all they have to do is WALK INTO A ROOM, and it is covered in their hair. No. Lie. The carpet is covered. The tables are covered. *I* am covered. It is a Losing Battle, this war between me and cat hair. But I refuse to surrender. I will never stop wearing black, either. Never. Never!

Voiceover Announcer: Nance walks into the bathroom to put away towels, setting off a new, but related, monologue.

Nance: Holy crap! Look at the hair in here! It's my hair, it's Rick's hair, it's everywhere. I simply cannot escape the hair around here. If it's not cat hair, it's our hair. How do we even have any left on our heads?! I CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE!

Voiceover Announcer: Later, after a frantic and manic bathroom cleaning session left her exhausted, Nance rests in her chair. Unwisely, she browses the Interwebs.

Nance: How hard is it? How hard, everyone? The word is YEAH. The correct spelling is Y-E-A-H. Not Y-A, like you're speaking a foreign language and pronouncing it YAW. Not Y-A-H, like...holy hell, I don't even know why you would spell it like that, ever. And while I'm at it, the word is VOILA. It's French. It means "there you are" or "there it is." It is pronounced VWAH-LAH. It is not some bastardized funsy American word spelled WALA, WALLA, WALLAH, WAH LAH, or WA-LA. Every time I hear or see someone use it incorrectly I wish I could haul the offender up and smack her. Or him. And do NOT get me started on "low and behold" for "lo and behold." So, so painful.  And so symptomatic of What Is Wrong With America on so many levels.

Voiceover Announcer: Unable to rest, Nance is up again and shifting laundry in the basement.

Nance: I deserve nice clean sheets to sleep on. So what. I hate doing sheets. Hate it. It's exhausting. And the load goes off-balance in the washer. And I have to stay down here to make sure it finishes the cycle. And then I get to look at other stuff that needs to be done. Which reminds me, I need to clean litterboxes. And that means sweeping the floor because Marlowe is an aggressive litter scratcher. Because of course she is.

Voiceover Announcer: Back from shuffling laundry and taking the used litter outside to the trash, Nance makes a quick snack of yogurt and fruit so that she can take her bigass vitamins.

Nance: Oh, hell. I forgot that we ran the dishwasher last night. How sad is it that I'm ready to complain about unloading dishes that I didn't even have to stand at the sink and wash? Someone should smack me. But if that someone could sweep my kitchen floor first, that would be great. Or scrub out the tub--even better. Anything, really. Then smack me. Smack away.

Voiceover Announcer: Jared arrives. He needs to use Nance's iPad in order to participate in a West Coast podcast. It is 12:30; the podcast starts at 1:00. He has to search for and download software. He also announces that he will be taking a shower since he came straight from the gym. Lunch may also happen.

Nance: Jared...how...? And I'm warning you now--I'm really, really crabby. Almost violently so.

Jared: Mom. It's okay. And have you tried dancing? Here, watch this.

Voiceover Announcer: Jared dances. Nance is motionless and helpless. Jared spends twenty minutes trying to contact his people on the West Coast to figure out the software download; finally he is successful. He tells them he will jump in at 1:15, takes a shower, and mixes up a "blue drink" which he may or may not have drunk in the shower.

Jared: Mom, I'm surprised you don't have the air on. It's supposed to be hot today.

Nance: I think it's comfortable. I'm sick of air conditioning. If you get too warm in the office during your podcast, turn on the ceiling fan.

Voiceover Announcer: Nance goes down to do the final laundry shift. On her way she belches loudly and uncomfortably.

Nance: Ugh. These damned vitamins. Can't I just get some sort of timed-release implant or something, like that birth control thingy? Or a patch, like they do for people who want to quit smoking? Wow. Did I really just say that? I am so, so crabby. It would not surprise me one bit if I looked down and my hands literally became big, red, pinchy claws.

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Voiceover Announcer:  This has been Getting Real With Nance.  Nance urges you to Get Real in Comments. You know what she always says: Wallow A Little, Bitch A Lot. Or maybe it's Bitch A Little, Wallow A Lot; she can't ever remember. Either way, let loose your Real and feel no shame.



(original crab photo via Synapse Science Magazine)

In Which I Quote Adele And Check In For Just A Moment...

Zydrunas
photo courtesy Sam Donnelly

Hello from The Other Side. I still don't have a Full Tank, so to speak, so I can't stay long, but I wanted to let you know how I was doing and to thank a couple of people.

Firstly, I am feeling a great deal better. The pain is almost entirely gone. Certainly the jolts of pain have been eliminated altogether, and the deep aching in my arms and lower back has been reduced to a once-in-a-while twinge. I still have to use the gel insoles in my shoes for heel pain every now and then, but not nearly as regularly as I did even a month ago. It is very encouraging and wonderful progress.

What I am left with now is a sad lack of strength and stamina. My arms, especially, are astonishingly weak. Even now, after typing only this much, they feel heavy and shaky. Driving more than twenty minutes or so is very uncomfortable and, at times, impossible. My kitchen cupboards have been reconfigured to put heavier items on lower shelves to minimize problems and with an eye to my safety. I continue to try and take short walks, but my stamina is always a variable. I worry about being able to make it back home. The biggest struggle I have right now--besides Patience--is knowing that Fine Line between Building Stamina and Overdoing It.

