teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: Stop Now, Before You Really Hurt Yourself

If only this man had just gone on to the NASCAR race instead--that's obviously what he is dressed for--but no. He had to stop real quick-like at the Make Yer Own Teaparty Sign Stand at a nearby Ford Aerostar and pop off a zinger on the way.

Impossible to tell, really, where he was headed with this sentiment, which starts off with the bold "Birth CERTiFicT", then degenerates into the completely befuddling "Where OBAMA" followed by what may be another "Where" or perhaps a "When".... Sigh. It's a Whe-something. No matter. Whatever it was going to be, it was going to stand little chance of making sense.

That much, we know.

If only we could all be sure that this poor unfortunate actually stopped right here, forever.

image found here

How MSNBC.com Made Me Think Of Underwear, My Past, And My Talent For Sleight-Of-Hand

Ever since CNN.com screwed around with its web page format, I have relied more on MSNBC.com as my go-to online News Source. (And do not get me started on how Google News has completely alienated me with its Utter Annihilation. I'm Just Not Over It.) MSNBC.com says it brings me "A Fuller Spectrum Of News."

Holy Crap. They are not kidding.

Today, MSNBC.com boldly proclaimed that I could view something newsworthy called "Biggest Bra Moments." Naturally, I was initially intrigued, as an English teacher and Defender Of The Language, by the ambiguous placement of the modifier. Would I be viewing Moments of the Biggest Bras? Or are these the Biggest Moments In Bras? Because, really, either way, as a woman whose antipathy of this Egregious Garment is well known, I couldn't imagine why MSNBC.com would deem either one newsy in the least. Oh, titillating for the male readership, certainly, but as for the average female readers, it would cause nary a ripple of interest.

I clicked on the link and saw the first few slides of outrageous brassieres: the requisite Madonna cone bra, Lady GaGa's firework-shooting bra, one of Cher's bikini-topped Bob Mackie creations. I was--and remain--largely unimpressed. Those aren't really "Bra Moments" as far as I'm concerned. Those are just costume bikini tops. Maybe when Lady GaGa's started to shoot the fireworks, then okay. But other than that, no Moments. And doesn't Janet Jackson's "Wardrobe Malfunction" at the Superbowl count? Or no, because it wasn't technically a "bra," per se, but more of a corset thingy?

All in all, kind of a disappointment, really. So, I'd like to offer you a brief rundown of some of my Personal Favorite Bra Moments. Because I'm here for You, My Readers.

1. Teenage Idiot Moment: Back when I was probably 17 or so, my friend Marci had a blue Mustang with a sunroof. We used to go joyriding in it on the weekends. We'd sometimes go into downtown Cleveland and just drive around and be Teenaged Idiots. Sadly, this was like 1976, and I would be sometimes--not often--a bit inebriated in this pre-MADD, pre-alcohol-awareness age. One of my favorite things to do was to perform the Take-Off-My-Bra-Under-My-Shirt Maneuver, then fling it triumphantly forth in my hand, stick it out of the sunroof, and wave it around as we drove through the streets of Downtown. Why? Why, indeed.

2. All Summer, No Bra: A few years ago I was pretty sick and then recovering. I lost a great deal of weight...everywhere. The downside was that I looked skeletal. The upside? Basically, no boobs. I spent the entire summer in those little shelf-bra camisoles, which were the only sleeveless things that fit me, and they doubled as bras. Total comfort. Let me tell you: When I can get away with it, I eschew the brassiere entirely for those camis. Bless whomever came up with those. I have about eleventy thousand of them in all different colors. Priceless.


3. Completely Inappropriate Parking Lot Maneuver: Hey, listen. We all have Those Days when a certain bra is nigh unto killing us, and when we have had enough, we Have Had ENOUGH. As soon as I can get into my car, I do the TOMBUMS Maneuver (See #1, above), and stick that Torture Device into my purse. Of course, I make sure that there is No One Around! And I have gotten so incredibly subtle at The Maneuver that it merely appears that I am scratching a spot on my back or adjusting my shoulder seatbelt. Do longsleeves deter me? Ha! It is to laugh.




4. Unfortunately Timed Maneuver: In case you did not click on the embedded link above, here is the story for Your Convenience. If you already did, well, skippity doo dah down. Several years ago, the neighbor women behind us moved away. They did not inform me of exactly when their last day of residency was. One day, as I was performing the ritualistic Removal of the Bra While Still Wearing the Shirt maneuver at my back kitchen window, and was at the Triumphant Flinging of the Brassiere from Under the Shirt move, I caught the eye of our new neighbor who was outside on his deck, inspecting his new backyard. Oops. Strangely, this must not have made much of an impression. He has since told my husband, "In all the years I've lived here, I've yet to even see your wife!" Hmmm.....I am re-reading #2.

It's my feeling that I've been far more edifying on the subject of "Biggest Moments In Bras" (note the cleaned-up grammar) than MSNBC.com. It would be lovely if you could add your Memory Moments as well. If not, I'm sure you can find something to chat about anyway.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: The Truth Hurts

And I am losing my mind.

Even though I am On Summer Vacation, the English teacher in me never rests, and right now every single fibre of my Being is reaching for a red pen (and a vodka martini, up, slightly dirty, two olives, thank you). And while the teaparty sign carrier felt it unnecessary to hide her cleavage, she wisely hid her face.

