Jetsetting Author Neil Kramer Celebrates Birthday

by Nance Deptof, USA Today

LOS ANGELES (AP)--Noted self-help writer and one-time blogger Neil Kramer will celebrate his birthday today by jetting from one end of the continental US to another to appear on several popular talk shows. Kramer is accompanied by his manager and wife, from whom he has been separated for many years, actress Sophia Lanssky, nominated for a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her role in Odessa Veil this year.

Kramer burst onto the literary scene in 2008 with his self-help book entitled You're Okay, It's Just Me which rocketed up the New York Times bestseller list. His appearance on The Oprah Winfrey Show, in which he hugged every single audience member and openly affirmed that he might, in fact, be the reason for global warming made him a household word. His follow-up book, You're Okay, I'm Just a Little Nauseous was an instant hit and insured him a permanent spot in the pantheon of such self-improvement literati as Thomas Harris, Wayne Dyer, and Norman Vincent Peale.

Catching up with Kramer proved to be difficult. Luckily, there was time before his flight left for New York, and he was in a chatty mood. We ate at Dinah's, a 1950s style diner with a killer Dutch baby on the menu. Kramer instructed Lanssky to search his daybook for a coupon he thought he had, but it turned out to be for Pann's instead. I turned the subject back to his latest book, Be of Good Cheer, which is due to be released this week.

"It's my tribute to my father," Kramer said, "and the lessons he taught me about love, laughter, and life. And really, about how to treasure those things. And others. Other people." I asked him about treasuring himself then, since his other books seem to fall a little short on that topic.

"Oh," he said, "I leave that to other people. If you live right, other people should do that for you."

You must be doing it right, then, Neil Kramer, for you certainly are a treasure. Happy Birthday, and be of good cheer!

Why Are Parents So Stupid? (With an Appearance by the Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles)

Sometimes, it's hard to tell the truth to your kids. This is a fact that doesn't change, no matter how old they get.

I came home from school today and plopped down on the couch next to 21-year-old Jared, who was multi-tasking. He was watching ESPN, emailing, creating a spreadsheet for the fantasy league of which he is now the commissioner, and eating a late (!!) lunch of a frozen pizza. (I should have such a strenuous day. I had wrangled teenagers through American Lit. and suffered through a pulled fire alarm which sent all 2500 of us out into the streets during 37-degree weather and a persistent drizzle for 15 minutes of numbing cold. But, I digress.)

Suddenly, a preview for the new Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtle movie interrupted us. "Feh," I said dismissively, once I saw the heavily shaded CGI graphics. "We saw the original back in the 80s. Live action, remember? You were just a little guy."

"What!? You must be kidding! I am pumped!" my son said. "I can't wait. This year is the Year of Jared, Mom. Do you realize that The Transformers movie is coming out, too? I loved the Transformers. I collected Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Transformers. I'll be reliving my childhood!"

"Jared. What the hell are you talking about? You never had a single Transformer," I said. "You and Sam owned every Turtle action figure ever made, but neither of you ever had even one Transformer guy. Seriously. Those came out way before you were old enough to play with them."

Jared continued to stare at me, dazed and openmouthed during this entire declamation. He looked as if I had just told him that there was no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, and that he was, in fact, adopted.

"You had these little toddler toys, like blocks, and they opened up on a hinge into people like a sailor and a policeman, but they weren't Transformers. Maybe you're thinking of those."

He blinked, still fishmouthed, and struggled for words. I waited. "Jared," I said. "Seriously. You never had any Transformers."

He took a deep breath and composed himself. Then, "Mom," he said. "You know absolutely nothing about my childhood."

Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Sagging Pants, Republicans, and Brad Pitt: Go On, I Dare You

These past two weeks, my students in American Lit have been studying the work of Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson, two nineteenth century poets whose work we have analyzed, discussed, and related to modern figures in American life. Feeling moved by the Muse one day--as well as having had my fill of a neverending vista of boxer shorts--I posted this sign on my door and in my classroom:

I'd rather see London--

I'd rather see France--

I'd rather not see your underpants!

No sagging in room 245.

Can someone please explain to me how this is attractive or fashionable or even remotely acceptable in any society? Why are these 15, 16, 17, and 18-year old young men not embarrassed that I can SEE THEIR UNDERWEAR? I routinely call out, "Red and blue plaid!" or "Yellow with blue sailboats!" or "Green with white martini glasses!" as soon as I can see a flash of cotton-polyester blend in front of me. They usually hitch up their jeans and growl goodnaturedly, "Awww, Mrs. D!" and saunter off to their desks. And, get this: most of them are wearing belts! FOR WHAT?!

At least they have learned to spare themselves the sad indignity of sparring with me as they used to. This is how it used to transpire:

Male student enters room sagging, boxers flaunted before me.

Me: Joe Boxers waistband and yellow stripes!
Male: Huh? (looks down) Why you gotta call out my underwear like that?

Me: I thought you were showing it off! It's just hanging out there. I wanted to make sure you knew I noticed it. Your plan is working!

Male: My plan? Maaaaan! Ms. D., that's my underwear. You don't gotta go and put my business all out there and junk.

Me: I don't understand. You put it out there. Your pants are halfway down to your crotch. Your business is waaaay out there. Seems to me that if--

Male: Okay, okay! I'll pull them up. Geeze!

I find this so-called fashion trend nothing short of horrific. Where are "pants," period? Just pants? Just jeans that aren't the pencil-legged spray-painted sort worn by the "emo-boys", nor the oversized trashcan-legged kind in which one can hide an SUV or get holes in the crotch from its being dragged on the ground. I miss plain old boys' pants. I'll tell you when all this sagging bullshit will stop. WHEN GIRLS START DOING IT. There, I said it. And don't give me that crapola about girls showing a peek of a thong out of hi-rise jeans. It's just not the same, and we both know it. I am certainly not advocating either of these hideous anti-fashions; all I'm saying is that if girls start adopting the sag, probably several Agencies and Hearings would be set up to Look Into It. Immediately. Ahem.

And while I'm on the subject of male fashion, here's another thing that has been bothering me. What the heck has happened to men with hair? I have no idea when the idea of men shaving their hair down to the height of toothbrush bristles started, but let me just say here and now that I am dismayed, distraught, and pretty much devastated by this continuing trend. You know me, whenever something like this occurs on a large scale, I get suspicious, and my first, immediate inclination is...Blame The Republicans, a la Hillary (The Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy), but it does seem to me that in the 90s, men had longer hairstyles. I know my husband did! We hit the new millenium and men started shaving their heads (or practically!) and now the majority of men have little or no hair. It's awful. A man with luxurious hair will catch my glance ten times more quickly than a man with a pate like a shoebrush. I love to run my fingers through my husband's hair. It's not anywhere near as long as it once was, but it's at least long enough to comb and enjoy. I long for the days when it was really long, and sun-streaked like Brad Pitt's in Legends of the Fall. What's romantic and alluring and inviting about short hair? Ouch.

