Spring Cleaning...Of My Head

My brain has been binging on random outrage for months now, so it's time to purge. I really wish there were a way to organize these little bulletins, but there isn't. It's like a cerebral minefield, so put on your flak jacket and step carefully!

*I am absolutely certain that there is no reason to have any more media coverage of the following individuals (and it pains me to even list them by name, so I will refrain from even typing their more commonly used monikers here): A.N. Smith, Brittney S., and Rosie O'D. and her supposed "feud" with Donald T. Stop it immediately. These "personalities" are not news. Good Heavens; enough is enough already. I think one of them is dead, even. Let. It. Go.

*In the newspaper there was an ad for a pet store and guinea pigs were being sold for THIRTY-FOUR DOLLARS! This is unequivocally absurd. When I was eighteen, I worked in the pet department of a discount store and we sold guinea pigs for EIGHT DOLLARS AND FORTY-NINE CENTS. Now, granted, this was almost thirty years ago. Okay. But, in that time, have guinea pigs been bred so extensively that they are now FOUR TIMES BETTER? What, are they self-cleaning? Do they...oh, I don't know...SPEAK PORTUGESE? OR GUINEA? Do they no longer pee constantly, requiring you to clean the cedar shavings of their home almost daily? Because, let me tell you: I owned, in rapid succession, three seriously cute guinea pigs (Eric, Cory, and Toby), but they were definitely NOT worth $34. And, let me also say this: I had no idea that ferrets, which are distinctly skinny, hideous-looking animals which are basically snaky, stretched-out guinea pigs, are horrifically overpriced at an alarming $129! This would be laughable, were it not a tragic case of robbery!

*The neighbor women behind us moved away. They did not inform me of exactly when their last day of residency was. Today, 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. Clearly, a little notice from the previous tenants would have been in order . One never gets a second chance to make a first impression.

*If The Angel of Death continues to "stand behind Alberto Gonzales", I hope he gives him a good, hard shove.

*Now that it's Easter, I'd better be seeing a helluva lot more bunnies on tv. I think bunnies in general are a vastly underused source of marketing. Seriously, now. What is cuter than a bunny? And don't say "a baby." I've seen plenty of ugly babies in my day, all redfaced and squish-headed. And you know you have, too. Being a highschool teacher is no picnic in that department: students are always bringing me their babies or pictures of their babies. First off, I get irritated sometimes because I know darn good and well that I'm paying for that baby in some capacity. Secondly, I have to gloss over my own disappointment that the student has made That Mistake and now has been derailed in his or her education/life goals and may never get back on track, but here is this blameless child and I have to cluck and coo over it. Thirdly, if this baby is really and truly ugly--and some are--I have to say something nice! So, I say, "Oh my! Look at those little rosebud lips!" Or, "Look at you! Just look at you!" Or, "Aren't you just something!"

But, I digress. I was talking about bunnies. And bunnies are just cute. Why aren't they used more often? For like, lotion or fabric softener or bubble bath or blankets or something? Even at Easter, we don't see enough of them. My boys know I love bunnies, and so whenever we begin talking at dinner and the conversation runs awry into tense territory, like why their room is such a hellhole, suddenly Sam will yell out "bunnies!" And usually, I will get a far-off smile on my face and the whole diatribe just melts away. Seriously. Try it. Right now, think of something unpleasant. Got it? Now just look here:

(photo courtesy of http://www.cuteoverload.com/)

See what I mean? Who doesn't love a bunny? The word even looks cute.

*Today, I was watching "Meet the Press." One of the few Republicans I respect was on, Arlen Specter of Pennsylvania. Arlen is the ranking member of the Senate Judiciary committee and is one of the biggies who is trying to get Harriet "almost a Supe" Meiers and Karl "Turdblossom" Rove to have to testify under oath and in public about their role in the firings of the attorneys general. Arlen is attempting to broker a compromise. I wish he would have attempted to broker a compromise between his sportcoat and his tie this morning. Arlen, honey, pink striped cravats with foulard print do not harmonize well with a burnt sienna tweedy plaid coat. I'm telling you, I almost could not concentrate on Sen. Specter's astute analyses with all that going on. I am so serious. Bad fashion is just so...overwhelming. And for me to go all ADD when politics is at stake...well, you know it was bad.