Aside from the obvious over-arching fallacy of her sign in toto, (how is it that we are losing our children, now?) let's just look at the rest of the crap that's making me want to start drinking at 1:24 PM, EST:

1. Spelling--Even the vast majority of my highschoolers can correctly spell the verb "LOSING," as in the act of getting rid of, misplacing, or failing to retain. "LOOSING," however, means to set free, and is rarely purposefully used in our modern vernacular. All these teapartiers are huge into FREEDOM, yet this yahoo can't even manage to put the correct number of E's into the word on her sign bearing three iconic symbols of it. What kind of moron spells it FREDOM? And doesn't it look like the S at the end was added later? Like she couldn't remember if the President/Democrats/Incumbents/Sane People were taking away just one or several? Finally, we all know that these wackadoos get all hepped up about The Family and Mortgaging Their Children's Futures, yet this doodah can't even sound out the word enough to put in the "R". What the hell is/are CHILDEN?

2. Punctuation--I suppose I should be placated by the proper use of the apostrophe. In a small way, I am. And I know that punctuation on signage follows broader, more forgiving rules, such as the lack of endmarks being acceptable. But can someone tell me why there is not one single comma in the first sentence, which consists of several descriptive phrases in a list, but there is one in the second sentence, which is a compound sentence consisting of two distinct sentences? Really, the second comma should be, in fact, a semicolon. Or, she could observe the forgiving rules of signage and merely place the two independent clauses on separate lines.

3. Basic Design--Oh, let's be nitpicky while we're at it. (I mean, it's not like I'm going to start in on the sign carrier herself, am I?) The orange Liberty Bell is awkward, isn't it? So big and commandeering there. And the two Statues of Liberty are facing the same way; I'd prefer they both face inward, toward each other. Finally, the flags in the shape of the USA--very obvious and overstated. And slapping them over Lady Liberty is just overkill. And why a pink handle to carry this sign? Urg.

Think of what all we could say if we just started in on the basic philosophy of the sign's sentiments. And because this is America, we have the fredom to do just that! We have nothing to loose, and even our childen can join the debate. What a country!

photo found here

Of Animals And Arizona And Abby (The Second)--And All Better Now!

Pardon me, but it's time to shake out a little Cerebral Residue. I've simply got to get rid of these little clutterbits and oddments that have been taking up the more...Intellectual Residences of my brain.

}*{ When I was watching the Preakness, a couple of thoughts occurred to me, and--obviously--I haven't been able to get rid of them. Firstly, why are the horses that escort the racehorses (I have no idea what the proper term for these Buddy Horses is) so much better-looking than the actual entrants? I mean, these are some gorgeous animals. They are vastly more interesting, for one thing: they are spotty or lovely grey or just much prettier. I prefer horses that come in different colors, not just brown or black. I always root for any grey horse, even if it looks like a brokendown old nag with its tongue tied off to the side or something. Secondly, what is up with Maryland's badass State Song? Holy crap, have you ever listened to that song's lyrics? Let me tell you, that is one Thug Anthem song. Talkin' 'bout "Avenge the patriotic gore" and "Remember Howard's warlike thrust" and even "She spurns the Northern scum!" Hey! That Maryland talks a helluva lot of trash! I used to want to retire to southern Maryland, but once I got deep into that State Song, believe you me, this is one Northern Scum that got totally spurned. Mission accomplished, Maryland!

}*{Speaking of relocating, I used to have Arizona on that list, too. Oh well--another one bites the dust! Hey, Arizona! You are just Ohio with better weather. I already live in the State Of Intolerance (aka OHIO)! We said no to gay marriage a long time ago, and now one of our downstate statesmen wants to adopt your model for an immigration law. "Get over yourself, Nance," Rick said. "There is no place that fits every requirement you have. Besides, Arizona is redder than Ohio. What were you thinking?" I don't know. Help!

}*{In today's Plain Dealer the second letter to Dear Abby was...startling. I read it aloud to Sam this morning. He laughed and said, "Better ask Dad if he wrote it." For the record, allow me to state the following: 1. My children are done with college; 2. Rick and I adopted the kittens together; 3. I have only photographed them a couple of times; 4. Rick and I have a lot of feline-free time together and not much of it is spent talking about the kittens. (Both of whom, however, are still pretty cute.)

}*{Finally, two more animal-related notes: one about bunnies and another about cows. Longtime readers of the Dept. (and even the now-defunct Stuff On Our List) will recall how I often bemoaned the fact that Bunnies Are Sadly Under-utilized In Advertising. I have noticed now that there are two commercials on television that use bunnies! Upsettingly, one includes a snake, but hey! We cannot have everything. My second Animal Newsnote deserves a little paragraph all its own.

}*{This exciting Cow Mention was brought to me by my Google News Cow Alert. There is a baseball team called the Delaware Cows! Here is their logo. Also known as the Battlin' Bovines, the Delaware Cows have, naturally, a website where you can get all kinds of gear bearing this baseball bossy. As you know, I am not On Board with animals wearing clothing, but the simple fact that there is a baseball team known as the Cows is good publicity for the herds, who have been taking the heat for global warming--wrongly, some environmentalists and scientists now claim.

I feel like we've been able to cover a lot of topics with this one, Readers. And I feel so very...refreshed! It's been lovely. Do shake out a bit yourself in Comments, should you feel so compelled.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: WTF?!?

Even if this sign were continued on the back, it still wouldn't make any sense. Even if the word "descent" was supposed to be "decent", it still defies comprehension using any stretch of the English syntax. Let's even add the proper comma after the admonition "Remember" for him, shall we? Remember, descent (is) the highest form of patriotic...WHAT? "Patriotic" is an adjective. It has to modify a NOUN.

Descent from what? Descent itself? I just don't get it.

Come on, teaparty sign makers! Let's at least TRY!





photo found here

Dept.'s Inferno: How I Survived A Circle Of Hell, And There Weren't Even republicans There!

Disaster averted at the Dept. yesterday.