Here, see for yourself:

If you're being honest, you know you want the Brad With Hair. And you want him Bad. And you'd prefer him NOW. Sigh. And my husband had that hair. Honesttogod and now it is in a ziploc in my drawer!

But I digress.

My point--and I think I do/did have one--is this: men, of all ages, are perpetrating a high degree of bad fashion. And I am sick of it. And it must stop. Please help.

Oh, and it probably would be nice if you read a little Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman, too. Especially Walt. He's kind of a 19th century Dr. Phil: he wants you to get excited about your life. To "celebrate yourself and sing yourself." What's wrong with that? Just don't do it in bad fashion.

Hold On To Those Stones Out There

Once, I became suddenly fixated upon the idea that I was going to hell. For some reason, it began to occupy a lot of my Active Worry Time. I shared this concern with my breezy, largely unconcerned friend Roger who said this to me, and it changed my life in a massive, monumental way: I don't believe in Hell, and you shouldn't either. And, that way, you won't have to worry about going there. It doesn't exist.

(Actually, there was a ton of stuff in between the first sentence and the second, but it was extremely philosophical and Existential and spanned several hundred years of history and all that, and really, it's the remaining text that is germane.)

The effect of his speech on forty-something years of Roman Catholic guilt was liberating. It was almost like a hit of nitrous. I remember laughing and laughing. He was smiling indulgently, like a childless uncle at a baby's birthday party when the kid goes right for the cake. He stood up from the table, put his hands in his pockets and said, "Okay! See how much better you feel? Hell is nothing but a load of crap. You want hell? Come in and teach my third period class. See you later."

So, I don't believe in Hell anymore. I'm a recovering Catholic who's trying to get over years and years of nuns smacking me around with Guilt. Guilt over my parents not sending me to Catholic school. Guilt over not going to confession every single week. Guilt over not feeling like I was really a horrible person because I couldn't recite the definition of "grace" word for word on command. If there is a Hell, I truly think it was Mondays from 4 pm to 5 pm in St. John's School at what was then called CCD, now PSR (what do all those letters stand for anyway?) when Sister Marguerite used to drill us in Religion tempered by berating us as Public School Children. I left there every single week with a massive headache from first grade through sixth.

But, confession is still good for the soul, is it not? And in case there is a Hell--Roger's avowals to the contrary notwithstanding--here are some of my sins. I'll confess to seven, in keeping with the tradition.

1. I do not have a "baby book" for either of my children. I have not set down for posterity their first words, the date of their first steps, first haircuts, or first time on the potty. I am a terrible, terrible mother, I know.

2. I have not dusted my fireplace mantel in many, many years. I keep a tapestry runner on it to avoid it. I have eleventy billion family pictures on it that I dust twice a year: when I take them down to put up Christmas decorations, and when I take down the Christmas decorations to put the pictures back up. If you have a problem with that, come on over and dust for me.

3. I am not all that sentimental. I would rather clear out the toys, crib, baby furniture, and baby clothes from my kids than hang onto them like grim death. I have pictures of all of those things in use. The objects themselves do not retain any of the smells or any feel of the boys when they were babies, so what's the big deal? Get rid of it. Unless the item was handmade by someone, and even then, I might still pitch some of it.

4. I have a horrible swearing habit. I have a really hard time coming back to school in the fall and controlling my mouth after a summer of swearing freedom. I never swear in the classroom, but I am on constant guard. My husband hates that I am profane, but he knows I have been trying to clean it up in deference to him. I used to have a real thing against the F-word, but something happened and suddenly, it made an appearance, and it has been around ever since. I blame my friend Leanne who I don't see often, but whose R-rated emails do nothing to discourage me.

5. I don't take pictures. At all. Consequently, I have almost no pictures of my children at any milestones of their lives, and they have no pictures of me. This is a horrible thing for a ton of reasons, I know. Don't berate me and don't give me dire warnings in the comments, all full of predictions about how when I die the boys won't have any favorite photos for their memories and how they won't have any pictures of themselves to show their own babies and yadda yadda yadda da da da. I know all that and I'm already wearing an enormously prickly hair shirt provided by my sister for that.

6. I don't clean behind my appliances. If any single one of you does, then you should be canonized. Or hospitalized for OCD. Because, really, don't you have something else to do, like build low-income housing for the poor? Or come and take pictures of my family?

7. TravisCat threw up on my computer chair and all I did was (A) scrape off the big chunks, (B) put a towel over the rest of it, and (C) tell Rick that I need a new computer chair because I am sick of the cats vomiting on everything and I am not washing a freaking $30 chair when I can go to Office Maximum and get a new one on sale. Which will be VINYL OR LEATHER so that cat-yak will be more readily removable. (Honestly, the cat threw up on the futon, the rug, and my bed last week. WTF? But I digress.)

So, there they are, My Seven Sins. Are you suitably horrified? I'm glad there isn't a Hell now. Any or all of these would surely land me there.

Just remember what it says in John 8:7...

DoN Encourages YOU to Practice Democracy NOW!

Here in the United States of America, paragon of modern democratic government to budding nations, place where "We" are all Time magazine's Person of the Year, it is only fitting that I get your input regarding a matter of critical significance to The Dept.

Many of you have come to enjoy and, if I dare believe you, even look forward to my nightly Brian Williams Tie Report. (I get a kick out of it myself although it is annoying that there aren't any good synonyms for the word "tie" unless I dip into foreign languages. I'm highly impressed that Brian hasn't repeated a tie yet since I've started reporting on his neckwear. Rick is frustrated that there isn't a screen capture online of each NBC newscast, and he is starting to get really worky on me, trying to figure out a way to get a picture of each tie and yadda yadda yadda da da da. )

But I digress.

This is where you come in. Below, you will find a poll in which I'd like my Dept. of Nance readers to vote. Yes, vote! Even though, ultimately, I will be the decider, I would like the input of all of you. I will look at the results, and, much like those of the Iraq Study Group, then I will consider it carefully, mulling and chewing it over, and then, like someone else we know, do whatever the hell I wanted to in the first place. No, I'm just kidding. I will seriously see what my readership desires most and by what margin. Then I'll take it from there. So, vote for which choice you like best. In the meantime, I'll have the Tie Report up in the sidebar each night I watch Brian, as usual. Have you had a favorite tie, yet? Or a favorite report? That Brian...what a figure he cuts.

