When Bears Attack

One of my favourite things is when Rick comes home from work, sits in his recliner, and reads to me. He is addicted to a news service on his phone called Flipboard, and he reads me anything he finds interesting that he thinks I'll find interesting, too. Sometimes, he does some editorializing, which is a nice bonus. Often, I do the editorializing, which is sometimes not nearly as nice because I use a lot of profanity if it's political news. 

What can I say? I get stirred up.

Anyway, the other day, Rick was reading me a story from Flipboard about a heroic man in California who saved his dog from a bear attack. 

Here's how that went:

Rick:  So, some guy in California punched a 350-pound bear in the face to save his dog Buddy's life.

Nance:  (looks up from her game of Wordscapes on her phone) Wow. I have not done anything with my life.

Rick: (looks directly at her; pauses meaningfully) No.

Nance:  Wait. The dog's name was Buddy? This guy will punch a 350-pound bear right in its face, but he can't be bothered to think of a better name for his dog than Buddy?

Rick:  (ignores her) Now it says the bear keeps coming back and won't leave them alone. That it sees the dog as food and knows it's still there. 

Nance:  Who says that? And where the hell does this guy live, in a national park or something? 

Rick:  Nance, I don't know. I'm just reading the story that's here. It doesn't say all that.

Nance:  Maybe it's time to change that dog's name. That dog is probably embarrassed. Poor thing. 

This whole story reminded me of another Bear Story that made me feel bad about myself for not ever stepping up and fighting a bear for...anything, really. 

Back in 2006 in Quebec, a woman named Lydia Angyiou got between her seven-year old son and a 700-pound polar bear who wandered into a kids' street hockey game. The polar bear swatted Ms. Angyiou down, but she kept fighting until someone with a gun fired off a shot to distract the bear. He backed off, and the shooter had to fire four times to fell the bear. I wrote about it here in 2006, lamenting my parenting failure compared to Ms. Angyiou's obviously superior efforts. Let's face it; unless you save your kid from a rampaging bear, you're in the minor leagues at best.

But I digress.

The question is--would I go up against a crazed and hungry bear to save my cats, Piper and Marlowe? As the Magic 8 Ball would say, OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD. Oh, sure, I'd scream and bang on some pots or something to distract the bear (and, hey! what is a bear doing in my neighborhood?), but I have to tell you that, really, they're goners. 

Be real about your pets and a bear attack in Comments.

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If Only Masks Filtered Out The Stupid

I was subjected to this conversation in the waiting area of a medical center this week because I had to finally have my overdue appointment with my neurologist. Unfortunately, it is a shared waiting space with another practice in the same conglomerate, but physical distancing was possible. Audible distancing was not, however, so while I filled out some repetitive and useless forms, I could not help but overhear this discussion between a woman (probably in her sixties) and her elderly mother, who was the patient.

We join it as I did, already in progress.

Daughter: It's the destruction that I don't get. Why destroy everything?

Mother: Well, what'll they come for next? Disney World? Disneyland?

Daughter: It's better ways to get your point across is all I'm sayin'. (at this moment, I glanced up from my forms and she looked my way) That's my personal opinion.

Mother: Have you thought about supper?

Daughter: I want to get stuff cleaned out of that fridge. Pulled pork. The rest of that potato salad.

Mother: There's not nary enough of that potato salad for more'n two people.

Daughter: Well, we're gettin' rid of all of that stuff. I have a delivery comin' tomorrow. I sure will be glad when I can just go wherever I want to go whenever I want to go. It sure would be nice to travel. Get back down to South Carolina.

Mother: It's down in South Carolina, too. The virus is all over the country. It's everywhere.

Daughter: I know. (big sigh) At some point, you just gotta live your life, you know? You just gotta live your life. That's just how I feel about it.

(Both pause while they consider this philosophy)

Daughter: Dogs are lucky, though! They already have a vaccine for the Covid.

Mother: What?! Are you serious?

Daughter: Yep. Says so right on the package: protects against fleas, ticks, heartworm, and the Covid. Course it's not the same Covid as we humans get, but it's still the Covid.

Mother: Well, I'll be. Course isn't everyone worried now about the H1N1 coming now, too?

Daughter: And the Ebola! But those are in Africa right now. OF COURSE. That's where it all starts.

Mother: (shakes head) Like we don't have enough goin' on right here, right now.

It was at this point that I finished my paperwork, so I took it up to the window. When I came back, it was mere moments before I was called in to my appointment. As usual, it was delightful; Dr. B. and I dispensed with the business end of my visit quickly and efficiently and spent a good long while chatting about other more pleasant things. He continues to be a light in my life.

But my time in the waiting room impressed upon me that my vote just got more important. Smart people everywhere need to vote.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered...Well, Sort Of

Some Smartypants Thinkerhead once advised that if you are ever angry at someone, you should write him or her a letter. In that letter you should state your feelings in great detail about the situation and really let loose all the anger and frustration within you. Then, says Dr. Thinkerhead, tear up that letter. In that way you have the benefit of the Catharsis without the Damage.

It's pretty decent advice, but I feel like it was given in Ye Olde Dayes, well before Ye Internete, so I'm going to update it a little, and dash off a few missives here. (Hell, I'm being Olde Fashionede as it is, writing Letters on a Blog.)

Dear Google Newsfeed;

Why, Google Newsfeed, why? Why do you insist upon including stories about things in which I have Zero Interest and have never, ever clicked on anywhere? I get why there are stories about Lebron James and the NBA power rankings in my newsfeed; I have a fantasy team and do a lot of research. I understand why stories about Aretha Franklin's tribute suddenly popped up. But I cannot fathom why stories about The Konas Brothers or the Jardashians or Kick/Noe Konas and his wife Chiyanka Propra* are a recurrent and prominent feature.  Trust me when I tell you that not only do I have No Interest in these individuals, I also have--now!--for them all an exponentially growing Anathema.  *(I hope, Dear Readers, that you can figure out who I mean. I am afraid to use their real names, lest Blogger, owned by Google, tells my Newsfeed--wrongly!--that I'm a fan.)