*I don't get "dog people." And please don't try and make me. Dogs are worky. You might just as well have a kid. At least Jared and Sam, now that they are older, do not have to be taken outside and watched. And I do not have to hire a babysitter for them when I am away for extended periods of time. And they had the added bonus of not shedding. Ever. And although Sam used to randomly reach up and squeeze breasts though he was never ever breastfed, neither of the boys embarrassed me by burying any part of their body into anyone else's privates. EmilyCat and TravisCat do not have to be walked, do not bark, and do not have to be kennelled. I can leave for a week and just put out extra food and water. And while I do not enjoy having a shitbox in my house, it is better than having to take them out in foul weather and/or having a wet animal in my home. I like most dog people when they realize that I am not one and accomodate that fact. Non-cat people don't have to worry at my house: Emily and Travis hate everyone who is not The Dept.

Okay! I think I'm done now. This is so much better than paying for a therapist. Or at least I've heard.

When Is A Wallet Not Just A Wallet?

I walked into the kitchen to see Rick spreading out a bunch of papers and stuff on the table. "What the heck is all that crap?" I asked. He turned around, rueful expression on his face, doom in his voice. "My wallet got all wet while I was up on the roof helping Butch tarp it up. I think I'm gonna need a new one."

Immediately, I grasped the gravity of the situation. This was big. "Oh, no!" I said, sympathetically. "Wow. I mean--"

"Yeah, I know," he said tragically, surveying the damage to his black bifold. "But I just don't think it's gonna be the same. And it was bad to begin with. You knew that."

I sighed. "Geeze. Getting a new wallet is huge. If you can't find the exact same one, it's traumatic. It's like committing to a whole new lifestyle. If the credit card storage isn't horizontal, you have to get used to vertical. Once you're a bifold guy, you don't go trifold. You--"

"Hey! I'm no trifold guy! You know that!" Rick said. "I'm bifold now, all the way. Thinner, more lightweight. And now, I've gotten used to the flip-up ID thingy as a separate flap. The new wallet's gotta have that. One side for the ID; other side for the medical cards. That's non-negotiable. And black. Black wallet. Not brown."

"I'm all over it," I said. "Remember, you're talking to the Connoisseur of Purses here. No one is pickier about her purses than I am. Has to be leather; has to have a shoulder strap; cannot have any inside dividers; cannot have more than one fastener; the shoulder strap cannot be so short as to have the purse graze my elbow when I sling it on one-handed; the shoulder strap cannot be so long as to have the purse ride below my hipbone; the purse cannot cost more than fifty dollars. The only people who can stand to purse shop with me are you and Leanne, and I am not entirely sure that even Leanne can stand it anymore."

"I'm not even sure I can stand it," Rick muttered.

"Watch it, buddy," I said, "or you'll be shopping for your wallet by yourself."

Later, Jared joined us. "What's up with Dad's crap all over the kitchen table?" he asked cheerfully.

"Dad's wallet got wet and now he has to get a new one," I intoned dreadfully, searching his face for a reaction.

"Oh, man!" Jared said. "That sucks! A new wallet! Remember how hard it was to find me a new wallet, Mom? We went to how many stores until we found the exact one? Man! I'd rather go with no wallet than have to get used to a new wallet."

This was too good to pass up. "Hey, Jared," I said. "You go for the bifold, too, right? Like Dad?"

"NO. Trifold, Mom. TRIFOLD! The trifold is the way to go, Dad. Smaller, more compact. Bam! Everything right there. Your bills don't fold up in half when you take them out and put them on the counter. And the credit cards have to be on the left. Bifolds are shit, Dad. Geeze. The bifold. Come on. And brown. The brown wallet. Not black. What are you, a biker?"

Sam wandered in and I couldn't resist. Sam, the most fashionable member of the Dept. Men, was definitely going to have to weigh in. "Sam, what about your wallet?," I asked.

"What about it?" he asked. "I've had the same wallet for about 8 years. Brett left it over here and I just started using it. Come to think of it, I need a new wallet. Yeah, I should probably get one."

"What kind will you get? How about a nylon one? Doesn't anyone like one of those? They're supposed to be hardest to steal. With velcro," I added.

They all looked at me, pityingly. "Mom," Sam said. "How old are we, like 8?"

What's In A Name?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet."

Last night was parent conferences, aka "The Hostage Crisis." My day started at 7:30 AM and didn't end until 7:00 PM. All 120+ of us teachers were crammed into the gym and seated by twos at long tables. At 3:30, It began. The slow and steady trickle of parents wended its way around the maze, each of them peering like confused lab rats at the name signs helpfully perched at each corner of the rectangles. Naturally, the administration had done its part by changing the configuration and seating each and every time so that maximum entertainment value for its weary teachers could be achieved. (Hey, our district is so strapped that they can't even provide water, tea, or coffee for us! We have to have something!)