I have been stacking up more and more Good Days--days when I feel more like Myself. Days when I can think quickly, speak confidently, intelligently, and fluently, and whip through a crossword puzzle in no time flat. I even picked up a little freelance editing work, made almost impossible by the vinyl siding crew working next door (playing thrash metal music at top volume, naturally).

I am tired, however, still very tired much of the time. Large groups of people wear me out; activity, whether I am involved or merely watching it, wears me out. I think the act of Trying To Keep Up With Anything is tiring to me. But I press on, always, for I am anxious to be Well.

No words can express my emotions for Jared's Mother's Day post, which was a complete surprise to me. I am always thankful for the human beings my sons have grown to be, and Jared's thoughtful essay affirmed that he is a caring and introspective adult. That he attributes some of his best traits to me makes me happier and prouder than he could know.

And I want to say a warm thank you to Jill and Wes Wanders, too, who have taken some time out of their busy, busy lives and emailed me expressing concern, inquiring about my progress, and/or informing me of this and that along the way.

Finally, I want to mention my mother, St. Patsy. She has, without fail, sent me an encouraging message--full of emojis--every single day from her trusty iPad. Knowing my general dislike of phone calls and how holding the phone can tire me, she cheerfully embraces this medium of communication despite being in her late 80s. And she has agreed to abide by my rule of limiting the pictures of great-grandchildren to one per day. (That was a tough one.)

Things are getting better, albeit more slowly than I would like. Compared to the Fear and Panic and Uncertainty I faced a few months ago, however, life is much better.  In a week I will have more labwork done; at the end of the month, a followup appointment. And in July, we have plans to visit Niagara-on-the-Lake to replenish the cellar.

Lots to look forward to.

Cheers!

N Is For Normal

I can't remember exactly what precipitated it, but in a moment of frustration early in his childhood, Jared (my eldest) landed this salvo, "Can't you just be Normal like other mothers?!" He was of elementary school age--that much I do remember--so his need for acceptance was understandable. The fact that it was in the Early Nineties makes it even more poignant for the both of us, that decade being the beginning of Organized Play Groups, Smothering Parental Involvement, and Mumsy and Popsy sticking their tentacles into every nook and cranny of their kids' lives until they became one huge being of KidParent with no discernible end of one and beginning of the next if it were in any way possible.

Even if the parents worked, which, of course, Rick and I both did.

Anyway, back to Jared's Wish.

I remember feeling both surprised and terrible. I had no idea he was feeling ashamed or irritated regarding my parenting, which had always been a source of pride for me. Like Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, my parenting role model, I never lied or talked down to my children. I held them to a standard of honesty and character that was high but reasonable. Whenever possible, I waited for their better natures to assert themselves and allow them to do The Right Thing.

But I'm sure Atticus Finch didn't, for example, make up The Underwear Song and sing it so loudly that a neighbor called to request an encore, along with a reprise of The Bug Killing Song. I'm sure he never drank beer out of a water bottle in right field during a Little League game. Or let his kids quit Little League because they were so damn miserable. Or say to them, "Go ahead and fight like hell, but just so you know, the winner gets grounded for two weeks." Or, when they were bored, let them draw all over each other (and me) with washable markers. (Full disclosure: Sometimes, during Sam's naps, I would draw elaborate pictures on the bottoms of his feet. I once wrote his letter to Santa on his back.) Or go shopping at Toys R Us, stopping first to put the five-foot stuffed Clifford in the cart with absolutely no intention of ever buying it. Or announce to the entire family gathered at Thanksgiving one year that Jared was getting pubic hair.

Yeah. That last one. I Know.

But anyway, back to Jared's Wish.

As soon as he said it, "Mom, why can't you be Normal like other mothers?", I felt sad. I felt terrible and sad. Because Jared was my First One, and I had been such a crappy mom, I thought, for so many of his earliest years. I was scared and overwhelmed and tired and really, he didn't do anything any of the books had said he would. But he and I had Hung In There, and we were good buddies overall. Beyond being my kid, I really liked him. He was funny and smart and thoughtful. But, apparently, I was failing all over again. "Oh, Jay," I said. "Do you really want me to be like that?"

I'd like to think that he's as grateful as I am that he said No.

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C Is For Comment

When my sister Patti's kids were little, our parents were their babysitters. Mom and Dad hung out over there and got the older kids on the bus, stayed with anyone too little for school, and basically took their show on the road. My mom and dad rarely acted much differently in front of the grandkids since they had perfected the Art Of MicroBickering long ago. Often, their arguments consisted of each merely saying the other's name aloud in various tones, and that would be sufficient. (Name being a general term here: my parents used their ages-old pet names exclusively, Honey and Doll.) Kids, of course, are incredibly perceptive, which was proven not only when the grandchildren put on a skit entitled The Honey and Doll Show, but also when the following scene occurred as my dad encouraged some indoor football with my then-toddler nephew:


Mom: (after several potential disasters) Honey! Now stop egging him on! TJ, you know you're not supposed to do that!
Dad: (not at all sternly) TJ. Grammy says we have to stop.
TJ: (disdainfully, to my dad) She's don't has to comment.

Ah, the Comment! TJ's remains a Family Classic to this day. Even he agrees it's The Best Thing He's Ever Said, and he probably doesn't really remember it. It is now part of Family Lore, and it gets repeated over and over again, sometimes as a punchline for new stories at family gatherings.

A Comment can be that way. It can be like the dozens and dozens on a Yahoo! article--sheer entertainment to fill a few minutes of your day. Sometimes, when I need a laugh, I click on a particularly inane Yahoo! article and read the Comments.