Why, Google Newsfeed, do you refuse to let me delete these stories to improve your algorithm? How much longer do you think I'm going to let you Be The Boss Of Me?

Your News Is Not Good News,
Nance


Dear Dog Breeders Who Advertise In The Cleveland Plain Dealer;

I get that Dogs are your thing and not Spelling. It might be worth thinking about, however, that One Never Gets A Second Chance To Make A First Impression.

Woof,
Nance


Dear FineLife Products;

I have...so many questions. What kind of salad component is a bottled or canned beverage? What in the hell is HOMEGATING? If this is a Salad Bar, why is there only one bowl of a salad-like foodstuff? And, finally (perhaps most importantly to some people), where are the bacon bits?

For The Good Life,
Nance

Waiting to hear from you in Comments.


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Of Politics, Books, And Grocery Store Serendipity

The time I normally set aside for The Resistance was not enough this morning, thanks in large part to the Kavanaugh hearings and, of course, to the recent anonymous editorial published in the New York Times. Its author, claiming to be a part of a whole other resistance, doesn't impress me one whit. Spare me and the entire country your big effing courage, buddy, and really Do Something rather than sneak a few papers off a desk. You are nothing but Part Of The Problem.

Anyway.

A couple of hours, many emails, letters, and phone calls later, I was ready to pack the car and head down to DC and tell a few people something about themselves in person. Also, I was pretty sure I could use a few hugs from Senator Sherrod Brown and maybe from Representative John Lewis, National Treasure. Instead, I did what I always tell my sons to do when they're stressed out: do something constructive.

I decided to clean out my bookshelves yet again and donate some more of my languishing hardbacks to the annual library book sale. I got the idea from grocery shopping.

Earlier this week at the grocery store, I ran into a former student. Rather, she stopped me in the dairy aisle where I was dawdling without any purpose whatsoever because I sort of half-assed my list and couldn't remember if I needed any yogurt or butter. "Hey, Mrs. D! How are you? How have you been? Do you still love retirement?" she chirped.  I almost didn't recognize her because--and this is sad--she looked so happy.

"Oh, sweetie! It's so good to see you!" I greeted her in return.  And I meant it. I had never seen her smile so much. It was obvious that she was doing well.

"I feel I need to tell you that I don't work here anymore. I went back to school. I finished and got my library science degree. It's so awesome, and I work right here in town at the library! I love it!"

Why she felt she needed to tell me that, I don't know, but I was truly glad that she did. We talked a bit longer about her life and her job, and then I mentioned that I had some books I wanted to donate. "Drop them off anytime," she told me.

So, back to me cleaning out my burgeoning bookshelves. I already knew I was going to get rid of my set of Andrew Greeley books on principle alone. Then there were a half-dozen more that I knew I'd never read again, so in they went. It was tough, because back in the eighties or nineties, the fad was to take all the jackets off your books so as to streamline the look of your shelves. I had to really stare at the spines. Some of my books are vintage; some are old carpentry and drafting books of Rick's and his grandfather's. And I have a lot of books. But nothing prepared me to find, way on the bottom shelf, a copy of a certain ghostwritten book by a certain political person who shall remain nameless. And rather than donate it and validate its garbage, I did this:

I call it Art:  No Deal

Afterward, I did what every self-respecting Democrat would do, I recycled it. Burning books? Please. Let's not, as they say, Go There.

I did, however, temporarily set aside one page--it was before the opening page of chapter one. It contains a partial quote from a speech by Theodore Roosevelt, former real President of the United States. It does not quote it completely or even correctly (big surprise), but I will:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.--(23 April 1910)

The irony is stunning.

I am part of the Resistance. Since 20 January 2017.  And I will keep striving for as long as necessary.

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Today, I Feel Like A Genius. Read This And You Will Feel Like One, Too.

We join a Cleveland Sunday news show already in progress...

Robin: And today is National Jelly Bean Day! The sweet little treat is thought to be the invention of a Boston candymaker. His popular candy was sent to Union troops during the American Civil War. How about you, Ryan? Do you like jelly beans? I have to say that myself, I like Jelly Bellies better than jelly beans.

(Camera cuts to shot of Ryan the weatherman, standing in front of the map. For a moment he looks terribly confused; his mouth opens, then shuts. He glances at the camera, then looks over at the anchor desk.)

Ryan: Aaah...Jelly Bellies and jelly beans are the same thing. Jelly Bellies are a brand of jelly beans, Robin.

Robin: (voice heard, off, brightly) Oh wow! You learn something new every day!




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They Are Students; They Are Victims; They Are Change--Ready For The Revolution

Is it almost Every Day now? Because it feels like almost Every Day--that almost Every Day a school is On Lockdown, or there is a School Shooting, or we're in the Aftermath of a School Shooting. It feels sad and hopeless, yet I'm full of outrage and anger and motivation, like I have to lift a wrecked car off of my child in order to save him.

I was more than midway through my teaching career when Columbine happened in 1999. Despite teaching in one of Ohio's "Big Urbans," I doubt one of us ever imagined a single one of our students capable of a mass shooting. Some of our kids were in and out of juvie, several had incarcerated parents, and to find more than a handful in class with the same last name as both parents (or their single parent) was relatively unusual. A high percentage qualified for free or reduced lunch. Many lived in public housing. The odds were stacked against so many of our kids, yet the idea of a Columbine-like event at our high school of 2000+ was unthinkable.  We were largely ignorant as to the profile of the typical adolescent mass shooter, and we were never given any education, even after the incident.