NEO--for those of you who don't remember, that's the ubercool way to refer to NorthEast Ohio--is having a HeatWave currently, and even though I don't mind temperatures in the upper registers, I loathe our tropical humidity. I have no idea why we get such drippy humidity here in this state, but we do. And it's like walking through a tub of baby's bathwater. Urgh.

So. Naturally, on Monday morning our central air decided to perform its Swan Song. I heard a horrid metallic screaming sound as I stood at the kitchen sink preparing to load my coffee cup. Horrified, I turned to Sam. "Do you hear that?" I said. "Please tell me that is not coming from the air conditioner." I opened the window closest to the unit, and it confirmed my worst fear. "Oh no! It Is!" I said in doomed tones to Sam, who sat placidly on the couch. Wild-eyed, I repeated myself to him in a panicked wail, adding, "Do you realize how HUMID it's going to be the next few days?"

Sam looked up from his Blackberry. "Yep. It's gonna be brutal," he said unhelpfully. "Wow."

I flung on some shoes (which did not match my outfit, sadly) and ran out to the AC unit. Helplessly, I stood by while it screamed. I started banging on it with my fist then stopped, horrified. What if it simply...QUIT?!

As I turned to go back into the house, the machine suddenly quieted. The fan still spinning, it seemed to be back to normal. I exhaled audibly and reported the good news to Sam, who was moved not at all. "I have to get ready to go to work," he said. "Good luck with all of that."

Good luck? What is that? By the time Rick got home from work, I noticed that the indoor thermometer had been climbing, but the AC had not stopped running. The temperature in the house was at 80 degrees. I put my hand in front of one of the registers and felt the air coming out: not very cool.

And then Rick tried to prepare me for the worst: "That AC is 20 years old, Nance. We had to jerry-rig it last year to keep it running, and it needs to be replaced. This may be it. We may have to shut it down." He went outside to look at the unit.

Sadly, those words were prophetic. When he came inside, he flipped the switch and then tried to break it to me gently. "Holy shit! You should have smelled that thing! The motor has burned up. It's fried! IT'S OVER! THIS IS IT! We have to open up and put on some fans and I'll see what I can do tomorrow."

--Readers, I was so brave. I really was. It is part of my New Philosophy, which is "Try to be brave and, failing that, swear less." Or something like that. It's very Zen.

Okay. Anyway, I spent an entire day of Beastly Humidity without air. The kittens were even lethargic. We stayed under the ceiling fans, drank lots of water, and read. (Well, I read; Piper and Marlowe napped, mostly.) Last night, Rick brought home a Temporary Fix--a replacement motor, and he tried to Lower My Expectation. "I have this motor they said might work. But it might not, because if the (insert name of techy AC part I forgot here) is fried, then forget it. But we can try it." He went outside with some tools and a shaky sense of optimism to see what he could do.

VICTORY! Temporary motor is in, working, and my house became cool again. It took quite some time, however; it was 84 degrees inside. As soon as the AC kicked on, Piper scampered to the register, felt the cool air, and capered around the dining room. The lower the temperature dropped, the more playful the kittens became.

Obviously, they have a Different Philosophy.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: I'd Like To Buy A Vowel (Among Other Things), Vanna

I could go on and on with the "full of shit" metaphor here, but really, I'd rather let all of you.

In Which I Debate The Merits Of Being A Domestic Goddess

When Rick and I first married, we used to ruefully call our time spent doing any household cleaning "Marital Blissing." Our little one-bedroom apartment didn't have a dishwasher, and as much as I hate to admit it, we'd often go far too long before we finally did the dishes by hand. As a result, we'd stand for more than an hour at the double sink, one of us washing and the other drying and putting away. It was awful.

I still loathe housework. Sometimes I do get "in the mood," but not that often, and I go on a major tear, like I did yesterday. The weather was yucky and humid, so in the hormonal grip of a Cleaning Frenzy, I took advantage of the airconditioned environs of my house and got busy. The kittens did not appreciate it much since it involved more vacuuming than they have heretofore been used to in their now two-week residency, but they did like the dusting aspect.

("Dusting!? You were dusting? Call the doctor immediately!" longtime Dept. readers interject here, knowing my antipathy toward that activity, and that I do it as infrequently as possible, trying only for Christmastime and, perhaps, the odd Easter here and there.)

Back to vacuuming. I have a Problem With Vacuuming, and here it is: once I have begun to vacuum, I have trouble stopping. Is anyone else afflicted with this proclivity? It's just that it's such a bigass thing to haul out and fling around, I feel as if I may as well just vacuum the hell out of every single floor I own. And then I have to worry whatever little crudhunk is somehow able to elude my Dyson. "Why isn't that thingy getting sucked up?" I wonder aloud. So, I do what everyone does: I pick it up, look at it, THEN I FLICK IT BACK UPON THE FLOOR AND RUN IT OVER AGAIN WITH THE VACUUM! Honestly, it's a Sickness.

Oh, and dusting. I am a fan of the Pledge. Especially now when I have discovered that you can use it on leather. We have a nice set of leather furniture, and I spray the Pledge on the rag and wipe it on the leather furniture and voila! Lovely. It also provides satisfying entertainment when the kittens, who are unaware that the furniture has been Pledged, leap onto the ottoman and go sliding off of it. Do not, however, mistakenly assume that this means I will be dusting more in future. Oh, ha ha. It is to laugh.