Often, the Comments section of any page is the most interesting and the most illuminating. It is the vast advantage which digital media enjoys over print: internet readers can instantly respond and react to whatever they read. And their Comments can expand other readers' understanding or serve to refine it.

Like TJ said, however, we don't always have to Comment unless we have something to say. But I sometimes find myself hard-pressed to Comment on blogs where the writer doesn't engage with his or her Commenters. Maybe they feel that their original post is enough, and I get that. They've already Made Their Comment, so to speak. But I like chatting with my Commenters and...Commenting on their Comment. I mean, they've reacted to my writing. That means It Worked--I was successful. If they said something that was important to them, or something that made me think or react, I want to acknowledge it. If I had hundreds of Commenters, maybe I would have to rethink this philosophy, but with a core group of Less Than That, I can easily acknowledge and respond to Commenters. And I enjoy the exchange immensely.

About a hundred years ago, bloggers were pretty obsessed with Comments. Then PinTwitFace came along, and now, most bloggers are old and way more relaxed about Stuff. Now we Antique Internet Writers (aka BlogWriters) let PinTwitFace users get all exercised and calisthenic about Likes and Followers and Twits and Pinners or Whatever. Most of us don't care. We let those on PTF worry about those stats. You all know how I feel about All Of That.

No Comment.

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Go Set A...Memory

My wonderful, Literary-Leaning son Jared surprised me with a gift copy of Go Set a Watchman, Harper Lee's original manuscript of what eventually became her opus To Kill a Mockingbird. Actually, he told me he got me a copy. It didn't matter; either way, I felt terrible when I said, "Oh, Jay, thank you so much! How thoughtful. But I hope you can return it or give it to someone else. I'm not going to read it. I just can't. I can't bear to have Atticus ruined for me. I have a lot invested in him." And it's true.

Oh, sure, there's the almost thirty years I taught the book, teasing out the finer points of his character, analyzing and illuminating his famous address to the jury in the Robinson case, and stopping the film every single time my more vocal students would say, after Bob Ewell spit in his face, "If I was Atticus, I'd knock him out!" in order to explain why maybe they would, but a man like Atticus never, ever would.

No, I have a lot invested in Atticus because I parented based upon the Atticus Model. I don't lie to my children, and I have always spoken to them like they have sense. I have tried to be patient and be confident that, in the long run, their better nature will assert itself and they will eventually do The Right Thing. The To Kill a Mockingbird Atticus taught me that. He also taught me that this kind of parenting will encourage my kids to feel as if they could ask me anything. As I said to Jared, I'd prefer to have the To Kill a Mockingbird  Atticus be the seminal Atticus for me, forever.

Memory is a fragile and unpredictable thing. We can't always choose what we will remember or what we will lose to oblivion. This is part of the reason why I don't go to funerals and memorials even when the services are touted to be Celebrations of a Life. "Oh, Nance," you might say, "my aunt's wake was a big party! We all laughed and told our favourite stories! It was a great time!" But your aunt wasn't there, and it was still tinged with that sadness. And her immediate family had to deal with all the arrangements and be there, tired or not, grief-stricken or not. Not one memory from my father's funeral comforts or cheers me. And now, whenever I think of one of my former students, all I can see is his face in his coffin. Both of these facts cause huge waves of resentment; I don't want those memories.

In our lives we will have sorrow. Our loved ones will die, people will disappoint us. Our heroes will prove to have feet of clay. But sometimes, we are lucky enough to be able to avoid small sadnesses and hurts. We can choose our memories, even by keeping some intact.


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The Rambo Moment: Wildlife Wars Continue, Part III

Back when the boys were quite little, we had a very, very wet spring and summer--quite a lot like the one we're having right now. Everything was soggy and waterlogged, and it seemed like all manner of creepy crawlies and varmints came out. Especially annoying was the influx of a skunk family who wandered up our driveway each night, left a scented greeting, and departed by dawn. Naturally, our neighborhood was blessed by a robust stray cat population, so altercations were frequent and fragrant. (Our bedroom windows overlook the driveway--did I mention that?)

It was also the Summer Of Spiders, and I felt as if I would never get rid of them. Or the Thousand-Leggers. This was The Time Before Cats as well, although I doubt seriously if EmilyCat or TravisCat would have been much help. Travis whined terribly when he encountered any bugs near his food dish, and Emily simply couldn't be bothered.

But I digress.

It was after dinner one day when we were in the living room. Sam suddenly pointed into the kitchen and said, "Kitty! Hi, kitty!" Sam was only about two, a toddler who had been slow to talk, and one of those kids who called all men Daddy and all drinks Juice. Anything, therefore, which was small and furry and walked on four legs was a Kitty. Horrified, I asked him to clarify. "Sam, what did you say? Where is a kitty?" He smiled excitedly and pointed into the kitchen. "Kitty in there!" he said.

"Rick," I said, sick and dreadful. "Something is in the kitchen." Somehow, I was able to make the boys stay in the living room while Rick went out to investigate. In short order he was back. "Nance, it's a mouse. I see where it went. It's behind the dishwasher now. I'm getting the BB gun."

I felt like I was in a bad action movie and that Rick was suffering a Sylvester Stallone delusion. What in the hell was he going to do to a mouse with a BB gun? And behind the dishwasher? "Rick!" I yelled, but it was too late. He had grabbed the gun, cocked it, and was going in.