After it happened, the school district immediately tightened security. All exits would remain locked; teachers would be posted at the doors, admitting no one except through the main entrance (and no, we did not get hazard pay).  Students and staff were photographed for I.D. badges, to be worn on a lanyard around their necks at all times, which the kids found ridiculous and irritating. I reminded them that we were a huge school of three floors, three buildings, and that outsiders had sneaked into our school plenty of times. Besides, it wasn't costing them any money.  "This is stupid!" they protested. "The Columbine shooters were Columbine students!"  The discussion pretty much stopped when one student said, "The I.D.'s are so they can identify our bodies."  I retired in 2011, tossing my I.D. badge into the trash can.

Six months later, I joined a community of bloggers trying to grieve the losses of more than twenty grade school children at Sandy Hook by "writing it out". And astonishingly, two short months after that, and about fifty miles from my home, a terrifyingly disturbed boy walked into Chardon High School and murdered his classmates.

Incredibly, I still have so many of the same Outrages, Questions, and Sadnesses today. Because of Inaction. Because of Unwillingness. Because, it seems, of Abject Cowardice by the same politicians and, overwhelmingly, the same political party. Do they not have Children? A Sense Of Humanity? A Soul?

I know that so many of you share my feelings. And I hope you have had a chance to watch and listen to the empowering and encouraging speeches given by the young activists at the March For Our Lives in Washington, D.C. They are inspiring and moving. (Just search "March for Our Lives speeches" on YouTube). These Parkland teens have benefitted from a rich program of the arts and debate and a school system that helped them understand critical thinking and verbal expression. Add that to their ready use of social media platforms, and a true Movement was born. The most vital part of the speeches--aside from their obvious emotional impact--was the idea that they stressed VOTING FOR CHANGE. Tables were set up at these and sibling rallies to register voters and to provide information regarding voting. This injects more momentum to the already-inspired women and minority voters and candidates who have scored seats locally and statewide, building to a Blue Wave in the midterms.

Before I end, I want you to meet Parkland survivor Sam Fuentes. As she took cover from the shooter, a bullet tore through her leg, and shrapnel chewed into her face. Pieces of it behind her eye and cheek will remain there forever, like the memories of her ordeal. She had to post pictures of her injured face from her hospital bed and screen shots of her bleeding body being loaded into the ambulance to try and silence social media trolls and pro-NRA conspiracy theorists. She watched her friend Nick Dworet die, and it would seem her struggles with PTSD are likely far from over. Despite all of this, she took the stage on Saturday and read a slam poetry-styled speech, displaying the humanity and authenticity that is sorely lacking in Washington, D.C. Her courage and conviction, in the midst of becoming physically and emotionally overwhelmed, should inspire us all.  Please watch and listen;  you'll be so, so very glad that you did.




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Our Finger Is On The Pulse Of The Nation: A New Feature Here At The Dept. Of Nance

Ladies and Gentlemen, we here at The Big Simple Polls, LLC, have our collective finger on the pulse of the nation. At times like these, it's important to know what Joe and Sally Citizen are thinking. Too often, talking heads, policy wonks, and Washington insiders get caught up in D.C. skulduggery and beltway mumbo jumbo. It's up to regular people--like us!--to bring all that political jibber jabber and Internet noise into focus and boil it down to something clear, easy, and basic. That's why we call ourselves The Big Simple: we ask the big, simple questions to people just like you and get answers that are, well, big and simple!

Here are two questions we polled recently and their responses below. We have given you two easy-to-understand pie charts to assist you. I think you'll agree that The Big Simple Polls, LLC, has not only assisted you in understanding these issues, but also distilled them into their most basic form.

Question 1: Is the current president doing a good job?

Question 2: Would you trust the current president to tell the truth under oath?

Until next time, Keep It Simple!


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My New Mantra When Things Get A Little Too Real

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Even though I don't feel at all ashamed about Getting Real last week (it was so Cathartic), I have to tell you that my problems pale in comparison to this woman, who lives in a town not too terribly far from where I live. Longtime Readers already know you don't even have to click that link because I'm going to tell you everything you need to know.

While I'm bitching and moaning about cat hair, bathroom hair, English Language abuses, and other non-life threatening mundanities, a middle-aged woman was lying in her front yard telling a 911 operator, "I have a boa constrictor stuck to my face".

I know, right?

And you think you have problems.

Because the nine ball pythons she already owned were lonely, perhaps, the woman had adopted two boa constrictors the day before (or "rescued", as she terms it in the 911 call, at first amusingly misinterpreted as "arrested" by the operator). She decided, apparently, to take one out and give it a cuddle, and it...reciprocated, as five-and-a-half-foot boa constrictors are wont to do. Unfortunately, “it was wrapped around her neck and biting her nose and wouldn’t let go,” Fire Chief Tim Card said. “They had to cut its head off with a [pocket] knife to get it to let go of her face.”

Yikes. I mean, who would have thought it? Everything I know about snakes is that they're so nice and sweet. So easy to train and so obedient. Just the best pets, ever.

The snake (with its head, I presume) was summarily tossed in the town's garbage bin out back of City Hall.

One local animal handler opined that perhaps the woman handled the boa constrictor too soon after rescuing it; that a waiting period of at least one week is advisable to prevent trauma. He also felt the snake could have been saved if they had just used a few drops of rubbing alcohol on its head, which may have gotten it to release its jaws. Sigh. Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

All I know is this: I had a few rough days last week, but at no time was a snake stuck to my face. Also, thank goodness snakes can't walk or fly. Or drive. That town is pretty close, and obviously, that woman is...a Little Bit Goofy when it comes to snakes.  But bless her, I'm glad she's okay.

This reminds me of back in 2014 when I wrote about the house near me that exploded right before Christmas. Remember that? I used "at least my house didn't explode" as my mantra for months, helping me to have perspective when anything went wrong or I had a setback or a bad day. It worked pretty well for a while, especially during the holidays.