Many years ago, I was suckered in by the Stainless Steel Appliance Craze. In other words, I was An Idiot. I hate my stove and refrigerator, both stainless steel. That brushed chrome-esque finish is a Royal Pain In My Ass. Those appliances are not for people who really cook and use their kitchens For Real. And you can't clean them with Just Anything. I have used approximately eleventy billion bottles of Windex on both of them, which I have found to be the Only Thing That Really Works and doesn't cost a fortune and isn't Worky To Use. Plus--no magnets. I know that some people really like the uncluttered look of a bare fridge door, but I like to use mine for notes and reminders and a calendar. I have a very small kitchen, and the fridge is still the Number One Place Where Everyone Is Sure To See Something. Magnets, remember Science Wizards, do not stick to stainless.

AND! If you are ever looking at a black cooktop--DO. NOT. BUY. IT. It is also not for anyone who Really Cooks. One would think, "Hey! Black will hide everything!" One would be Dead Wrong. Instead, it shows everything. My cooktop has made my Cooking Life miserable. And the minute I have cleaned it, it seems that the next meal I cook involves mashed potatoes or something else which spatters or boils over and the unrelenting sorrow begins anew.

Must we even discuss cleaning bathrooms? Let me just say this: I have covered this topic here, and little has changed. Sometimes I wish it were possible just to drag the garden hose in through the window, turn that sucker on, blast the place, and let it all...drain out...somehow. Wouldn't that be great?

Housecleaning, like grocery shopping, has very little Return On Investment. It Never Stays Done! Oh sure, when the house is first all clean, you can bask in the glory of a Clean House and that Feeling Of Accomplishment. Then someone takes a shower and someone else has a snack in the living room and someone else craps up the place. Sigh. What we need is the Perfect Solution. Like this:

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: "Mommy, Something Still Doesn't Look Right."

Absolutely everything in me wants so very much to believe that the little girl made her own sign, but you and I both know that she didn't. She's just a pawn in her teapartying mother's campaign here. It's also obvious that, after the "Stop" sign was originally completed, Mom stood back and realized that the R was missing. In her haste to get Rallied Up, she quickly worked to remedy her mistake. Oh well.

Also mystifying is the "Get" sign's use of the noun handout and the ellipsis punctuation mark. Is it, in fact, sarcastic in nature (i.e. the teaparty's belief that President Obama is merely giving everybody a handout, so, hey, "get your handout...ah, ah, ah...I meant of my pocket, buster!" ); therefore, it is a vastly clever play on words? I am skeptical of this, naturally, because I highly doubt that the Average Teaparty Member has this level of smarts and/or capacity for humor. Instead, I prefer to think that this woman--who could not spell "working", remember--merely stuck the two words together and added the dotdotdot for her own emphasis or misguided Punctuation Rule/Reason.

No matter. The "Stop" sign alone is priceless. Can't help feel sorry for the little girl, though.

Attribution: here.

The Dept. Adds Staff And A Further Appreciation For Irony

Meet Marlowe and Piper. They joined the Dept. on May 29th when we got them from the local APL. Yeah, yeah...I remember this post from last year. I also know that almost every single post that has a "cats" tag also has a "complaining" tag. But look:

They are brother and sister--littermates--yet they couldn't be more opposite. Piper, the orange striped one, is tiny, more timid, and very loving and cuddly. His sister Marlowe, the grey tortoiseshell, is bouncy and bold and fearless. When I got them, Piper weighed 1.7 pounds; Marlowe, 2.4. Let's just say that both of them are probably considerably more than that now. Piper ended up needing some pretty serious medical care, but thankfully everything turned out just fine.

I told my mother, who just turned 80, that I had adopted two new kittens. Keep in mind, please, that I turned 51 a month ago, and that my mother is fully aware of this fact.

Me: They're so cute, Mom.
Mom: (unsure) But two, Nance.
Me: I know. But you should see them. They're so little and adorable.
Mom: (in wise, advisory mother tone) Now you know, Nance, they won't stay little forever. They're going to get big. They'll grow up, you know.


Sigh.


Anyway, before they do grow up, I'm really enjoying this Kitten Time. When they do grow up, as my mother assures me they will, I probably won't get as much of this:


(that's my pajama leg there)

School's Out For Summer! (But Before We Leave, A Little Glimpse Into My World, And William Shakespeare's)

I'm postponing the Prodigy of the Week in order to bring you this worthy delight.

About a month ago a student research essay was left on the common printer in the lounge I frequent at The Rock. It was apparent that one of my colleagues who teaches a freshman repeater class had allowed the student writer to either type it on the computer in her classroom or send it as an attachment to her via email. In any case, she printed it a couple of times, I guess, because this one was left on the printer for a couple of days before I finally laid claim to it. I have no idea if it is a final draft or a first draft, but it is definitely student writing. Trust me, it brought untold joy to the English department for days and days. Now, I'm ready to share its bounty, just as it is, completely unedited:

Back in the day fashion was simple all they wore was dresses, and fencing acted as a sport and dance was very common in Elizabethan era. The three most common things in shakespearion era was fashion, fencing, and dancing.

Was Elizabethan dance common. Yes, Elizabethan dance was common. Elizabethan dance was highly sophisticated and stated with intricate steps and nuances. I don't think I could do that dance. What is a nuance? Many of the court dances were performed as couples. What if you didn't like your partner? How many different partners did you have? That is about how common dance was in the shakespear era.

Was fashion much different then it is today? Yes fashion was. I would of never wore that stuff. I'm glad fashion has changed. And there clothes had a lot of patterns on them. I think there clothes were ugly. At least there fashion was simple. That's how fashion was back in the day.

Was a real way of fighting? Yes, it was they have used it for centuries. Fencing is one of the first forms or sword fighting. Back in the day it wasn't just a art form, it was also the most protection you can get. There is a whole bunch of weapons to use while fencing. They figured wearying a cage on there face would be enough protection. They also used the cage so they don't see each others faces. It is hard to get use to seeing threw the cage. Fencing was a real way of fighting and still is, thanks to back in the day in shakespear and era.