"It's in the space under the counter, in the insulation. I can see it!" he said. I heard the gun pop, cock, then pop again. "Got it!" he said. "I really got it." There was a pause, then, "Where the hell did it go?" I heard him open the cupboards next to the dishwasher and rummage around, heard him open the drawer, and then a strangled yelp. "Dammit!" There were the sounds of a brief struggle, then his footsteps on the basement steps. Moments later, he came up and into the living room, smiling and triumphant. "Got him!" he said. "But I'll get some traps in case there are more. I hit him, too. He was bloody. He jumped out of the drawer and ran downstairs. But I got him."

Rambo's victory was short-lived, however. And the mouse was probably just a scout or the recon team.

A day or two later, I heard the snap of the trap behind the trashcan in the kitchen. I was home with only Jared and Sam, but I wasn't afraid to dispose of a mousetrap. As I walked over to the can, I was surprised to hear more noise. It sounded like the trap snapping over and over again. How could that be? I wondered. With trepidation, I slid the kitchen can away from the wall and took a look.

What I saw was huge, a mouse on steroids with its head caught in the trap, trying desperately to free itself by shaking its head back and forth, knocking the wooden trap on the tile floor each time. The thing had its mouth open, revealing sharp yellow teeth on top and bottom, a pink mouth open in a silent scream as it writhed right and left, right and left. Horrified, I swallowed my own scream, mindful that Sam and Jared were around somewhere, and I slid the can right back into place and tried to think of what on earth to do.

Rick was quite a ways off on a job site, and no way was I letting that thing back there until the end of the day. But I could not bring myself to touch it. I immediately thought of my colleague's husband Lou, who lived one street over. He was the dearest and kindest man, and he used to walk over to deliver his famous homemade soup to us. He would know what to do, and he would be my Knight In Shining Armor! I called Carol and explained the situation. "I'm sending him right over!" she said. "Lou will take care of everything. Don't worry about a thing, Nance," she said.

In moments Lou appeared through the yards across the street, carrying a paper bag, gloves, and a whisk broom. I wanted to kiss him. The Giant Mouse was still flopping, making noise behind my kitchen trash can. He took a moment to reassure me and then went to work while I stood in the next room. In less than a minute, he had taken the creature outside to my garbage cans and came back inside to talk to me.

"Nance," he said worriedly, "that's no mouse. That's a river rat. You need to tell Rick. Somehow, that came up from the river and got into your house, maybe through your basement or something. He needs to find where and take care of it. And you need bigger traps."

Rats. Can you possibly imagine? First bats and then rats. I was ready to burn the place down. I think that's exactly what I told Rick when we...discussed it later.

We avoided that eventuality by finding the old sump crock with outside access and plugging it up, ending our rat problem. And Rick remained fully clothed throughout.

Find Out What It Means To Me (And My Father)

When my father used to talk about the kind of husband my sister Patti and I would eventually find and settle into happiness with, he often described a sort of professorial man of academic bent who would be a hybrid Philosopher Poet, probably another English teacher or even a writer or college instructor who would be quite similar to us. He may never have said so, but I got the impression that this man would also be older than us as well, though not by too terribly much, and down-to-earth, but certainly not earthy or crude, my father's most hated personality trait.

As you can probably guess, neither Patti nor myself married such a man. Her husband is a business manager whose politics have always run somewhat counter to those of my late father, a blue-collar union man. Their discussions used to get passionate and heated, and my mother and Patti would practically have to drag in firehoses or, at the very least, send in the children en masse armed with storybooks and Overwhelming Cuteness to defuse the situation. My husband Rick is a carpenter by trade, and he has probably read a handful of books all the way through in his lifetime without growling, none of them recently.

It is important to note here that my father graduated high school, was drafted, and afterward went to college briefly on the G.I. Bill. He did not stay long. After the War, college felt alien to him, I guess, and Getting On With His Life meant something else entirely.

Anyway. The husbands/sons-in-law.

Both of them were obviously not what Dad had intended at all. But both of us heard, via our mother (Dad's favourite conduit) that it was okay. I can't speak for my sister in this case, but I can, of course, say plenty with regard to mine. My dad never doubted for a moment that Rick and I loved each other; I knew that. And even though we were So Incredibly Young (eighteen when we met; twenty-two when we married!), it was clear that we weren't making an impetuous decision.

No, the big factor for Dad was Respect. "Your father can tell that Rick really respects you," my mother said to me. "He can see that he cares for you, yes, but it's the way he listens to you and looks at you when you talk. He knows you're smart, and he's not intimidated by that. He treats you like it's a partnership. That's what's really important to your father."

My father was terribly hard on all of us kids as we were growing up, and there were times that I used to stomp upstairs to my bedroom and hate him mightily for hours, days, even weeks on end. It wasn't that I didn't understand why, either. He always made sure we understood exactly why he said what he said or was disappointed in or angry at us. (We were never hit, ever.) That didn't mean we didn't think it was stupid or ridiculous, or unfair, or so Not Like Anyone Else's Parents. But we did always feel loved, valued, and above all, respected our entire lives.

I'm glad. Respect should be an enormous part of Love.  I'm grateful that my parents taught me that and modeled that for me, and I hope that I have effectively done the same for Sam and Jared.  I hope I did as much for my students, too.  