Well, now I have a new mantra for when things get rough and I'm not feeling up to par. At least I don't have a snake stuck to my face!

Snakes Are Not The Boss Of Me

That I have a debilitating fear of snakes is not news. I've mentioned it in almost a dozen posts, most notably in this one about Irrational Fears and this one, a little playlet starring everyone's favourite, my mother, St. Patsy. (Speaking of which, let me take a moment to remind her: Hey, Mom, whenever you see the little words in a different colour, you can touch them and go to read or look at whatever it is I'm talking about.)

Thanks, everyone. Onward.

I'm happy to report that I've made considerable progress with regard to my phobia of snakes. Much of this progress has to do with the following:

1. My need for control
2. Actually, there really is no Number Two, as it all really boils down to my Need For Absolute Control, come to think about it.

Here's the thing: I really do not like Being Afraid. Of anything. And I also do not appreciate snakes being around where I am, making me feel scared and generally Being The Boss Of Me, which is another Thing I Do Not Like. Just ask my husband, who will readily answer the question, "Who is the boss of Nance?" with an emphatic and vociferous "No one!" Truth be told, my mother will answer the same question in the same way. And, that is precisely how I want snakes to answer it as well.

Seeing a snake on the shoreline of the lakehouse is still not something I'm happy about, but it no longer makes me rooted to the spot. Yes, I'm forbidden from using the ax on it after a few ill-fated forays into that practice of snake killing, but I have my methods.

I've come a long way from the little girl on East 38th Street who cried and cried one day, eventually calling out for her mother. Desperate to use the bathroom, I was too afraid to go in. I called my mom, who came to me, probably harried from hanging laundry outside or taking care of my then baby sister. One of four children, I was not usually a problem, so my mother was probably surprised by my distress. "Mom! Come quick! Call for help! Call the fire department or something. There's a rattlesnake in the toilet. I can hear it in there." My mother ran to the hallway and stopped to listen. There was absolutely no doubt about it--a rattling noise was coming from the bathroom. "Mom! Do you hear it? You heard it, right?" I knew she heard it. I was crying by then, so hard. My mother turned to face me, her eyes wide and her mouth desperately trying to hold back her smile. Then she just couldn't help herself; she started laughing. "Oh, honey," she said. "That's just the wind coming through the Venetian blinds."

Now before you all--and YOU, MOM--get too smug and superior, take a look at this:

courtesy Big Country Snake Removal

Trust me; I'm not happy about it in the least. I want stories like this to be Urban Legends. And I'm sure that the little boy in Texas who found it wasn't real thrilled either, nor was his family, who found a whole basement full of rattlers, as well as a nest under the house. After the initial shock, they called a snake removal system (the fact that this is a real thing makes me doubly sure I do not ever want to live in Texas) to get rid of them all and prevent further infestation. A spokesperson for Big Country Snake Removal said, "People have an irrational fear about" rattlesnakes. Herpetologist Sara Viernum reminds us that, while a rattlesnake bite can cause "temporary and/or permanent tissue and muscle damage, loss of an extremity depending on the location of the bite, internal bleeding, and extreme pain around the injection area", fatalities from rattlesnake bites are rare if treated with antivenin in a timely manner.

I really don't think Big Country Snake Removal and Herpetologist Sara Viernum are helping rattlesnakes a whole helluva lot with their PR .

Not that I care.

Let me just say that I am putting All Snakes On Notice.  If I have to put an ax next to every single toilet in the house, I will.  I have already eliminated all Venetian blinds.

I am In Control.

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One Marcher's Message: A Guest Post From The Women's March On Washington

It's with great pleasure and many thanks that I turn over the Dept. today to a Guest Writer. Jill Meyer, a Dearest Reader and Subscriber travelled to Washington, DC, and attended the 2017 Women's March. She kindly agreed to write her thoughts and share them here with us. Jill wrote these immediately after the 21 January March, so keep that timeline in mind while reading.

Without any further preamble, here's Jill's account:


Many of you have asked me to write something about the Women's March in Washington, DC; my friend Elise and I attended on January 21, 2017. We went with her daughter, Sarah, and two of Sarah's friends who all live in West Orange, New Jersey.

Elise and I flew from Chicago to Newark on Friday, overnighted at the Marriott, and joined in on the West Orange group going to the March in DC. We left at 5 AM on one of the 14 buses organised for the group, and reached RFK Stadium parking lot at 9:30AM. The route down I-95 was jammed with buses, most of which we assumed were headed for DC. At that point in the day, I guess we assumed we would be among the 200,000 who were expected for the rally/March. That number went up and up as the day went on and people flooded the streets of DC around the Capitol. We heard that thousands of people were trapped in the Metro stations, trying to get up to the March, but the sheer number of people made getting out of the stations take up to 30 minutes.

When our bus - #14 - arrived at RFK, we quickly found Sarah and her friends. We couldn't decide how to get to the site; walking the 2 miles would take up to an hour and 15 minutes we thought, and we were by now hearing stories of people being trapped on the Metro. And this is when we caught a real break. We were directed to a nearby bus stop and told about a bus - free - that would take us directly to Union Station. We didn't have to walk or try the Metro and we jumped on the bus, amazed at our luck! We arrived at Union Station and walked the mile or so to the rally site.

By this time, the streets were filled with festive people of all ages and races. There were many men, both by themselves or accompanying the women in their lives. There were old people in wheelchairs and babies in strollers or carried by their parents, strapped to their chests or riding on their backs. Signs carried by many groups of families or friends identified them as rather varied; I saw one family group that proclaimed themselves "trans and gay, black and white". There were many multi-generational families, too.