Okay, now vote!

What should be done with The Brian Williams Tie Report?
	Leave it as a sidebar feature here at The Dept.
	Make it a whole new blog and link to it from The Dept.
	Make it a daily Dept. blogpost so we can comment on it
	Honestly, I'm not here for The Tie Report
pollcode.com free polls

I Call on the Power of the Internet!

I was putting my laundry away today and was again confronted with my single charcoal grey sock. I've been holding onto it now for four months, stubbornly and brightly hoping that its mate will turn up. After all, how far can it go? My house is a modest little Cape Cod-ish affair: a story-and-a-half little thing with the washer and dryer in the basement. I drag the clothing from my hamper down one flight of steps to the machine. The washer is snugged right up to the dryer! There is no vast, cavernous canyon anywhere in the route. EmilyCat and TravisCat are far too urbane, sophisticated, and lazy to interact with human clothing, be it dirty or clean. I must traverse the same route back as I took to the laundry area, so I would have seen it had I dropped it.

As soon as I noticed it was missing, I scoured the area, the hamper (in case I had inadvertently left it behind), and rechecked the appliances. When that proved fruitless, I interrogated the residents. No success. That was more than 120 days ago, and still I grieve.

I loved that pair of socks. They match my platinum wash Levis perfectly. They are comfortable and stretchy and are the exact right height. They require no cuffing, nor do they roll down on their own or leave horrid red bindy marks. They are tastefully wide-ribbed, but not noticeably so.

Finding this sock has become an obsession. Every once in a while, I re-interrogate the suspects here at The Dept. I stare them down. I say things like, "Have you looked in your drawers, just in case?" or "Hey! When you clean your room this week, be on the lookout for that grey sock of mine!" or "I'm coming upstairs and if I find that grey sock someone is in serious trouble!" or "Whoever finds Mommy's grey sock gets $20 from Daddy!"

In January my hope was renewed by news of the boy in St. Louis Missouri who was recovered after being missing for four years. Wow! I thought, that's a whole kid, and my sock has only been missing for three months!

So, I'm going to post the picture of my missing sock here, right here on The Internet, in case any of you can help track it down. Or, maybe one of you has a match and would be willing to give it up to make my pair complete. And, just as a "Hail Mary," I''m adding a picture of my missing khaki sock, too. It went missing a long time ago under equally mysterious circumstances. I don't miss it as much, but I figure what the heck? But that charcoal grey one...seriously, it's a major Wardrobe Player for me. A first-stringer. Oh, I've bought a new pair, but they're not ribbed. You know how much that little detail means.


(Rick did the scanning for me, and I didn't want to get too fussy with him about styling the socks to best show off their attributes.)

Now, let me clearly state for the record that I am not accusing any of you of harboring the Fugitive Socks. I am only seeking help in locating these wayward accessories, and, should they wish to find their way home, would be only too happy to welcome them with open...er...geeze, that would be awkward, to extend that metaphor...heart and no questions asked.

My Identity Crisis...?

The Internet is such a wellspring of entertainment. A few days ago, I was visiting Other Departments (see sidebar) and I was intrigued and tickled by a post over at Anali's First Amendment. She had visited a site that scanned a digital photo of her face and then supplied her with her "celebrity lookalikes." The results were, by and large, mystifying. Naturally, I had to pop over and try it out myself. I'm a bit of a privacy junkie when it comes to my actual physical being, so unlike Anali, you won't see what I actually look like. But let me assure you...these results are just, well, all over the place. I'll let the Dept. readers who have actually met me in person tell the rest of you what they think in the comments!

Here, then, are my "Celebrity Lookalikes:"




Now you can absolutely get a clear picture of me in your head, can't you? I can't even remember who all of these women are, but I think they are: J.K. Rowlings, Tia Carrere, Venus (?) Williams, Heather Locklear, Mira Sorvino, Penelope Cruz, Don't Know This One, Britney Spears' Sister.

Let me remind you that I am 47--will be 48 in May. And no, I did not cheat and use an old photo. There is no freaking way I look anything like Britney Spears' little sister. This software is ridiculous. Anali, who is a gorgeous woman, had a man come up as a celebrity lookalike! And, let me also say this: this man was someone I had never even heard of; ergo, he was not even a celebrity!

So! I know some of my readers are people who see me on a fairly regular basis, or are people who have seen me recently. Post in the comments and tell the rest of my visitors just how closely I resemble any of my Celebrity Lookalikes.

I can't wait.

Unfair and Unbalanced

In the interest of full disclosure, DoN readers, there are a few things I need to tell you before you read this blogpost:
1. There are few things that irk me more than Cleveland newscasts that hype and sensationalize news stories that would otherwise not be that newsworthy.

2. It irritates me to no end that news reporters intrude themselves into a family's most private moments, the most vulnerable of these being the death of a loved one.

3. I have an incredible fondness for and attachment to cows.

Alrighty, then! Moving on.

An absolutely freakish farm accident happened on January 31st in Lexington Township, Ohio. You can pop over here and read about it in its entirety, if you wish, but I will copy-and-paste the part of the news story which is germane to our discussion.

Basically, "Steven Walker was doing his daily chores with his two grandsons when the mundane became inconceivable. 'He was gonna separate the mom from the little calf,' says 13-year-old Zach Elbiali. 'The cow just started chasing him.' Zach was inside the barn at the time and immediately ran outside to find his 55- year-old grandfather on the ground inside the pen. It appears a defensive cow charged him, knocking him to the ground where he hit his head. Zach called 911, and stayed with his grandfather until the ambulance arrived. Walker was taken to a hospital where he later died." (My sincerest sympathies to the Walker and Elbiali families.)

The Suspects--photo courtesy wkyc.com

And what was the lead for this story? On the news and in its "teasers" it was Farmer Murdered by Cow! Give me a break. "Murdered?" Later, it was softened to "Killed", but even then. This is typical Cleveland reporting. And it's not even a ratings period.

Actually, the thing that irritates me about this entire story is that they are blaming the death on the cow. The guy hit his head, and not on a cow. Did the cow gore him to death? No. Did the cow bite his head off? No. Did the guy come up and just pet the cow and it suddenly went psychotic on him? No. Basically, this man was perceived as a threat to the calf by an adult cow; the cow defended the juvenile; the cow tried to stave off what it perceived as an attack by a predator. The guy then stumbled and fell and hit his head. On something not a cow.