These are three important topics to the Elizabethan era. The Elizabethan era was long ago but we still learn about it today. We still do celebrate parties that closely resembles an Elizabethan partie.

There is, of course, an attached page of "Work Cited" that contains the obligatory Wikipedia reference along with another website.

I suppose you could look at it and be dismayed and horrified, but I consider the source: Freshman Repeater. And because I don't know if this is a first draft or a final, I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. Finally, just reading it is hilarious. I love its conversational tone, rhetorical questions, and use of "back in the day."

And now that I'm on Summer Vacation, hell, everything is funnier.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: When Wall Street And Whitney Houston Collide And No One Thought To Run Spell-Check

Not only are a spelling error and a punctuation error here, I am also mystified by the addition of the two red stars bracketing the imperative DON'T. Are they a design element or some sort of teabag punctuation mark? And doesn't the bow seem a bit like it's muddling the Message? It's like tacking on a little Tweety Bird-voiced "please?" or "okay?" at the end of the sign's directive.

Come on, tea party sign carrier! Go Hard Or Go Home!

found here: http://blogs.seattleweekly.com/dailyweekly/2010/03/the_10_funniest_teabonics_sign.php

In Which I Confess, Digress, And Then Mess With A Victorian Novelist Because I Really Hate The Whole Irony Thing Anymore

In a cruel twist of Irony, I found a paperback copy of The Mill on the Floss as I was cleaning out my storage cabinet at school. I first read it approximately one hundred years ago--in my junior year of college--while taking a class called The Victorian Novel. It was taught by a professor named Dr. Robb, who I promptly fell deeply and madly in love with for no apparent reason other than the fact that he was profoundly intelligent and I loved the Victorian novel. (I didn't find him physically attractive; he looked exactly like Mike Farrell, who played BJ Hunnicutt in the TV series M*A*S*H.) Here is a perfect likeness.

But I digress.

As you can see by my sidebar, I started rereading the book. Big mistake. In the intervening hundred years, I had forgotten what a downer those Victorian novels were. And this one, written by George Eliot (a pseudonym for Mary Ann Evans) is really, really laborious and unrelenting.

So, I feel as if I have to vent a little bit in this, a sort of open letter/rant to George Eliot/Mary Ann Evans:

Oh, George Eliot. Were you and Thomas Hardy and maybe a Bronte or two sitting around one night in a damp, draughty house with nothing to do but deprive yourselves of creature comforts? And once that got old, did one of you say, (a la Percy and Mary Shelley and Lord Byron), "Let's each of us write a really sad, sorrowful, unrelentingly grim tale, the heroine of which will be a dark-haired girl whose life is nothing but tragic irony"? And all of you did?

And you know me: I had to read that whole damn book until the very end, even now, when I am feeling just a little bit like a dark-haired Victorian heroine myself.

Luckily, I found this. It puts everything into a little bit better perspective. Enjoy it!

New Feature: teaparty Prodigy Of The Week

While I attempt to locate my sanity amid the boxes, I've decided to take it easy on myself and start a New Feature here at the Dept. Each week, I will find an illustrative photo of a teaparty (remember, I refuse to capitalize, and thus legitimize, this organization) member and post it here for your perusal and judgment. I consider it a Public Service.

Here, then, for your consideration, I present Exhibit #1:

Wow. Where do I begin? I'm going to not be too terribly nitpicky and just count 6 basic errors in what my students and I term "MUGS"--Mechanics, Usage, Grammar, Spelling. I'll allow the rest of you to take Points Off for lack of coherence and no central theme.

Begin.

attribution:http://www.flickr.com/photos/pargon/ / CC BY 2.0

Feeling A Little Boxed In At The Moment

It's so near the End Of The School Year that I'm feeling stressed out and relieved at the same time. In addition to Teen Wrangling and attempting to cram a little more academics into unwilling minds, we have to pack every single bit of the content of our rooms--including all of our textbooks--because about two days after we leave on 27 May, the demolition crews arrive and knock our building down. The Collateral Damage is that I'm fragmented and distracted at home. I find that I want to just sit down--alone--in silence; I don't want to make decisions, talk, or even listen. I get massive headaches at night that are still there when I wake up as my body tries to deal with the tension.

As I look at the piles of boxes in my classroom, I wonder aloud how hoarders live the way they do, habitually surrounded by clutter. I can barely stand the orderly wall of boxes that mark a pathway to my door, or the stack of boxes-yet-to-be-made leaning neatly against the wall. Every spare minute I can, I devote to packing. It makes for a hectic day. Luckily, I have wonderful students who offer to help--and they are a big help. But I still have to direct, inventory, label, and double-check. In the back of my mind looms the reverse--the unpacking when school starts.

You know, it's almost enough to make me start wearing flats to work. Almost. If I had any.

This stress, this fatigue, this...whatever (look! the writing teacher can't even come up with A Good Word!) is making my perspective skewed. I have a dim view of everything, and I busy myself with making up Horrid Lists, like "People Who Need To Be Publicly Slapped" (1. Palin 2. Limbaugh 3. Mike Brown 4. Glenn Beck 5. Octowomb{she's no mom}, oh I could go on and on); "Things I Must Accept Will Never Happen" (1. Crocs will be outlawed 2. the tea party will be declared a domestic terrorist organization 3. saying "irregardless" will be punishable by death 4. sweatpant wearing in public will be a misdemeanor 5. the republicans will finally be called out on their shit). Those are the very mild ones. Believe me, there are some that are far more dire.