And the signs! They were everywhere and were mostly handmade. Most were anti-Trump (along with a few anti-Pence) and ranged from fairly polite to downright scatological. I took pictures of a few signs; one was a drawing of Putin, naked and riding a horse with Trump's head. My fav, though, was a sign that read "Keep your tiny orange hands off my pussy", with a picture of a very cute looking...cat. Elise and I wore red baseball caps which read "Make America Great Again" -- in Russian. (We did verify the translation with a Russian speaker).

Our group of five managed to keep together for most of the afternoon, but at 2:30PM Elise and I walked back to Union Station and picked up our rental car. We had decided to rent a car to drive back to Newark because the bus we had come down on wasn't leaving til 7:30PM. We managed to pick up our Rav 4 before the Hertz office closed at 3:30PM and then - almost impossibly - managed to pick up Sarah and her friends! We made it back to West Orange at about 8PM, exhausted and happy to have survived the March - in all its glorious disorganisation and free-for-all fun. Elise and I flew back to Chicago this morning.

Here are my takeaways from the experience:

1. VOTING.  How many young women (and others) in the crowd either hadn't voted because "both parties are the same?", or had voted for a third party candidate? There's some statistic which states that in the three important states Clinton lost, the vote difference was 60,000 between Trump and Clinton (in Trump's favor) and an astounding 250,000 votes for third party candidates. What if those third-party voters had voted for Clinton?

2. SOCIAL MEDIA.  News of this March was mainly spread by social media. Supposedly, 500,000 attended the March. (The number may turn out to be higher, but for now, that's the number I'm seeing). How many of you remember seeing or reading about the Martin Luther King rally and march in August 1963? And seeing the pictures of what seemed to be hundreds of thousands of people? Well, according to Wikipedia and other sources, the attendance that day was between 200-250,000. That is half of what the numbers were from (The Women's March) yesterday. What a difference social media makes. I first became aware of this during the Arab Spring in 2011. And, of course, social media was responsible for the marches and rallies held all over the world. (A hat tip to Emily and Andy who took my grandgals to the Chicago March! Can't get started too early!)

3. NEWS REPORTING. I read several reports where the acts of violence done in DC on Friday night (20 January) were somehow included in the reports about the peaceful marching on Saturday. The Women's March had no violence whatsoever and at no point did I ever feel in any sort of danger. Why the disingenuous reporting?

4. THE NEXT STEPS.  What to do going forward? I don't have an answer to that, but I do think the world-wide marching and rallying makes it clear that people don't like the Donald Trump presidency and the working of the Republican Congress. All I know is that we can't stay silent and disengaged any longer. Maybe we borrow tactics from the Tea Party? They certainly went after what they wanted.

Let's try to make a difference in the days and months ahead. Organise, organise, ORGANISE.

--Jill Meyer

Note from Nance:  The Women's March website is active and moving ahead with some answers to Jill's question in #4.  And Activism remains what it has always been--getting involved, being heard, and making a difference on whatever level you can.  Don't let Them get comfortable.  This is Not Normal.  RESIST.

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W Is For What I'm...

Working On. As I have said so many times before, I see myself as being on a Journey Of Continuous Self-Improvement. To that end I am always striving to better my character in many Arenas. Currently, I am Working On most Strenuously and to some Success: graciously accepting Compliments, never saying Never, defaulting to Kindness, being Quieter and Listening. For some of you, these things may seem quite Simple and Natural, and you may be saying, "I don't get it." Trust me, neither do I to a large extent, but that's why I have to Work At Them.

Weeping About. For some reason lately, I have become quite sentimental/hormonal and teary. This is extremely unusual for me and very unsettling. I find myself thinking of people no longer in my life and whom I miss terribly. In a few cases, I'm sure it's due to a lack of true closure; in others, the finality of death. Also bringing me to tears is the sight of the small Syrian boy from Aleppo, the victim of airstrikes. Even now, having to search for the image has brought me to tears yet again. One more--have you ever heard the song Cecilia and the Satellite by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness? I love it, and yep, it's making me tear up, too. Sigh. When (and Why) did I get to be such a crybaby?

Wishing For. While I am everso grateful for airconditioning, I am heartily sick of it this summer. We have had to have ours On more than Off, and I crave some fresh air and more moderate temperatures with low humidity. How on earth do any of my friends in the Delta states or places where 90+ with high humidity as the norm survive? NEO is also in a Moderate Drought, so while our air feels like we are walking through a bowl of soup, our yards are crisp and hard and brown. I know, California--Old News to you--but here, we're crabby and outraged. And the Death Toll in my landscaping continues: two cedars, one Japanese maple, one lilac, one viburnum...one more and this will be another thing I'm Weeping About.

Wild About. As many of you might recall, we here at the Dept. are Cord Cutters, and have eschewed cable television for lo these many years now. Very few network shows are Destination Television for us, but we are crazy about Life In Pieces, which we find funny, smart, and quirky in just the right doses. We continue to be avid viewers of Orange Is The New Black and House Of Cards on the Netflix (thank you, Jared). I continue to mourn the absence of Hugh Laurie In Anything, and wish that House was on in perpetuity, no matter how awful it got. Isn't it a shame he isn't Doing Something, and Immediately? (And hasn't Modern Family gotten...really terrible?)

Wearing. No more high heels. Lots of easy pullover dresses. Camisoles forever, especially with breezy, loose, gauzy tops. My fleece blanket every evening on the couch, thanks to airconditioning. My hair long, past my shoulders. Makeup every single day, even if I stay at home. Perfectly arched eyebrows, waxed myself, thank you very much. No perfume. As much navy blue as I can find (which is damn little).

Well, that about Wraps It Up. Please share your W's 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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A Is For Alphabet...

In 2016 I'm going to try to Write More Often, and to that end, several things have occurred. One of those Things is that Rick got me a new Desk for Christmas, one at which I can actually sit and write and not feel encroached upon by Lots Of Clutter. Another Thing is that I have stolen an Idea from another writer (The Bug, I think), one which is so simple that even I, in my Sloth and Disinclination, can lean upon to yank up a blogpost from the depths of my Inertia.