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Making The World Go 'Round, It's All We Need And A Many Splendored Thing

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Love--one of the Suggested Themes--is an awfully big Thing To Write About. For some reason, this word is fraught with peril for lots of people. It's heavy with baggage in budding relationships, and some people think we toss it around like confetti or sea salt. "Love should mean something," I heard some serious-looking blonde say in close-up on one of St. Patsy's soap operas one day. "Oh, hell," I think I said at the time.

Because, really, the point is Love means a lot of things. And don't you just hate that stupid quote from the book/movie Love Story: "Love means never having to say you're sorry"? What in the hell does that even mean? Does that mean that if you love someone, you're automatically forgiven for all of your boneheaded screwups, so no "I'm Sorry" is necessary? Or, does it mean that if you love someone, you automatically don't screw up where he/she is concerned? Either way--STUPID AND NOT ACCURATE, so...what a waste of Ali McGraw's eyebrows and all of our time.

Anyway.

Love means a lot of things. Let's think of some.

Love Means

I put his slippers on to warm before he comes home.
I buy his favourite cookies at the store.
I carry dog biscuits in my car even though I don't own a dog.
I don't say to St. Patsy, "You already told me this."
I don't care that Piper weighs 20 pounds.
I cry when Jared and Sam are sad.
I bought Zydrunas a coat for Christmas.
I still want him to sing to me even though he can't carry a tune.
I don't say It.
I cry with you.
I let the Past stay there.
I make the cream sauce once a month.
I shovel the driveway as a surprise.
I bring chai tea for St. Patsy.
I meet him on the deck with wine.
I laugh with you.
I put up with the dog and cat hair.
My heart is full when the boys are here.
I sometimes have to be The Bad Guy.
I cook and bake with less salt.
I take the fish off Sam's hook.
I always answer their calls and texts.
I call you on your shit.
I am always, always within a call or drive.
You can tell me anything and I keep it close.
I try to help.
I don't say I'm Sorry--I try to fix it.

Tell me what Love Means to you in Comments.

(PS.  Today, I put out a nice thank you note for my mailman and a bottle of water in celebration of Thank A Mailman Day.)

In Which I Catch You Up On All Sorts Of Things And Offer The Afflicted A Freebie (With A Side Of Salinger)

Welcome to December, Dearest Readers, a month for which I have the Highest Hopes. Before I begin with the actual Innards of this post, let me remind you that, Officially, you may set out your Christmas Mugs, put up your Christmas Trees and Other Yuletide Decor, and listen to all the Christmas Music your merry heart desires. Now that November has cleared out, it is Perfectly Acceptable and sanctioned by the Dept. of Nance.

November was a Massive Disappointment for me, and while it's a little early for Festivus and The Airing Of Grievances, I have a little bit of Random Business to attend to in this post. I know you'll indulge me.

1. The Medical. Yesterday was the first day I actually felt Well. My cold developed into sinus and ear infections, and I became so very weak and sad. Complicating matters was the fact that I am presently without a general practitioner, and I was in no shape to sit in a waiting room, alone, trying to fill out forms when I could barely sit up. My situation was dire, so I resorted to technology and downloaded the app Doctor On Demand. Within twenty minutes I:   had a private consultation with a doctor, was prescribed medications which were called in to a local pharmacy, and had a comprehensive write-up of my session to refer to any time I wanted. All for $40. All while I sat in my chair in my jammies and blanket. As much as I hate going to the doctor and sitting and waiting, this was worth it. And I was given a code to share with anyone I wanted, which offers patients a discount. Here it is if you're ever in a similar, non-emergency situation: ac68f0se . (No, this isn't a sponsored post.)

2. The Holiday. As you might imagine, being so ill made Thanksgiving difficult. Luckily, I live with a Superhero. Rick made everything except the dressing/stuffing, and that included the two pumpkin pies. The boys (and Zydrunas) came over early in the day to help out with things, too, so all I had to do was check on the turkey and eat. My oven soldiered through it all, which is good because when I called to get service, I was told that it would be Impossible--Frigidaire (aka The Great Satan) no longer makes any parts for that appliance. Just so you know, That Appliance is less than ten years old. I want to say Terrible Things about Frigidaire, but I have used them all up already. Since so many of you Gracious Living-ers are dying to know, we did not have a centerpiece on the table; I served an oaked Chardonnay and a Rosé, and no silver-polishing was necessary because we didn't use anything which required it. Zydrunas was angelic until Marlowe suddenly made an appearance, and then all bets were off for approximately the four seconds it took for the chase which ensued. (I didn't see Marlowe again until approximately 11 PM.)

3. The Government. I've kept calm and quiet here regarding all of the governmental bullshit over the past months because A) I'm trying to maintain my Zen, and B) it's pointless to get my undies in a bunch, but honestly, it's crap like this quote from Sen. Harry Reid--yes, a Democrat--that makes me want to zip down there and smack the entire Congress: “We have a lot to do. And there isn’t much time to accomplish it. I urge all senators to work hard to complete our work in a timely and efficient fashion. We may have to be here the week before Christmas." Can I see a show of hands from Every Single Person Out There who has/had a Lot To Do and had/has to work the week before Christmas all of the time? I'd like to quote the nitrous-addled kid from the YouTube video when I say, "Is this real life?!" If you want to make yourselves sick, go here and look at how little your Congress is working for you. These goldbrickers are rarely in session, ever. And many of these blowhards are the same snots who want to cut teacher pay because, according to them, teachers only work nine months a year. So when these Congresspersons tell you that many of the days that they are not In Session, they are still, in fact, Working, tell them THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT TEACHERS DO TOO! And teachers don't have paid staffers to help them. Not even ONE.