So, while I'm in this Dark Place, I'd better take a little break. I'll be back when things clear up a bit...when I've "packed up my troubles," so to speak. I hope it's not too long; I'm sick of boxes.

Being A Mom Is Not All FTD And Brunches, You Know: The Dept. Takes A Walk on The Romero/Hitchcock Side Of Motherhood (Again)

*this is previously posted material from long, long ago when my blog was just a newborn; it contains minor edits*

If the producers and directors of horror films were smart, they'd have their test audiences comprised solely of moms. Because we know scary. We confront it every day; moreover, we stare it down and kick its ass. It is part of our on-the-job training, and even playing with dollies does little to ready us for when it rears its ugly head.

Consider the labor and delivery room: Not only do we propel, through sheer brute force, a human being averaging 8 pounds and 20 inches out of our bodies, but while we are attempting to do so, someone is sticking his/her fingers inside us, strapping machinery to us, and, in my case, leading in a pack of student nurses to interview us and observe us, taking notes during the entire event and then admonishing us when we are a teensy weensy bit less than polite.

Then, at various times throughout Momhood, we are vomited on, snotted on, peed on, diarrhea-ed on, and forced to deal with "boo-boos," some of which require a trip to the Emergency Room--also known as "The Department of Motor Vehicles Medical Center"--where we see people who look like extras from Central Casting for The Night of the Living Dead. After we get home, we get to clean all these bodily fluids up, while retching upon our own.

And, because of our supernatural diagnostic powers, we are subjected to a barrage of horrific encounters almost continually if we have teenagers, a species well-known for its low grossness threshhold.

Teen: Mom, taste this.

Mom: Why?

Teen: Just taste it.

Mom: But I don't want any.

Teen: You don't have to eat it, just taste it.

Mom: Good God! Okay, fine! (tastes it) There. It's good. Why?

Teen: It smelled funny. I thought it might be rotten and I wasn't sure.

And it's not just our palates that are assailed. Our vision is assaulted as well:

Teen: (in bathroom, calling): Mom! (pauses imperceptibly) MOM!!!!!

Mom: (rushes in) What?! What's the matter?

Teen: Is there something on my back?

Mom: What? Is that all? You sounded like you were bleeding to death.

Teen: I can feel something gross on my back but I can't get it.

Mom: Let me see....Eeew! It's a huge zit. Just leave it alone.

Teen: Mom! I know it's back there. It's gross. You have to get it.

Mom: I don't want to touch it. Yuck.

Teen: Mom! Please. You have to. I don't want my new American Eagle shirt to even touch it.

Mom: I'll put a band-aid on it, then.

Teen: Mom, come on! You have to. Just squeeze it real quick.

Mom: (Sighs) Okay. Brace yourself. (Squeezes) Ugh!

Teen: Ouch! Oh my God! Mom! Geeze! What the Heck!!!!

And this is the same child who, upon entering and seeing that I am watching "Dr 90210", the plastic surgery show on the Style Network, says, "Oh my God, Mom, how can you watch all that blood and guts and crap?".

If Moms wrote the script for a horror movie, can you imagine what it would be? Mine, now that my kids are 22 and 25, would be one in which the boys never left home but got some low-life trashy Tea Party wenches from the Fundamentalist Right "in trouble" and tried to live here with their babies, played country music at top volume, spoke with bad grammar, and brought yappy dogs into my house. Seriously scary stuff, that.

I'll be back soon with Something New. In the meantime, Happy Mother's Day to all the Moms, Moms-to-Be, and Those With Moms.

The Dept. Of Nance: Your One-Stop News Source. We Follow The News So That You Don't Have To

As you know, there is no better place to keep up with All Animal News than here at the Dept. Also, I feel confident that I keep you abreast of All Things Important Politically as they occur. Allow me to assure you that, should anything else of Major Importance occur in the World Of News In General, I will bring it to you here. Really, there is no need to look anywhere else for your news needs.

Could I be any more Wonderful and Informative? (Not to mention well-dressed and with an impeccable footwear wardrobe?) But I digress.

Item! Citizens of the Boston Metro Area are under a boil alert after a water main break occurred in their area. Here is Valuable News Commentary from the Dept. News Desk:

Nance: Ha! That's what they get for sending their bullshit basketball team to Cleveland.
Rick: Is that what it is?
Nance: Of course. You see what one of their thugs did to Shaquille O'Neal. And they tried to hurt LeBron last night.
Rick: True.
Nance: And! They elected a republican to the US Senate to replace Ted Kennedy! KARMA.
Rick: And wasn't Mitt Romney just here?
Nance: That's right! He spoke at Ashland University's commencement this weekend. Holy crap. So, oh well, Boston. You can suck it.

Item! I grew up as the daughter of a union steelworker and I belong to our local teachers' association. I am constantly fighting for the rights of the worker. That's why this item caught my eye immediately, even though its dateline is Copenhagen, Denmark. I don't care where it is, when The Worker is being oppressed, I am on it, that is my vow to you. Workers at the Carlsberg brewery were forced to walk off the job in protest last month when Man den (translation from the Danish: "The Man") suddenly changed policy on them and changed a rule that had been in practice since 1847. (Hey! What would you do?) Here's the deal: Brewery management removed all the beer coolers and demanded that employees limit their beer consumption to their 30-minute lunch period only. What is up with THAT? I mean, how is a hardworking brewery employee supposed to make it through the day? Just to show you how sympathetic others are to the plight of these workers, Carlsberg's truck drivers joined the strike in sympathy — even though they are exempt from the new rules, a spokesman from the brewery said. "The truck drivers are permitted to bring three beers from the canteen because they often don't have time to have lunch there." I'm going to let you think about the Irony of that while I ponder the value (for both me and my students) of having a Martini Bar in the second-floor lounge at The Rock. PS--There is a coffeepot in there as well, so no worries.