Why such wholesale scapegoating of cows? Is this some sort of paranoia fed by the recent outbreak of bovine spongiform encephalopathy, or BSE, also known as "Mad Cow Disease"? Because despite its first confirmed case in 2003, the US saw no real impact in its domestic beef consumption since. And now, scientists have discovered a way of reversing the early symptoms of the human form of the illness should anyone have the misfortune of eating tainted beef.

What more do these people want? They can have their burgers and eat them, too!

Seriously, what is more nonthreatening than a cow? Cows walk along, nodding constantly. "Yep," they seem to be saying, "everything is just fine with me." When you look into the eyes of any cow, there is no hidden agenda there. The cow stares blankly back at you with huge, limpid eyes, blinking perhaps, chewing its cud and offering no differing opinion, no debate. There will be no argument from a cow. Obviously, if you don't try to take a calf away from it, there's no problem. Don't try any threatening posturing around a cow. How tough is that to remember?

Fun with Politics: Oh, Yes, I Can!

Regardless of one's politics, we can all agree that a certain Sitter in The Big Chair at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. is... less than articulate. This, of course, is only one of his many, many shortcomings. (And certainly among his more harmless ones.) But, as my clock counts those dim days of his Reign of Terror down, we must needs make do. So, let's have a little fun whilst the Democrats try to make sense of it all, shall we?

Let's play a game. Read the statements below. Three of them were actually uttered by the Angel of Death. One is made up by me. Which one is fake? See if you can tell.

Round One

A. "You know, one of the hardest parts of my job is to connect Iraq to the war on terror."
B. "It was not always certain that the U.S. and America would have a close relationship."
C. "Laura, before we were married, used to say that I should be committed."
D. "The only way we can win is to leave before the job is done."

Round Two

A. "I think—tide turning—see, as I remember—I was raised in the desert, but tides kind of—it's easy to see a tide turn—did I say those words?"

B. "The desk, where we'll have our picture taken in front of—is nine other Presidents used it. This was given to us by Queen Victoria in the 1870s, I think it was. President Roosevelt put the door in so people would not know he was in a wheelchair. John Kennedy put his head out the door."

C. "I think it's really important for this great state of baseball to reach out to people of all walks of life to make sure that the sport is inclusive. The best way to do it is to convince little kids how to—the beauty of playing baseball."

D. "And Social Security is not the safety net to encompass the needs and medical whys and wherefores of an aging society. The government is, I think, not in the business of telling the American elderly what to do with their money in a time of personal crisis at such a time."

Round Three

A. "I'm the decider."
B. "I use the Google."
C. "When the final history is written on Iraq, it will look just like a comma."
D. "I'm looking forward to a good night's sleep on the soil of a friend."

Oooh! Do you think you have them down? Let's see. Here come the answers.

In Round One, C. was my effort. In Round Two, D. was the fake. And finally, in Round Three...Aha! I cheated. ALL OF THEM were said by GWB. Honest, they were. Here are the links to my sources: The Complete Bushisms and Taegan's Political Wire .

You know, it's really pathetic that the man just cannot talk. But, if I dwell on it, much the same as if I dwell only on the shortcomings of my students each and every day, I'll end up sick, sad, and reeking of vodka.

And he's just not worth it. So, let's laugh, shall we? Laugh and laugh and laugh whenever we can. And keep an eye on that countdown. And those Democrats.

Dirty Martini Day

It was just that kind of day.

I got home, peeled off my mittens--I still can't find my leather driving gloves--hung up my coat, tossed my purse and school bag into my "office" (the corner between the livingroom table and loveseat), and made my way into the kitchen where I immediately commissioned Jared to assemble the vermouth, vodka, olives, and cocktail shaker. Rooting around for the glass, I said, "It's February, you know? They should not be disappointing me like this anymore."

"I know, Mom," he said. "...But we're out of olives. I bought some nice pinot grigio today. How about that instead?"

"Look in the bottom shelf, way in the back," I said knowingly. "It's a dirty martini or nothing. Trust me."

"How can you drink martinis? What about a Cosmo? I'll go back out and get some cranberry juice and I'll have a Cosmo with you," he said, obviously hearing echoes of some dusty warning mantra of never drink alone.

"Aha!" My foray into the unknown of the refrigerator had proven successful. Giant green olives, pimentoes poking promiscuously forth, were in my grasp! I pushed past him to the counter and arrayed my arsenal: Three Olives vodka, Martini & Rossi dry vermouth, shot glass, freebie cocktail shaker from Express (a gift-with-purchase from Christmas shopping!), and the olives. I was in business.

I swiveled quickly and hit the lever on the icemaker, filling the shaker with ice, then measured the requisite ingredients. I paused, calculating just how "dirty" I wanted this martini to be. I considered my day. Throwing caution to the winds, I added two heaping spoons of olive brine to the mix. I wanted to be dirty, baby, real dirty! Piling three huge olives into my tigerstriped martini glass, all that was left then was to shake.

I thought of the student who had not yet turned in one single assignment since the new semester had started on January 16th. I thought of the students who had signed up to be on the staff of my literary magazine in September but had not yet turned in one, single, solitary poem or story. I thought of the teacher who used my room for his study hall 8th period and started off by saying, "Now, I'm not strict...!" I thought of the secretary who made me fill out a requisition form in triplicate for a box of paper clips. AND I SHOOK THAT MARTINI.

And then I poured it out and went to my computer. I sipped and enjoyed and relaxed. And I wrote this blogpost.

A Tour of My Blog, With Digressions

As reluctant as I am to rob you of the joy of being greeted by the Animated Farting Brain atop my blog, I did want to nudge you with regard to a few of the features I've added recently to The Dept.

If you take a look along the sidebar, you'll encounter in Other Departments 2 new blogs: Catalina tu Vecina and Manolo's Shoeblog. The first is another look-at-life blog which has a question for commenters to answer every Wednesday; the second is a fun fashion blog written with a very definite persona and voice.

Scrolling farther down, after the archives (On File at the Dept.), I've added a new sidebar daily post: The NBC Evening News' Brian Williams Tie Report. This small feature will be updated daily--or at least every day that I watch the NBC Nightly News and Brian Williams is on it, sporting a cravat. I am obsessed with his tie selection (see my recent comments to Neil and Anali on last post), and I have decided to indulge myself. If anyone would like to bring this feature to the attention of Brian Williams, well, go ahead. I'm sure he'd be thrilled that someone is paying attention. I mean, I would be. And by the way, Brian Williams, your suit selection tonight was also spot on as well. I love the way you are setting a new trend with the extended shoulders, a sort of homage to the forties Bogart look. And I also detected the subtle pinstriping--don't think for one minute that I didn't. I did.