I'm simply going to start alphabetically and grab a word--either from the News or my Life or Whatever--and write a weekly blogpost using that word as my subject. If more than one word comes to mind for that letter, then a List Post it shall be. (Rather than zip off the whole alphabetical list of topics at once ahead of time, though, I'll wait each day and see what comes to mind for that day's letter.) Let's On, then, shall we?

A Is For Anger: I overheard one of Sunday's talking heads chatting about this NBC poll in which they teamed up with Esquire magazine to gauge just how angry Americans are and how it breaks along gender, racial, and political lines. "American women are really angry!" one commentator observed with real surprise. According to the survey, women report a greater rise in anger than men over the past year. No one could get over it. I looked up from my newspaper, already simmering because of the eleventy billion times I had heard Trump's name on the two "news/politics" shows Rick had already watched. They were surprised that women were angry?

Every single Intelligent Woman should be Angry. I have my Anger on Emotional Speed-Dial when it comes to The Politics and The General State Of Things. I am Angry about men (and some women, to be fair) in government using Planned Parenthood funding as a whipping boy and bargaining chip when so many women rely on its services for health care (and, yes, pregnancy services including terminations, the latter being a legal and personal decision of the woman's, however unfortunate).  I am Angry that women still earn 78 cents on the dollar in relation to men among full-time workers in the U.S., and that this inequity in pay still exists, no matter how you sort the data. I am angry about the non-existent Equal Rights Amendment, introduced almost one hundred years ago and allowed to die a slow and humiliating death in 1982, thanks to political wrangling.

Those are just the Big Angries. Smaller Angries include the restrictions on liquids for air travel are more of a hassle for women than men; cash incentives for perfect attendance at a job automatically penalize women with kids; alterations cost extra for women, not for men; women are held to a higher standard of beauty more often than men; school dress codes target girls more than boys; that working women are still responsible for the lion's share of child-rearing and housework...oh, too many to enumerate without completely frosting my cupcakes and destroying my Zen.

(Oh, and may we add anyone--men especially--saying condescendingly, "Um, wow. Why don't you tell us how you really feel?" any time we express our anger about anything?)

So, yes, American women are angry. They have been for a long time; it's just that no one ever bothered to ask them until now.

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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

In Which We Have Some Politics, And Beethoven And Beyonce Have A Child For Hillary

zazzle.com

Ladies and Gentlemen, forgive my extended absence. My time away from you has been spent in deep reflection and consultation with my family as I ponder what may very well be one of the most important decisions of my life. Only after this period of profound soul-searching and huddling with trusted advisers have I been able to face this difficult and momentous challenge. But I have always been dedicated to a life of Service. So, with that being said, I am announcing today that I am forming an exploratory committee to consider entering the race for the republican nomination for President of the United States of America.

I mean, what the heck? Why not? Everyone else is Doing It.

Dearest Readers, it's a veritable Cirque de So Lame of republican clowns out there stumping around, making speeches and zinging--not each other, no!--Hillary. Bless their teensy little flinty, tarry hearts. Rather than narrow the field and slap each other around, they're going after The Presumptive Nominee Of The Democratic Party. Now. In the Spring of 2015. Sigh. If I were Hillary, I'd hire a Lookalike to zip around to points hither and yon (in sunglasses).  Then I'd go on one of those cruises where the boat never docks. You know, it just floats along, steaming off to its final port where it is spruced up for its next run. She can study up on policy, platform, and all sorts of stuff (like some truthing) while getting spa treatments and toning up her bod for the really tough campaigning.

But I digress.

So far--and it's Way Early--the republicans are fielding/look to be fielding the following candidates:

1. Rand Paul
2. Ted Cruz
3. Marco Rubio
4. Carly Fiorina
5. Ben Carson
6. Scott Walker
7. Mike Huckabee
8. Lindsey Graham
9. Rick Santorum
10. Chris Christie
11. Jeb Bush
12. Rick Perry
13. Bobby Jindal
14. John Kasich
15. Donald Trump

Kudos to the republicans for such a bigass and diverse list. They have a woman, a black man, two Hispanic men (three if you count Jeb Bush, who self-identified as Hispanic on his 2009 Voter registration form), one Canadian man, an Indian man, and an evangelical minister. It's quite the Clown Car Of Craziness, and I don't miss Michele Bachmann in the least. (She's still getting a limited audience for her cuckootalk. Just the other day, she got her name in the papers for this gem: "Barack Obama is intent. It is his number one goal to ensure that Iran has a nuclear weapon....That is where we are headed right now. That is why the best thing we can do is have churches and pastors explain our times." Sigh.) Each of these candidates has already brought his or her own loopy doofusness into the mix, and I won't bore you with fifteen quotes to prove it (although Huckabee's recent quote to a Hispanic audience that while he doesn't speak Spanish, he does speak Jesus bears mention).

I could not even begin to lay bets on who will still Be There In November. So much Dark Money is involved that it isn't even about the voters anymore. But I think it's safe to get rid of several early on, like: Trump, Jindal, Perry, Christie, Santorum, Graham, Huckabee, Carson, Fiorino, Cruz, and Paul. Some of them are kooks (Trump, Santorum, Cruz); some of them can't get their shit together (Perry, Christie, Graham); some are just not very electable for various reasons (Jindal, Fiorina, Carson, Paul), whether it's experience, recognition, sex, race, likability, or policy, or just the Great Unknown. It's an ugly thing to say, but the republicans are not a Big Tent Party, and that's what they get. Is Ben Carson electable in Wyoming? Is Bobby Jindal going to get a vote in Montana?  Utah? How well will Rand Paul's message play in Wisconsin and Peoria? And there are a ton of Duck Dynasty devotees who would rather not vote than vote for Carly Fiorina. They won't vote for Hillary, either.