4. The Paid Cyberbully. Speaking of a paid staffer, let me say this about republican EX-staffer Elizabeth Lautner, the congressional aide who took to her TwitPinFace account to bully the President's teenaged daughters. It's the ugliest thing in the world to use kids for your own adult agenda. Why in the world would you ever, ever be mean and nasty to a kid simply because you didn't like his or her parents? It's hard enough in the world to be a kid in the public eye, and someone like Elizabeth Lautner just made it ten times harder. I'm not going to parse her objectionable comments because we all know what she said and what it meant. But picking on teenaged girls via social media is, to me, the equivalent of beating a toddler at Candyland. And I'm still waiting for a true apology because the one Lauten provided--after several hours of intense prayer, supposedly--was a non-starter, and every sincere person in the world knows it.

5. The American People. You know, I've covered this territory before, but holy crap, how pathetic are They? And don't say, "Nance, you are an American Person, you know!" Honestly, I am seriously starting to wonder. I really, truly am. Because It's scary. Look at the results of the newest CNN/ORC poll:

50% of Americans believe the GOP taking control of the House and the Senate next year will be bad for America
52% expect it to lead to more gridlock

68% Americans polled say the GOP isn't cooperating enough with President Obama
57% say it's Obama who's not cooperating enough with the GOP

44% of Americans view the Democratic Party favorably
50% view it unfavorably

41% of Americans view the republican party favorably
52% view the republican party negatively

Who voted in this last election?  Did they bus in a bunch of idiots who think that the earth is flat and that spray cheese is all the science they ever need?  I know I voted.  I voted SO HARD.  But thanks to careful gerrymandering, it's not going to matter much anymore. Take a look at Ohio's district map.

6. The Theory. As I've mentioned before, both of my sons have a Twitter account, and occasionally I stalk them (purely for amusement). I've often felt that Jared has a little Holden Caulfield in him, and that quality twinkled at me when I read this particular tweet:

Women always show up to a place like they're going to be there for a couple weeks.

(Oh my, Chapter Eight; Ernest Morrow's mother who leaves her goddamn bags in the middle of the aisle and her hands lousy with rocks! Sigh.)

******************

It's good to be Alive again.

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Bus Stop

For the past few weeks, I've been watching the same sad drama unfold outside my living room window every morning at about 8:30 AM. It's not that I sit and wait for it; I'm already in my big armchair, reading the newspaper and having my second cup of coffee. Or, if Piper has decided it's Time, I'm having a Snuggle with a huge orange marmalade cat, rendering any movement at all completely impossible. (More than once, I've mistakenly played an Unintentional Word in Words With Friends; it doesn't always work out advantageously.)

But I digress.

At 8:30 in the morning on Mondays through Fridays, a school bus pulls up to the house two doors down, and the sound of a child crying and wailing begins. Soon, a little boy of about six appears, backpack on his back. Sometimes his mother carries him; other times he slowly walks, rubbing his eyes or his head with one hand while holding his mom's hand with the other. It's crying only--no words, no complaints--just a steady bawling which reaches a higher pitch as soon as the doors whoosh open. Each day, the little boy and his mom have been greeted by a cheery, merry bus aide. She calls out his name--it sounds like it might be Charlie? Marty? Barney?--and asks how he's doing. Is he ready for school today? She carefully takes his hand and helps him to walk up the steps to the bus. She won't carry him; he has to walk himself. The doors close, and the bus lumbers away.

The first time this drama unfolded, I initially focused on the little one, naturally. My heart broke for him. He clutched at his mother; he looked so tiny and his backpack looked so large. He's so afraid! I thought. And he has to go on that big huge bus! That poor baby. What if he cries the whole way there? What if someone is mean to him? Then I looked at his mother, who lingered at the end of the driveway, watching and waving, then standing there, hands clasped at her chest. How awful for her! To know that her baby is so sad and so upset, and to be unable to do anything but watch. I remembered my own guilt: I couldn't take my own kids to school on their first day because it was always the first day of school for me, too. I would always spend odd moments of the day wondering. So much of raising children is Heartbreak!

In the ensuing days, the tears have not subsided when the bus comes. Each day, the mother brings the little boy to the bus, still crying. The bubbly aide tries her hardest to jolly him up, but nothing has worked thus far. "He's a little crabby today," said the mother yesterday through the wailing. I wondered why she bothered to say anything. Maybe, though, he does stop crying on the bus at some point. Certainly he would at school. I'm not entirely certain, however; today as I was gathering my mail, the bus dropped him off. He was crying.

All of this is in stark contrast to the other little boy three doors down from me the other way who used to get picked up by a van for his school. A happy-go-lucky sort of kid, he was very hyperactive and didn't seem to have any sort of concerns about going off to school at all. As a matter of fact, one morning as he was leaving, he yelled loudly, "So long, suckas!"

A performance that was never, at least to my knowledge, repeated.

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And Now For Something Completely Different (And Undead)

The Dept. of Nance interrupts Poetry Month to bring you this Moment Of NEO Neighborhood Culture.