But I digress.

Directly below TNBCENBWTR (The NBC Evening News' Brian Williams Tie Report!) is the Official Angel of Death "Days Left in Office" Countdown Clock. If you want one of your own on your blog, just click the URL below it and you can travel to the site to get it. It's very comforting to watch the seconds and minutes tick away, knowing that it is, indeed, going to end. It really is. And I can watch it happen whenever I need to.

Now scoot down, down, down past all those funny buttons that allow you to get The Dept. on your mobile or your Yahoo! page or other ways that don't boost my Ego/Vanity (Hit Counter), and you'll see a little message about emailing me. Oh, but it's true! I set up an email account just so that you could email me directly in case you have comments that you don't want to share with the rest of the hoi polloi. Although, I have to tell you, The Dept. hoi polloi is extraordinarily discerning. By the way, hoi polloi is one of those terms which have become terribly misused. Most people think that hoi polloi is a term for uppity people. That is entirely incorrect. Hoi polloi means, literally "the common people." As a matter of fact, it is redundant to even say the hoi polloi. When you do, you are saying the the common people. But, as you can see by my usage above, it has passed into commonplace language, so it is a useless battle to fight, much like whom. But, we all must never stop fighting the battle against the non-word "irregardless." THAT IS NOT A WORD, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! PROMISE ME YOU WILL HELP MAKE IT STOP! Just say "regardless." It is enough. Ahem.

But I digress.

We were talking about emailing me by clicking on the handy and convenient "Click here" exhortation that I graciously provided for you. Please do make use of it should you like to.

Finally, has anyone ever gotten all the way to the bottom of my blog, ever? I mean, has anyone ever read my footer? Anyone know what the quote comes from? A Challenge! No Googling, now! What did we ever DO before Google? Makes me wonder if we know things now, or just know where to find them.

Airing It Out

Time to get rid of some doodads nattering in the niches of my mind...

I find myself peevishly fixated on the ties of all the men on television. Today as Brian Williams of NBC Nightly News was bidding us all a good night, I sternly advised him, "I just can't get on board with that choice of tie tonight, Brian Williams, however bold it may be." I feel compelled to comment upon the cravats of NBA coaches, news anchors both local and national, talk show hosts and guests, and anyone else who dares show up wearing neckwear. I have always admired the tie choices of The Tsar of the Telestrator/former NBA coach Mike Fratello and have never, to my knowledge, found fault with any of Tom Brokaw's ties. And, very rarely did the late Peter Jennings make a neckwear misstep. Sigh. He was a snappy dresser and a great newsman. He is missed in both the fashion and news arena.

As I must have made mention of before, we at the Dept. are obsessed with condiments. In our refrigerator at any given moment the observer will find five different types of mustard, which we deem necessary. We must also have both Miracle Whip and Hellman's Mayonnaise, which we use not interchangeably, but for wholly different instances. I understand that those two condiments, MW and mayonnaise, cause massive discussions and divisions of families and friends into two distinct Usage Camps. Some people would never use MW on a turkey sandwich, only mayonnaise. Others will only give up MW when it is pried from their cold, dead hands. The same can be said about ketchup (aka catsup, catchup). I prefer Heinz or nothing. Others will only use Hunts. Others will simply say "Whatever is red and comes out of a bottle--store brand is fine!" I can certainly tell the difference, so do not even try to slip some cutrate dollar store garbage into some leftover Heinz bottle (MOTHER) at a picnic or something and act like it's nothing. Whatever. Oh, and then there's the Coke V. Pepsi thing. I can't drink carbonated stuff anymore--it interacts really oddly with my migraine med--but when I could, I was a Coca-Cola girl. Pepsi tastes like a minty, fakey bubblegum to me. They don't call Coke "The Real Thing" for nuthin', you know. But, the men here at the Dept. have turned it into a Pepsi Camp. And they are addicted. It's just a little sad. Pepsi sounds kinda femmey, you know? Coke--sounds more butch.

Today, during my sophomore honors class, the topic veered suddenly and sharply from The Objective Complement to My Wardrobe. I'm not entirely sure how this occurred, but my clothing and taste have become topics before. Today, the question was posed, "Mrs. D., do you even own a pair of regular shoes?" Let me interject here by stating for the record that I was wearing my red Liz Claiborne heels. Naturally, I asked the student to clarify the term "regular shoes," which was revealed to be "tennis shoes." I paused. The room was silent; each student was staring at me, eyes watchful and anxious. You could have heard a fish fart. In Guatemala. I pretended to think very, very hard. "No," I answered finally, "I don't." Every single eyeball in the room, save my own, popped out onto the floor. There was a mad scramble while each newly-blind student sought his or her own. All of that is true, except the eyeball part.

Now Is the Winter of Our Discontent

"Rain and clouds, go away.

Come again some other day.

Or I am going to slit my wrists or put my head in the oven or

Possibly take an entire bottle of whatever meds I have leftover in

The nightstand drawer if this shitty weather keeps up much longer."

--children's rhyme of unknown origin...sorta

But seriously, this relentless grey drizzle and damp has got to GO. Don't get me wrong: I am thrilled down to my usually numb toes that we are not snowy and frozen here in NE Ohio. We have been very fortunate, especially this weekend. Lots of the USA got a nasty ice storm and some pretty substantial inches of the white stuff. At one point, Canada was intent upon sending us a clipper packing some very frigid temps, and a high of only 13 was forecast for midweek around here. But for once, the front tracked a wee bit differently, and we were spared. Now we will attain the lofty peaks of about 27. (So far! Forecasting near yet-unfrozen Lake Erie remains a challenge that far in advance.) But this neverending cloud cover and fog and drizzle and damp and intermittent showering is reaching panic-inducing status.

I mean, it's like it has seeped into my very soul! I can't remember the last time I saw sunlight. I feel housebound. There are only so many things one can do on the weekend to try and shake the feeling of heaviness and sameness. I've cleaned out the fridge, organized the pantry, done laundry, gone over the wardrobe, boldly surveyed the sock situation (no, I'm not throwing out the singletons! not yet! there is still hope; I know it!). We've gone to the mall, the warehouse club, the grocery store. I've made soups, casseroles, cakes from scratch. Jared and I even had a serious debate on the merits of owning a panda as a pet--which involved Googling. How sad is that? And we purposefully enlisted Rick and Sam. Who, just for the record, agreed with me that owning a panda would be desirable, given the proper environment. Jared, on the opposing side, is an idiot, obviously. By the way, he also vetoed owning a koala. Clearly, he is just crabby.