Item! File this under "Duh." Stephen Hawking, major Smartypants on all things in the Universe--literally--is advising caution to all those other science eggheads who are all fired up about making contact with alien beings. Hawking, who appears in a new documentary for Discovery, reminds us that the vastness of the universe makes it highly likely that life exists outside our galaxy although most of it is probably microbial or in the form of single-celled or very simple animals. On the chance that other civilizations do exist, however, Dr. Hawking thinks we might not want to extend an open invitation to just anyone. "Reaching out to the stars with our messages of curiosity and peace may only make it easier for an advanced alien mining operation to stake a claim on Earth," Hawking warns. He also makes the analogy to the Native Americans being visited by white European settlers, claiming it "didn't turn out brilliantly for them." To summarize, Discovery comments, "it might be better if we kept our location a secret rather than being so anxious to make contact." I'm with you, Stephen (if I may call you Stephen; you, of course, may call me Nance). I saw "V" the first time around. And "Geronimo."

Item! Allow me just one Cow News Story, and you will be well rewarded. In a deal brokered last year but which just became finalized recently, three-year old Holstein milker Missy Gold was sold for the staggering sum of $1,238,508. This was For A Cow. Missy, described as "long and leggy with perfectly shaped teats for efficient milking...has a big chest that indicates a healthy heart" and can calve as many as 75 offspring and produce 50% more milk than the average cow in her lifetime. If any of those calves are males, each one could sell for upwards of $550,448 US. Now, this article was found in a Kenyan press, so consider the source, but its tone is so admiring and its style is so endearing that you just know they love their cows. Especially wonderful and...informative is this excerpt: "Maybe at one time Kenyan farmers will enjoy a piece of Missy, described by a farm spokesman as having an ego and big personality, since the country is a major consumer of semen from the US." Really, now, after that, what more is there to say?

This has been A Dept. of Nance News Update. Remember to check back here often for Late-Breaking Developments as they occur. Or when I feel like it.

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

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

But I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spring Cleaning At The Dept., And Everything Must Go: Ninjas, Paula Deen, And Genes...Especially Those Genes

Here are some little Thought Nerfuls that have been nooking-and-crannying in my brain for awhile. Besides, it's time things got a bit Lighter here at the Dept.

]*[ Jared, shaking his head and chuckling at the memory, recently recounted this scene while reminiscing about his adventures with his buddy Isaac, currently serving in Iraq.

(scene opens at a neighborhood bar. young man in his twenties is at the bar; seated next to him is a young woman of the same age. they are obviously strangers.)

Young Woman: Yeah, so what do you do?
Isaac: Um, I go to school.
YW: Oh, really? What are you studying?
Isaac: (without missing a beat; completely cool, serious) Ninja Arts. At the community college.
YW: What? Wow. (takes a moment to study his face; is skeptical) Really? I never heard of that.

Isaac: Yeah, well, it's sorta like a phys. ed./psychology double major thing. It's pretty cool.
YW: Oh, wow. That is cool. Wow. Could you, like, show me something?
Isaac: Come on. Really? Here? (shakes head with totally disdainful look; walks away)
(end scene)

]*[ The Cleveland Plain Dealer has been doing a series about obesity in America. It recently published an article about celebrity chefs climbing on the bandwagon for healthier eating habits. I almost sprayed my coffee when I saw the name Paula Deen. Holy crap. This is the woman whose Holy Trinity is Butter, Mayonnaise, and Cream Cheese. Who invented a recipe called "Gooey Butter Cake." Who has a casserole called--and no, I am not making this up--"Piggy Pudding" which calls for a cup of maple syrup. I'm sorry, but unless her inclusion in this campaign is Court Ordered, I'm just not falling for it.

]*[ Had Easter buffet/groaning board/Embarrassment Of Food Overload with the Entire Extended Family on Sunday. Lovely...and Freudian in that we all blamed the patently ridiculous amount of food brought/provided on our upbringing by my mother. My sister bought a huge ham, hefted it at the store, and what was her first thought? "I will also make an Oceanic Vat of sloppy joes." I made enough Asian Slaw to bury that continent, and on and on and on and on it went with all of us relations making Titanic containers of food and transporting it all to Patti's house, then feeling waves of amusement, ridicule, and resignation. It is part of our Genetic Makeup. My mother did--and still does--the same thing. My brother Bob witnessed her, standing in front of the open freezer, doing unnecessarily complex mathematical calculations, just to decide how many chicken wings to cook and bring. When he quickly told her what he thought, she viciously challenged him:

Mom: How do you know that's how many?
Bob: Because I made one bag for my poker night for half as many people and it was more than enough.

Mom: But...

Bob: And shut the freezer. You're wasting energy.

Mom: Oh for heaven's sake. You don't even know how many wings are in here.

Bob: (reaches over and shuts freezer door while handing her a bag of wings) There are forty in here.

Mom: How do you know? It doesn't say on here.

Bob: I just know. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of the wings.

Mom: Boy oh boy. I wonder how I ever raised four kids if I never, ever do anything right.

(By the way, there were plenty of wings, but once this story was related to everyone by my brother--and my mom overheard--she made several of her grandchildren ask for more wings, pretending that they hadn't had enough. She can get ornery.)

]*[ Finally, one last story. My sons tease me endlessly about how long it takes me to "run into Walgreens" to get one or two items. They claim that I take hours, aimlessly wandering, lingering too long here and there, reading labels, calculating cost per ounce for the best deals, etc. They never want to take me or go with me. I claim that they are filthy liars. I might take a bit longer than they would like, but it is never hours. But this, too, might be genetic. My brother, who takes my mother shopping, says that she especially lingers overmuch at the greeting cards. "Dropping Mom off at the greeting card aisle is like dropping off a kid at the arcade," he said earnestly. "She can spend hours and hours in there. I can go do whatever shopping I have in whatever departments I need to, and when I'm done, no matter how long it took, that's where I'll find her. It's incredible."