When Serious Debate Season starts, we may see Rubio, Walker, Bush, and Kasich up there posturing, the latter being Ohio's governor. He's been doing a lot of stumping lately, and is in the "flirting" stage of campaigning, a great definition of which can be found here. He has also been doing a lot of Evolving on many issues that are making him more of a Compassionate "Bush 41" Conservative. But don't be fooled. Ohio loves its guns and is currently sitting with a heartbeat bill in its Congress. And its school funding is a disaster, its own Supreme Court in contempt of itself on that for almost twenty years, and the governor hasn't seen fit to order that fix. (In all fairness, either did his predecessors.)

Ah, same old, same old. What do you expect? Because, republicans.

Again, though, I'm not about to trust in The Wisdom Of The American People.  It is this Intangible which brought to us the republican majority in the US Congress even after it was that party who shut down the government, caused our national credit rating to be lowered, and brought us the famous Sequester.  The Wisdom Of The American People has brought us so many, many things which are the nadir of Human Existence, including Truck Month commercials, Sarah Palin book deals, dogs in Halloween costumes, and as I must always mention in this list, Kardashians and spray cheese.  And Olive Garden.  (I'm sorry; had to be said.)

Finally, regarding Hillary.  Donna Brazile, Democratic strategist, analyst, and campaign manager for Al Gore in 2000 (among her many achievements), said that Hillary is starting off like Beethoven, but that she has to end up like Beyonce.  I disagree; I think she has to be a blend of both.  That made me wonder:  what would that look like? So I took these pictures of Beethoven and Beyonce and hit "morph" at www.morphthing.com

And the Internet's answer to what Hillary's campaign should look like, according to me, is this:

All I learned from that exercise was that I waste a lot of time on the Internet when it's rainy and cold outside. 

But, if you...no.  Never mind.

Money Isn't Everything, And We're Worth Way More Than Twenty Bucks

Forgive me, Dear Readers, for this is certainly Old News to all of you, but I am only now hearing of the Campaign To Put A Woman On The Twenty-Dollar Bill. (I know; nothing gets past me for long.) Certainly this is something we need to talk about, and I haven't even sorted my own feelings about this yet. It's all terribly Grace Bedell-esque, isn't it?

In case anyone else has been similarly Out Of It, a little girl wrote to President Obama last year after doing a report on Anne Hutchinson, a Puritan woman who audaciously believed that God could speak to individuals, not just ministers, and who was termed a Jezebel by the local clergy for holding prayer services in her home. When this nine-year old student, Sofia, was watching other students give their reports, some of the others used paper money or coins as illustrations of their historical (male) figures. Sofia could not; neither could any of the other students who chose women. (Apparently no one chose Susan B. Anthony or Sacajawea.) She decided to write to the President and see if he could do something about this.

President Obama wrote back, albeit rather belatedly, and the Interwebs are now all aflutter with a campaign. Replacing President Andrew Jackson was the easy choice because of his tarnished reputation with Native Americans. ( The fact that he adopted two American Indian sons is not enough of a neutralizing factor.)  I'd rather we replace Benjamin Franklin because of his reputation as a known plagiarist and terrific bore, but no one asked me. (His reputation as a Big Deal among the French, especially their women, still amazes me, but then the French are quite fond of Jerry Lewis, too, so I have to say that they have historically Bad Taste In Men. Only their cuisine and wine save them. But I digress.)

Anyway.

The Interwebs got up a bigass poll as to which Historically Notable woman we want passed around by consumers in exchange for goods and services instead of President Andrew Jackson, and therein lies my Big Issue.

Obviously, I'm overthinking this. But the Principle Symbolism of passing around Eleanor Roosevelt, Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, or Chief Wilma Mankiller in exchange for stuff is ... icky to me. I feel as if it defeats the Purpose of the thing. These women didn't traffic in a currency as low and mean as money. They stood for principles much more meaningful, much more important. They worked for Freedom, Equality, Rights, Dignity. I hate the idea of putting any of them on money.

Yes, I'm aware that my own Personal and Revered Hero, President Abraham Lincoln, is on two kinds of currency, coin and paper money, and for the most part, I've never given that much thought. But I do cringe at the commercials that use his likeness to trump sales for insurance in an undignified way, and caricatures or other likenesses on Presidents' Day. I hate it. It's sad when historical figures have no control over their names or likenesses (Don't get me started on the TV show "Salem." They should be ashamed and in court.) If I had my way, President Lincoln wouldn't be on money either. No one would be. Put the flag, the eagle, the purple mountains majesty on there. It's more dignified all the way around. (Look what happened in Canada with Spocking Fives.)

It's not that I'm against money. I like it, and I hope to see a lot more of it. But money should not be a monument. (To some people and political parties, it already is.) Money doesn't increase awareness of the people whose image it bears. That's easy enough to prove. Grab ten people off the street and ask them if they know whether Hamilton or Franklin was a president of the United States. (For the record, neither one was.)

Sofia, the letter-writer herself, seems to be unaware that we already have two women on currency. How much awareness of Susan B. Anthony and Sacajawea did those coins raise? And while a good argument can be made that the dollar coin is an unfamiliar and rarely used form of American currency, is a twenty-dollar bill really a teaching tool? Ask any nine-year old like Sofia to name who is on the nickel and who is on the quarter and see if she or he knows that they are two different presidents.

President Obama's response to Sofia is lovely and encouraging in just the right way. The response of the Interwebs is, in the words of William Shakespeare (not Benjamin Franklin, although he would steal them outright for his "Almanack"), "full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing."

Speaking for myself, I'd rather not have my life commemorated by appearing on currency. Its value goes up and down; it is passed around to hands of varying repute. It is used for things that I may never have foreseen or sanctioned. I would rather, if a person of note, leave my life in the hands of careful and kind teachers and historians.