Also, naming a panda would definitely be easier if you did not try to name it something Chinese. Stick with a basic English/American name. I like naming animals with people names, preferably something literary. But I digress. Really, the point of this post is not pandas. Not that pandas wouldn't make an utterly delightful post topic. Just not now. But they are completely charming.

Basically, the weather here sucks and I don't know how much longer I can take it. I need to go someplace where there is sunshine and, preferably, warmth. By warmth, I mean at least 70 degrees. Fahrenheit. I would like a trustworthy Dept. of Nance reader to invite me over for a while if your town fits that description. And soon. Because the forecast for the next 5 days here is more of the same.

Someone Should Be Babysitting the Speechwriter

"Victory will not look like the ones our fathers and grandfathers achieved. There will be no surrender ceremony on the deck of a battleship."--speech to the nation, January 10, 2007



"Mission Accomplished" photo May 1, 2003, aboardship USS Abraham Lincoln.

Personal Jesus

Something celestial, almost otherworldly, happens to an actor when he takes on the role of all roles--Jesus Christ. Now, I realize we all have a pretty misconceived, stylized, White European view of what The Man looks like, but when anyone says "Jesus", we all see the same thing:

"Yep! That's him," we would say to the officer while we stood on one side of the two-way mirror at the lineup down at the station house, "the one with the beatific expression and the flowy hair and the neatly trimmed beard. That's the guy!" We all could describe Jesus and the sketch artists would all draw this same picture.

I started noticing that all actors as Jesus are incredibly attractive a long time ago. I think it started when I was about 8 and I first watched the movie "King of Kings" with Jeffrey Hunter. He was one great-looking Jesus. I remember this one scene when he is down on his knee; he lifts his head and looks up into the camera. His eyes are incredible. Here he is:

I remember thinking, "Oh my God. He is really handsome. Those eyes are making me feel all squooshy inside." Seriously. Here they are.

I mean, come on! I know he's Jesus and all, but really. Mesmerizing.

That movie sort of began my unofficial collection of Hot Jesuses (Hot Jesi?). Pretty much everyone who plays Jesus looks good doing it. Even Willem Defoe. Old Willem is rather "apple-doll faced." He's not really that attractive, but in "The Last Temptation of Christ", he makes a darn nice looking Jesus.

Certainly, black and white can be forgiving, but trust me: I Googled the heck out of Willem as Christ, and even the sweaty and bloody ones were pretty good.

Naturally, you can't have a Hot Jesus collection and not include the Classic Seventies Rock Opera Jesus, Ted Neeley from Jesus Christ Superstar. It's almost not fair; Ted Neeley, who recently went back on the road in Superstar is still hot even now, whether he's playing Jesus or not.

Honestly, he might be the hottest Jesus ever. Certainly he's the most musical, and the only one who sustains a scream worthy of an 80s hair band.

Second only to Jeffrey Hunter in the eyes department has to be Robert Powell, who played Jesus in a television miniseries called "Jesus of Nazareth" in about 1977. Robert Powell has these startling light blue eyes that are almost as eerie as Meg Foster's, whose are downright scary. But I digress. Robert Powell made a very ethereal, Goth-like but fascinatingly attractive Jesus.

Finally, there's Jeremy Sisto as Jesus in the most recent television miniseries offering simply titled "Jesus." It ran in 1999 and had a memorable cast, mainly because Debra Messing of Will and Grace played Mary Magdalene. I didn't watch it, but I saw plenty of previews and magazine covers that proved my thesis that actors are automatically hot when they play Jesus. Jeremy Sisto's Jesus was sort of a laid-back, scruffy Jesus, though, you could tell. He had a casual air about him. Kind of a "geeze, Judas, don't get so serious" Jesus. But still pretty darn easy on the eyes.I mean, a cute Jesus, really, if you look at him. Not that sort of tragic, thinking about the future sort of distracted Jesus, like the other ones. More accessible. I liked that. I thought about whether I had a favorite Jesus or not out of all these, and I guess I don't. But I think Jeffrey Hunter, my first, will always be a little bit special.

O! Whatever Should We Do Without Men?

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

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

(photo courtesy of msnbc.com)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh. It is your cross to bear.

Happy Holidays from The Dept. of Nance

Merry ChrisMoose, Dept. of Nance readers! Things have already gotten way out of hand here--we've become Holiday Central. Crock Pots have been filled, drapes have been de-cathaired, and the cookies have been brought out of their deep freeze of pre-Christmas hibernation. My house smells like lemon Pledge, Febreeze, Mr. Clean, Windex, Formula 409, and takeout Chinese. That's today. Tomorrow, those aromas will be replaced with glazed ham, Friendship Cake, my three kinds of fudge, Confetti Baked Beans, and all the tangy aromas of the dishes of mixed pickles, shrimp cocktail sauce, and dill dip for the veggie crudites. And once the fam arrive with the trays and trays of cookies, all sorts of indiscretions will occur.

Aaah, Christmas. I hope yours is warm, restful, happy, and above all else, spent with those you most want to be with. I'll see you in the new year. I have such high hopes for 2007, don't you?

Peace,

Nance

This Just In: Inflatable Snowman Attack on Video

In the true spirit of journalistic integrity, and because I am willing to pursue the whole story at great lengths for you, my devoted Dept. of Nance readers, here is the link to the actual footage of the previously mentioned, heinous Screwdriver Attack on the Inflatable Snowman.

Just click here.

(It's also because no one is home tonight and I don't feel like reading and glossing the three chapters of The Scarlet Letter that I assigned my honors AmLit students. Yet.)

As you can plainly see from the film, I am not one of the perpetrators. They are clearly: male, tall, large-framed, strong of arm. I, on the other hand, am none of these things. Besides, they caught both of them, and I am old enough to be their mother. And, of course, would punish them. At some point. I'm sure. Enjoy the video.

I Need the Cronkite 12-Step Program--If There Is One

Hello, my name is Nance, and I am a news junkie. I know...admitting you have a problem is the first step. But, the problem is bigger than that. There aren't going to be enough steps in this recovery program. The problem is bigger than I am. I'm hooked and hooked for good. Just the past few days alone have convinced me of it.