I was sitting in my leather easy chair one morning, coffee in hand and catten on lap, about a week ago (30 May, to be exact), when I happened upon this little item in my beloved Cleveland Plain Dealer:

I took the above photo with my iPhone and immediately sent it to Jared and Sam via text message. They live in Lakewood, a Cleveland suburb that is not too terribly far from where I am, but for its culture, it may as well be eleventy thousand miles away. "That is so Lakewood," Jared responded. I think Sam sent me a photo of a sleeping baby giving me The Finger. Sigh.

Maybe I'll post a Zombie Poem next. I know just the right one, too. Until then, be careful out there.

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Dog Days

While away On Jaunt, if you will, Dearest Readers, I met a new dogfriend named Stella. She is a delightful canine torpedo of a Boston terrier. Before I arrived at Stella's house, considerable talk had occurred along the lines of What To Do Since Nance Was A Cat Person. I was horrified to discover that a contingency plan had been made to stow Stella away with her Grandmother in the adjoining "Mother-in-law Suite" in case I didn't appreciate her presence.

Of course, that was a Gracious and Hospitable thing to do, but the idea of separating a loving pet from her owners would have made me feel like the worst sort of villain. Besides, I already have a Dog Niece, a cute little Corgi mix named Abbi, for whom I carry tiny biscuits in my car at all times. Truth be known, I like dogs very much as a Spectator Sport. I simply know that owning one is not for me. Dogs, as I have stated many times before, are too worky. I view all dogs as a sort of Grandchild Entity: I enjoy them for purely temporary entertainment purposes and selfishly. Then they can go home with their pet parents and I can retreat to my cats, who, except for Hair Maintenance and Shitboxes, require little of me.

It seems, however, that now I will indeed have a Dog Grandchild, a Granddog, I guess. Sam and Jared, housemates now, have adopted a dog. Did I offer lots of Motherly Advice and do My Part, pointing out the various pitfalls of dog ownership at this stage in their lives? La, it is to laugh. I brought up their odd work schedules, the fact that they live on the second floor, the expense of vet bills, the way a dog needs to be exercised in all kinds of weather--even lousy NEO weather--and yada yada yada. Sam, as usual, said nothing. Jared said, "Mom. Do you think every dog owner in the USA is at home with their dog 24/7 and has a million dollars? This won't involve you at all. We're not kids anymore. It's okay."

So much of that is true that it hurts. It hurts because he is right and I am being a big fat idiot. Who needs to butt out.

You will all be happy to know that I did precisely that. I butted out, and better than that, even, I Got On Board With The Dog Happening. We all went--even St. Patsy--to buy food, dishes, collar, lead, toys, and treats at the store. And can I just say something about the topic and item known as a Dog Bed?

Whoever is in charge of Dog Bed Pricing is a genius. This cartel is making money hand over fist and making it in skyscraper-like stacks. I have never seen something so outrageous as the price of Dog Beds. When I bought cat beds, I spent no more than ten dollars ($10.00 US currency) per cat bed. You cannot buy a large Dog Bed for less than FIFTY DOLLARS ($50.00 US currency). I'd like to quote the clerk in the pet store when I say, "Right? Like...why?  For...what?" And that is for the most basic, no-frills, bigass pillow on the floor type thing. Any decent Dog Bed is going to run you at least EIGHTY BUCKS. I could not contain my outrage nor my incredulity. One Dog Bed we looked at was simply a cat bed on steroids. Period. IT WAS ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. FOR A DOG COVERED IN DOG HAIR TO LIE IN. POSSIBLY AFTER POOPING OUTDOORS AND LICKING ITSELF.

When did this happen? Who did this? And, more importantly, how do I get a cut?

Anyway, the best thing ever was a Pet Store employee who told us to go to a local buyout outlet. "It's ridiculous," she said. "You'll do much better there, at least half off, and get a brand-name bed." We went, and we got a Serta Dog Bed with a washable cover. A Serta. For a Dog. And it was still a ridiculous price, in my estimation, although way cheaper than anything we'd seen anyplace else.

Listen, if there is anyone out there who wants to go into business with me and sell affordable, good quality Dog Beds at a reasonable price, I am IN, one hundred percent. You be the seamstress/tailor, and I'll research and design/develop. We will rake in the cash; I am not kidding. The world needs high-quality Dog Beds at a fair price. Go ahead and check out Dog Beds online. You'll see what I mean.

Oh, and yes, like all good grandmothers everywhere, I do have a picture. Here he is. Meet my new one-year old Granddog, Zydrunas. He will be joining the family as of Friday, 9 May, rescued from the Cleveland APL, where he is being neutered and vetted before coming to his Forever Home and ridiculously overpriced Dog Bed.

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If You Want Your Stuff To Be Like Family

Last night, while Rick and I were sort of watching television and sort of strategizing with our fantasy basketball teams, a commercial came on for a storage facility with a slogan that, for me, was problematic. Do business with us, they said, because "we'll treat your stuff like it's our stuff." I immediately turned to Rick.


Me:  Well, I don't see how that's such a great thing.
Rick:  What?
Me:  Telling people that you'll treat their stuff like it's your stuff. For example, if someone stored their collection of tchochkes here, I'd give them all away. I'm in Streamlining Mode. If that was my stuff, I'd be giving it away or tossing it. So...
Rick:  Or what if you don't take care of your stuff, like hoarders? You just cram it all in and let it rot? How is that good?
Me:  Exactly.  Some people simply don't give a damn about their stuff. So, what if they let other people go through the stuff, or they leave the door open and the stuff gets stolen? I know lots of people who are very casual about stuff, like Sam and Jared with their clothes. Half their wardrobe is in someone else's closet, usually each other's.
(there is a pause)
Rick:  We're never giving them our stuff.
Me:  Ha! You got that right.