I'm wrapping it up here. Dinnertime, and it's leftovers. For some reason, I always seem to have a lot of leftovers....

In Which I Expose Albert Einstein's Big Lie, As Well As Other Fallacies Of Democracy (And No, I Haven't Started Drinking Tea)

Rick and I were in the car not so long ago when a minivan zipped past us at a pretty good clip. I was immediately on alert because I have a Major Minivan Theory, and I wanted to see if it held true yet again. (My Theory is that most minivans are under-utilized; I maintain that the vast majority of minivans are not transporting large families/groups of people and are, therefore, wasteful and unnecessary.)

But I digress.

The driver was alone in the van (ha!), and as she sped away from us, I caught a glimpse of her bumper sticker. The minute I read it, I became derisive and outraged. Here is what it said:

Imagination Is More Important Than Knowledge

What in the hell kind of bullshit is that? How can anyone truly believe that, let alone unabashedly market it and advertise it? Just because it is part of a quote from Albert Einstein doesn't mean it is Scientific Fact. You know, this idiocy is another overly simplified Great American Lie, right up there with

1. You can be whatever you want to be.
2. Anyone can be President.
3. If you want something badly enough, you can make it happen.

Now, while it is true that Bush 43, aka The Angel of Death, would seem to buttress the assertion made in #2, all clear-headed people know that this statement simply isn't true. He may have been a buffoon and an ersatz cowboy, but he was a rich, well-connected doofus with a political pedigree and a republican family name equivalent to the Kennedys. That isn't just "anyone." And before someone flings the name Barack Obama around, please do a little research. He's much closer to "Anyone," but he's a lot closer to a "Somebody." Do poor, uneducated people ever run for government office? Let's just start with that.

With respect to Lie #1, which should really be nipped in the bud right after elementary school, if not sooner, I can offer my own experience. I have always had a natural affinity for animals. I had many pets as a child, and no animal is anathema to me except perhaps the snake. I decided in high school that I wanted to be a veterinarian. In college I began a pre-vet program of study and worked my ass off. Guess what? I couldn't cut it. Once it got into hardcore math and chemistry, I just washed out, pure and simple. All the love in the world for animals--or imagination!--can't stand in for basic subject material. That, and I discovered an abject abhorrence for the sight of blood.

But I really, really wanted to be a vet! Oh. Well.

You can just imagine the scene, though, right?

(Interior. Office of veterinarian exam room. Man rushes in with injured Irish Setter. Dog is limp, bleeding. An unidentified organ is protruding from stomach area; it glistens in overhead light.)
Man: Dr. Nance, our dog was hit by the ice cream truck! It just happened! We came as quick as we could!
Nance: (back is to Man; pulling on latex exam gloves) I'm glad you got here as soon as you did. Let's have a look. (turns around) Oh good heavens! I--I'm--The poor thing! How awful! What's his name?
Man: MacDuff.
Nance: Oh, I love that! But you know, MacDuff was Scottish, not Irish. That's from Macbeth, and---ugh! What is that? (points to organ thingy hanging out; begins to gag a little)
Man: I know. It's pretty bad. Will he make it?
Nance: That's--bloody--that's--his stomach. Excuse me. I have to go throw up.
(end scene)

Point is, I could NOT be a veterinarian. I wanted to, but I COULDN'T. Not only was I not smart enough in the subject areas required, but I just didn't have the temperament. I could imagine myself as one, but...not gonna happen.

Now, #3 seems to be the same as #2, but really, it's not quite. If you've ever watched the show American Idol on television, then it is a perfect example of how stupid this tenet sounds. How many times do these sobbing wannabe singers whimper, "But I really, really want this"? Well, sweetheart, I really, really want this blog to get me a book deal, but guess what? That isn't happening either! Ha! Desire alone is not enough. I had a student many years ago--a junior--who had to write a career narrative, a short essay in which he had to explain his plans for his future career. This student--I'll call him Jason--wrote about becoming a professional basketball player. I asked him if he currently played for the high school team. No, he didn't. I asked him if he ever had. No, he had not. I asked him if he played in junior high. No. Did he play for his church or for the city recreation league? No, none of those. I asked if he planned to try out next year or in college. No, he didn't see those things happening. "Jason," I said gently. "How do you think you'll make the NBA if you don't play anywhere that a professional basketball scout would see you? They don't normally just drive around small towns like ours and see kids out on playgrounds or in driveways." I suggested that he might want to have a backup career plan, just in case.

Well, that was not what he wanted to hear. He exploded. "Don't come up here with your essay!" he yelled, turning around to face the class. "She is killing our dreams!"

O-kay.

No.

The point that I wanted to make was, just because he wanted to be a professional basketball player didn't mean he was going to be. He was doing absolutely nothing to get him anywhere near that goal. He had just as much chance of being a pro basketball player as I did. NEWS FLASH: IT IS ALMOST 15 YEARS LATER. HE IS STILL NOT IN THE NBA.

(Did you see that coming?) I'm sure he imagined himself in the NBA. But that's not enough. It never is, is it?

Imagination is never MORE important than knowledge. That is just patently absurd. At some point we have to stop selling our children--who eventually become adults, you know--these glib, slick, meaninglessly dangerous axioms. Because they believe them. And many of them go on living their lives expecting things to just happen to them because they want them to.

We know better, and so should they.