It started with this little tidbit, which I read in The Plain Dealer. Up until this story of the python in the Australian toilet, I totally believed--no, needed to believe--that this sort of happening was purely an urban legend. I have a terrific fear of snakes; I will not even touch a photograph of a snake. Once, when I was a little girl, I was terrified that there was a rattlesnake in our toilet. Horrified beyond measure, I screamed for my mother from the hallway. "Mom! Come quick! There is a rattlesnake in the toilet! I can hear it rattling in there! Come listen and then call the fire department to get it OUT!!" My mother came tearing into the hall. She stopped. She listened. Then she started laughing. She tried like hell not to, but she couldn't help it. Her shoulders were shaking with unsuppressed mirth. I was crying---hard. "Nance," she said, her own tears sliding down her cheeks, "honey, that's the wind through the Venetian blinds."

The next news item that gives me pause is one that I heard on MSNBC today. It is the results of a poll given annually for National Kids' Day. Just about 1500 kids under the age of 10 were surveyed as to their opinion of what would be "The Very Best Thing in the World." Number 1? "Being a celebrity." Number 2: "Good Looks"; Number 3: "Being Rich." Now, I realize that "the very best thing in the world" is really broad, and that these kids are very young, but honestly...Number 9 was "Watching Films"!!! Oh, and all those things beat out "God", who rounds out the list at Number 10. Now that's gonna piss off some right-wing conservative Christians, and right at Christmastime, too. I wonder if they specified whose films... 'cause if it's like Adam Sandler or Lindsay Lohan, then it's pissing me off royally.

Finally, we come to an article AND video, the footage of which I cannot seem to get for you but that I saw on both MSNBC and our local NBC affiliate. But before I discuss it, I must digress. (No! Really? La.) It is with great dismay that I observe and note the proliferation of the Inflatable Holiday Yard Decorations. They are no less than an atrocity. What started out as a mere novelty has now turned into an all-out urban assault of not just the standard secular figures of Yuletide; nay, it is now de rigeur to have a yard full of these airy erections in a variety of forms: Sponge Bob in a Santa Hat, the Grinch, a penguin with a scarf, Santa on a Harley, and this year's newest incarnations, the Sno-Globe and the Christmas Carousel. No. I am not making any of those up. They are all in my neighborhood proximity, I am sad to report. The only one I am even remotely flexible on is the Inflatable Eeyore with Reindeer Antlers and that is because, come on! It is Eeyore. If it were up to me, an enormous inflatable Eeyore would be required on every single street. Just not in my yard.

But, I digress.

This report, which I read and saw the shocking and amazing video footage of in no way involves me. I swear it on my life. There is no way, despite my obvious antipathy toward all non-Eeyore yard inflatables, that I would ever stoop to attacking and stabbing one with a screwdriver in the dead of night. Besides, it is clear that the attacker is a man. And I would not go back four times over. Duh.

There you go, as The New York Times' masthead boasts, "all the news that's fit to print."

All This Testosterone Is Getting to Me

As the only female in the house, I find that it often falls to me to make certain concessions in the interest of Family Harmony. Happily, some of them are trivial...even fun. Others, however, require the diplomacy of an ambassador and the silence of a cloistered nun, two traits that I am not entirely famous for. Allow me to give you some examples of my sacrifice:

1. Fantasy Sports: My husband and two sons are deeply embroiled in this occupation. Rick can spend hours in front of his laptop laboring over his draft picks; Jared spends geological eras in front of his notebook computer, sweating over his nightly lineups in the NBA (er, that's National Basketball Association for those of you in the non-sporting group); Sam disappears upstairs and hollers down to Jared for consults regarding his teams. Jared picked my brain incessantly regarding his bench vs. active rosters until finally, I said, "I'm going to have my own team!" They all stared at me. Naturally, it was too late "to get into a real league," so I logged onto SmallWorld.com and picked my team. I had one criteria only: looks. I christened my team Cute Boys and my fantasy team was born. I don't give a damn how many points or anything they have. I just want them to look good. And they do. They are darned cute. (Although, if Etan Thomas doesn't get his facial hair under control, even his sexy dredlocks are not enough to save him.) Here is my #1 Cute Boy. Tell me he isn't the cutest thing ever. I love him. He is from Brazil. Or some country that starts with a "B." Who cares? He's cute.

2. The Nativity Scene: Okay, so. My nativity scene has a very special meaning to me. It is carved from olivewood from the Holy Land, and my husband bought it for me for our very first Christmas together in our very first apartment together. Every year, I lovingly wrap it up, each individual piece, in tissue paper, and store it away. Starting last year, the standard figures of the Nativity have been joined by the starting lineup of the Cleveland Cavaliers basketball team bobbleheads. And LeBron James, whose feet have been broken off, has now supplanted baby Jesus in the manger. But don't despair: power forward Larry Hughes is carrying baby Jesus in one arm--Larry's other arm is holding a basketball, natch. Not only are there Three Wise Men, there are Two Zydrunas Ilgauskases: one is a stretchable, and one is a loomingly large bobblehead. Oh, and there is also a black Santa Claus statue. Only one, though. The other one is strangely MIA. Hey! Don't look at me. I had nothing to do with it. I'm just biting my tongue and wondering who/what is next to join the tableau.

3. ESPN: Are any or all of you aware that this "channel" or "network" or whatever is a non-stop sports thing? Because, really, it's just uncalled for. We must watch "SportsCenter", "Around the Horn", "Pardon the Interruption", as well as the reruns of "classic matchups" which could be, oh, let's say the 1978 North Carolina vs. Mudflap State game. Remember, no one in my family or Rick's family went to either of those colleges. Or even travelled near any of those states. That does not matter, for perhaps Larry Bird's grandpa or Michael Jordan was a peanut vendor at one of those games! That is enough for Jared. So, I grab my Plain Dealer and read or do the crossword puzzle until the news comes on. And get this: Jared says, "The news? All you ever do is watch the news! Nothing ever happens. Besides, it comes on again at 11." Good heavens. "SportsCenter" is on 24 hours a day. Or more.

4. The Christmas Tree: It's a battleground of taste. The polar bear balancing on the circus ball has to be showing its butt. The surreptitious re-hanging of "back of the tree" ornaments on the front of the tree goes on all month. Sam's plastic condiment cup ornament, colored in 1st grade with green and black magic marker and hanging crookedly from a pipe cleaner, keeps mystifyingly reappearing on the front of the tree right at eye-level. The wooden moose and rabbit must be showing their butts also. And any of my crystal drop-style ornaments magically have other obliterating ornaments hanging in front of them. Both boys are almost an entire foot taller than I, so they re-hang uglier ornaments high and in front where they know I cannot reach them. And their father, unless I make a strong appeal, goes along with the joke. This year, I refuse to react. Who really cares? The only people who come over to see my tree know my freakish family and, most importantly, love them anyway. Feh.