All of this reminds me of another business, a restaurant, whose slogan was "We treat you like family" and the similarly themed "When you're here, you're family." Again, how is that good? I don't go out to dinner to feel like I'm at home eating with my kids, or my sisters and brother. And the very last thing I want is to sit in a restaurant and have the atmosphere of sitting in someone's kitchen or dining room while Mom complains that no one appreciates the time it took to prepare and cook the meal, Dad rides herd on some sullen, plugged-in tween who won't eat that because there's some fat on it, and a little preschooler who wants to talk about what a Disney character did and how she's a princess/he's (are there any male Disney characters who are heroes and carry the movie? Well, put his name here).  I have crossed restaurants off my List because of a high proportion of families in their patronage.  I'm by no means against families.  Heavens no.  I've just already had mine and been through all that and don't care to bear witness to it again.

Even Family Dinners at my house, which were not actually like the previous scenario, are still quite calisthenic and can wear me out sometimes. Plus, when I'm at home, no one comes out and serves me my dinner and takes the used utensils or extra plates away. I am not automatically brought nice, icy refills of water at home, either.  There is certainly not the luxury of being asked, "May I take your order?" or the more delightful "And what can I bring you for dinner this evening?"  Oh, how gorgeous.

Perhaps I am overthinking and overanalyzing these slogans. After all, it is only advertising and marketing, not great literature. But when there are so very, awfully many commercials that interrupt programming--especially as we watch the news--it's inevitable that I pay attention to a few here and there. They're asking for it.

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Yo! Check It Out

Even as I was on my Bed Of Misery, my children decided yesterday to come on over for the afternoon and dinner (in order to Jolly Along my recovery, I'm sure.) Thank goodness I had the ingredients for the world's simplest and most delicious Asian-style pork recipe done entirely in the crockpot. Thanks to Dear Reader Shirley, I had the crowd-pleasingest salad* in the universe, and dinner was a simple matter of tossing things into receptacles, stirring, and serving. The only thing I had to actually pay attention to was some rice. (*I add chunked-up apples; it's a wonderful addition.)

Sam and Jared brought their lovely and intelligent girlfriends, Tina and Kait respectively, and it was a great strain on me not to hug and kiss everyone. We are and always have been a demonstrative family, a trait that has been echoed throughout the generations. (As a matter of fact, when Jared first "sent me a fax", as my mother calls text messaging, that he and Kait were coming, I told him that it was fine, but that I had a terrible cold. "Don't touch me. Don't even look at me. That's how awful it is," I tapped out to him."Kait says she is going to lick your face," was the response.)

Our tiny livingroom was full to the brim with people. Tina was bundled up under a comforter (see, it's not just me), Sam and Jared and Rick folded their tall frames into furniture, and Kait leaned over the arm of the couch to tell me all about her recent birthday trip. I was in my chair, finishing up Jared's knee warmer. Having taken his measurements the last time he was here, I custom-knit him a knee warmer to keep his knee warm at work in order to lessen his arthritis pain. Soon, however, this heartwarming scene of domestic tranquility would degenerate into something far more typical for us:

Jared: Are you gonna hook up your Playstation or sit there like a bitch?
Sam: (affably) You mean like you? (to me now) Do you guys mind if we hook up the Playstation and play a little bit before dinner?
Me: No, go ahead. But play nice. Jared, you know how you get.
Jared: Remember when we had the Sega, Sam, and Mom used to yell at you all the time because I told her that you had cheat codes that you used to beat me?
Sam: Yes! You got me in trouble all the time with that. I never had any cheat codes.
Jared: Mom used to holler upstairs and say, "Sam! Stop using cheat codes! Play the right way or I'll--"
Sam: (interrupts and uses horrible nasally voice that sounds nothing like his mother)--I'll come up there and take the power cord and NO ONE will play. I mean it. That's not fair." And I didn't even have cheat codes.
Me: Oh my god. I never sounded like that in my entire life. Maybe now, with this horrid cold, but never like that.
Jared: Mom was all about the cheat codes.
Me: Sam, Cheat Code can be your rap name.
Jared: That's pretty good. Cheat Code. If I'm ever a rapper, my name is gonna be Hate Crime. That's so gangsta. Because who likes a hate crime? No one. But I'll spell it K-R-H-Y-M-E, like rhyme. Then I'll rap about everything I hate.
Tina: (looks up from her phone) I want a rap name, too.
Kait: I do, too. What's my rap name?
Me: (surveying the empty box of candy in Kait's lap) Kait, your rap name can be Gummy Worm.
Kait: Okay!


Somehow, Rick got the rap name Head Wound, and I don't remember how. Tina and I still don't have a rap name, so we're open to suggestions. And, luckily for you, I left out the profanity that tends to zing around the room when Jared and Sam get together. They both work in male-dominated workplaces, and there, it's ubiquitous.

Starting April 1, Sam and Jared will be roommates again. They will be sharing a house, back together again for the first time in ages. I feel a sense of a circle connecting, a knot tying, yet a loosening of...I'm not sure what; but it's like I can breathe more deeply. They're best friends, and they look out for each other. They have good women in their lives. I feel good about Hate Krhyme and Cheat Code right now. I really, really do.

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