Sofia can learn more from her report on Anne Hutchinson by following the example of Anne Hutchinson than she can from envying the lazy posters of her classmates. Become a keeper of the flame by teaching about notable women and become a Notable Woman herself. She has a lot of examples already to follow.

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Of Firemen And Flying And Snowfall: February IS The Cruellest Month

Scene opens on a living room. Nance and Rick are sitting on the couch watching a news story about a group of college students who are working as volunteers in one residential community. They are shovelling out fire hydrants which have been buried under icy four-foot drifts of plowed snow, presenting a very real danger in case of fire.

Rick: (outraged) That's just ridiculous. Why would you let that happen?
Nance:  Firemen have a lot of downtime. Why isn't there a team of firefighters going around, shovelling out those hydrants? Lots of them are just lolling around the firehouse playing cards and inventing chili recipes.
Rick: (if possible, even more outraged) Nance, they can't do that! They'd have to send out the whole truck with all the guys. What if there was a fire someplace? Those guys would be out someplace shovelling out a hydrant, and the rest of them would have to wait or go pick them up. It just doesn't work like that.
Nance: (losing interest now) I guess. The whole thing is a mess.
Rick: It should work like the emergency exit on an airplane. If someone wants to buy a house on a lot with a fire hydrant, they should have to agree to shovel the snow around it in the winter. You know, like the way the flight attendant asks you if you agree to be in charge of the emergency exit in case of a sudden landing and all that. If the homeowner can't handle it, then that's it--no sale.
Nance: (perking up) That is genius! It's perfect.
Rick: Have you ever sat in the emergency exit aisle?
Nance: Heck yes. And I was fully prepared to haul that door off and take control. Absolutely.
Rick: Did you ever see anyone refuse?
Nance: Yes, a frail little old lady, and I was glad that she did. We would never have gotten out alive. And I once saw a woman with a kid sit there briefly, and I knew there was no way in hell that was good for me. She'd get so wrapped up in finding a sippy cup or a blankie that we'd all die.
Rick: This is what I'm talking about. Only responsible people should have these hydrants in their yard. It's better for everyone.

End scene.

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What Do Catholics, republicans, And Chicken Pot Pie All Have In Common?

Fountainhead by Seyed Alavi

It's been a perfectly ghastly week, and I need to write to Feel Human again. All I have been able to do since Friday night is whimper, take drugs, lie down, and wonder for the eleventy hundredth time Why It Is That I Live Here in this godforsaken weather corridor. And why it is that Weather People cannot tell me what is coming, when, and for how long with any sort of reliability whatsoever. It all conspires to be mighty enough to make me say The Eff Word, almost, and I have been trying So Hard To Quit.

In case you wanted to know what it is like to rise from a Days-Long Migraine Process and try to re-enter Real Life, I have found something that is a little bit similar. Here; try to read this:

“Things must change for our government. Look at it. It isn’t too big to fail. It’s too big to succeed! It’s too big to succeed, so we can afford no retreads or nothing will change with the same people and same policies that got us into the status quo. Another Latin word, status quo, and it stands for, ‘Man, the middle-class everyday Americans are really gettin’ taken for a ride.’ That’s status quo, and GOP leaders, by the way, y’know the man can only ride ya when your back is bent. So strengthen it. Then the man can’t ride ya, America won’t be taken for a ride, because so much is at stake and we can’t afford politicians playing games like nothing more is at stake than, oh, maybe just the next standing of theirs in the next election.”

I'd like to echo DNC Communications Director Mo Elleithee and simply say, "Thank you." But of course, I can't. This speech by 2008 Presidential candidate John McCain's selection for his Vice President is beyond bizarre, even for her. As she continues to struggle for relevance in any avenue of American life, let's hope that it's not only the Democrats who sympathetically shake their heads and back away, whispering sadly. (Can we talk about it later over cocktails and nibblies, having a guilty laugh or two? Heavens, yes.)  And no, I won't mention her name and dignify her.

You know, here's another shitful thing about Migraineus Interruptus. I was being Such A Good Girl about my exercise regimen, plodding away on my Dreadmill of Punishment and even switching it up by shovelling the driveway (I know!), and then, Migraine. Down for the count. Thank goodness I don't have one of those Jawbone or FitBit thingies that would beep or vibrate or nag at me to Get Up. Like I need that. I bet you anything a Catholic invented those damn things. "Don't you feel guilty for not getting up and getting moving? Did you do your 10K steps today? CHRIST DIED ON THE CROSS FOR YOU AND YOU CAN'T EVEN MANAGE TEN THOUSAND STEPS?!?!?!" I'm getting a Monday 5PM Headache just thinking about it.

I think we all Want To Do Better. I really do. Okay, well, maybe not a Certain Bob Evans Restaurant. My friends Leanne and Jim, who live in Southern Maryland, each got sick with a terrible cold. They merely wanted some nice comfort food and were too tired and ill to cook for themselves. They went to a nearby Bob Evans restaurant--slogan, "Down On The Farm"--and ordered right off the menu, nothing fancy. Leanne ordered the Chicken Pot Pie, described as "Slow-roasted chicken, carrots, peas, celery and onions in a rich cream sauce covered with a flaky crust." Here is the teensy picture from the menu:

www.bobevans.com

Doesn't that look good, even though it's pixellated?  I can see why she ordered it.  Sadly, that is not what she got.  Here is what she got:

www.tf?

I think that, after this, they are Down On The Farm all right.

It's snowing here again, despite the odds being 40%.  The forecast changes hourly.  I'm tired of hearing all the new terms for Winter Weather--Snowmageddon, Polar Vortex, Bombogenesis.  I'm starting to think that, here in NEO anyway, if it weren't for Sports or Weather, there would be no "News."

What a lot of Effing Bullshit.  (Strangely, that did not make me feel better.)  Do let's chat in Comments.