Bless them all, my 3 men. In all the insanity of The Holidays, I think they keep me sane. In their way.

Sometimes, It Really *Is* All about Meme...

Although my dislike of memes has been previously documented here at The Dept., I am making an exception for V-grrrl, who tagged me for a "5 Things Most People Don't Know about You" thingy. I make this exception for two reasons: one, V. is a friend of mine and two, my other idea for a blogpost is still germinating.

I'll apologize ahead of time, however, that I'm not going to get all philosophical and deep and Barbara Walters-esque on you all. Let's face it; you know the really important personal-type stuff already. It's not like a meme-thingy is going to unearth some Nugget O' Nance that will make you go "Aaaah!"

So! Without any further falderal, here are

5 Things Most People Don't Know about Nance:

1. I've been every size from 0 to 18, and many more than once. And for a variety of reasons. I am now a size 2, up (thankfully!) from a size 0. I plan to stay here.

2. I am an unabashed fan of the lima bean. But it has to be the huge, Fordhook variety, cooked until totally mushy, and served with lots of salt, pepper, and butter. I will eat an entire brick of them myself for dinner, minus the one that I put on Sam's plate. For years, I used to pay him a standard fee of one nickel if he ate that lima bean.

3. I love to watch dog shows on tv but do not own, nor ever plan to own, a dog myself. I know

all the breeds by sight and even know the names of some of the repeat contenders. To me, owning a dog is too worky. You may as well have another kid. YOU, not me. *shudder*

4. I do not, repeat DO NOT, go to the library. See, the thing about libraries is, you have to give the books back. That is, to me, a bad deal. I much prefer to buy books. And they have to be in hardback. I hate, no, DETEST, paperback books. They are ugly and impossible to read. They also convey no gravitas. I buy books. In hardback. If I buy a lousy hardback book, then so be it. Books are like produce: if you get a mealy peach or a nondescript canteloupe, oh well. You did your research, you picked out one you thought you'd like, but it didn't work out that way. C'est la vie.

5. Most of the time when people talk to me on the phone, I don't pay any attention whatsoever. I don't do this on purpose--at least I don't think I do--but I find that I have no idea at all what they have said by the time I hang up. I'm not talking about the "Mom, I'm going to be late; I have to work an extra two hours" phone call. I'm talking about people who unexpectedly call me just to talk on the phone. I loathe the phone. Especially inane cell calls which serve no purpose except to establish that the caller is on the move and on the phone at the same time. Luckily, I don't get many of these. But, I think I have Phone ADD. Or something. I'm not sure.

This is the part where I think I'm supposed to tag other people. But, V, I'm not going to do that. I should have put that as #5 probably: I am not a joiner-inner. I don't go to Tupperware or Pampered Chef parties; I don't participate in recipe chain letters; I don't "forward this email to 10 strong women I know!" My sister Pat would probably laugh and say I was a Parade-Rainer. But she wouldn't do it, either. Hell, I don't even have her email address

The Dept. Presents: "What Not To Wear" Meets "Hardball"

It's December, dear readers, and today we had real snow here in NE Ohio. It was white and fluffy and covered the lawns and tacky inflatable yard ornaments that a shocking number of residents of my town cannot resist planting in their front lawns. All of this made me...no! not get into the Christmas spirit! It made me long for Spring! And what does Spring make us think of? Fashion!


It's time to pay our BFD (Best Friend Designer) Jeremy Scott a visit and see just what whacked-out sartorial psychosis he has in mind for us come April. Ooooooh! I can't wait! Remember last year, he was all about junk food. But not this year. This year, Jeremy is all about The War. That Jeremy! He is still going to have his fun. This is obviously a strong social commentary on the fact that the United States is really running a Mickey Mouse operation over there, and that we had flimsy excuses at best for going to war in the first place. The American people didn't fall for such a sketchy coverup. Ha! ha!

As now-unemployed Donald Rumsfeld so aptly said, we go to war with the army we have, not the army we wish we had. And Jeremy Scott would seem to agree with this fashion statement for women headed to the beach...after they make a quick stop at the beverage store or perhaps the local daycare to pick up the tots!





The United States Constitution is...well,...like the Pirates' Code, more of a Guideline in the eyes of the current administration. There are parts we need....and parts we don't. Here's Jeremy Scott's interpretation:

War is hard! Fighting the terrorists is hard! We know this from the Kerry-Bush debates; our President told us. It creates the need for lots of down time at the Ranch in Crawford. Those are the times when you just gotta relax, take naps, and phone it in. Jeremy Scott knows this:

But, after all, we're over there, building a democracy! Right, Jeremy Scott?

Riiiiiight!

*Note from Nance: For some reason, this new, buggy version of Blogger that I was urged to "upgrade" to, refuses to link to my previous Jeremy Scott post. So, if you want to read and look at the gustatorial goofiness that Jeremy sent down the runway at Fashion Week last year, search this blog for "Who is Jeremy Scott and Why Is He Torturing Me?" or just click on February and scroll down to that post.

Behind Closed (Classroom) Doors

Each and every day, I strive for a G-rated classroom. I really do. I mean, I don't consciously think about it when I walk in at 7:30 a.m., but at no point in my teaching day do I say to myself, What I have here is a room full of teenaged hormones just waiting for a catalyst. I think it's time to toss out something that is just a blatant sexual innuendo. Yet, it happens. And it's not just me. For example, this from my now-retired buddy Barb in the biology department:

So I've got the kids all dissecting their frogs, right? And, as usual, I'm walking around all the lab tables, looking for the best specimens of each of the organs they have to draw on their diagrams in their lab notebooks. I'm hollering all period: "Over here is a good example of the heart", and "Take a look at the liver at Kim's table" and things like that. And then...I wander to one of the tables in the back where Mike S. is. Remember Mike? He was a football player and was homecoming king that year. Good looking, tall. "Oh, hey!" I yell, all excited. "Mike's got a great-looking set of gonads back here!"

And this from Sue, my department head.

I had been talking about books with my students. We were discussing our favorites and what kinds of books we all like. Some of them are intimidated by long books--one look and they put them down. Other students look for books by particular authors, still others read graphic novels. A few days later, I was eager to share a new book with the class. "I don't know how many of you will like this one," I started out by saying. "But I know Amanda will love it. It's long and thick and hard, just the way she likes them!"

Sigh.

And we thought we could alleviate so much just by shelving the teaching of lie/lay.