At conferences I renew my amazement/amusement at the names my students have been given. I am perplexed by the number of parents who plop down in the chair and announce, "I'm Sarah's mother." Period. Lady, I have 123 students this year. Six of them are named Sarah. Four of them are in the same class. Which one of them might yours be????? And then, when I handwrite a report on the spot for this parent, filling in the name of the student quickly, with an up-to-the-minute grade and percentage, with other parents in line breathing down her neck, does she thank me? No. She helpfully points out: "Oh, my daughter doesn't have the "h" at the end of her name." Graciously, I smile and say, "Oh, of course she doesn't. I was writing quickly. But the information is correct, let me assure you."

Another mom sits down and brings her daughter, one of my favorite charmers. We laugh and tease her. Her name is Shaquanta. I say, "I call her Shaq, like Shaquille O'Neal, for short." Her mother looks confused. She says, "Oh....Well, I just call her Quanta. I let my sister make up her name when she was born. I didn't really understand it, and Shaquanta spent most of kindergarten and first grade trying to pronounce it and spell it. She kept trying to use a "k". But pretty soon she got onto it. That was the last time I let my sister name one of my babies."

My tablemate leans over and rolls her eyes. "What the heck did she let her sister name her kid for?" she says. I just laugh. It starts me thinking about all the oddly-named students I've had over the years (I will give them all the last name Smith to preserve confidentiality):

Shatamela Pamela Smith...yes, exactly. I loved saying her whole name out loud when I called on her. It was like an addiction. I found myself calling on her even when she wasn't there.

These twins were very distinctive. Their mom was black and their dad was white. One twin was light-skinned; one was dark-skinned. You will not believe me, but I swear it is true:

Chocolate and Vanilla Smith.

We have had at least two girls at our school named: Toyota.

This is one I'm still trying to figure out: Clechie. Pronounced to rhyme with "peachy." It is a boy's name. But you probably could tell that. Yeah.

No one at school has ever gotten over this one: Jjiimmeellee. Did you pronounce it "Jimmylee?"

I'm sorry; that's incorrect. It is "Ja-Mell." I used to wonder if his mom was a stutterer.

A couple of years ago, I had a young lady whose name was spelled Tiey. Did you prounounce it "Tay?" BZZZZZZZZZZZ. Sorry; thanks for playing our game. It's to be said this way: "Tie-ya."

Last year, Tareyn was a girl. This year, Taryn is a boy. Last year, Ash was a boy. This year, Ash is a girl. I am so glad retirement is nigh. Do you know, in 26 years, I've never, ever had a single Nance?

What a Girl Wants

Mission accomplished. How do you like my new car? And don't I look stunning posing next to it?

Just kidding. First of all, I wouldn't be caught dead in that dress--it's hideous, and that fabric? cheapo cotton/polyester blend, you can tell. Secondly, I would never drive a convertible--I hate wind. It blows crap into my contacts and messes up my hair. Finally, anyone can see that car is not an American-made, hybrid SUV.

No, The Dept. has given up on the New Car for Nance Idea altogether. But you probably heard the sigh of relief from Ohio a few days ago. I apologize for the coffee breath. What can I say?

But I still have cars on the brain because I stumbled upon an article in which otherwise normal, and, I assume, educated people say the most idiotic things about "cars designed with women in mind." Now, in defense of our first spokesperson, George Murphy, Chrysler's vice president in charge of marketing, he says he is just responding to a women's focus group. (However, I must say here that I am sure that women in focus groups voice a helluva lot more concerns about a car's design than what you are about to read. At least the chicks I roll with do.)

"There's one neat aspect of this minivan which is what do you do with a wet umbrella. Well, we've provided this tray here," Murphy gushed enthusiastically to a reporter from a Cleveland news station. Holy crap. Are you kidding me? Is this really what women are inspiring in car designers everywhere? Wet umbrella storage? Because, I gotta tell ya...I just toss mine on the floor of the back seat and go. Oh no..."This is one thing told to us by them, and now I think it's really going to be a wow factor," said Murphy. If these women in these focus groups had the chance to smack carmakers around about safety and fuel economy and this is what they told them, then ladies, we have been sold out for a freaking plastic tray.

But it gets better: Ford's director of design, Patrick Shiavone, "said the Ford Fusion's interior is like an lbd -- little black dress." He went on to elaborate that, "the little touches of chrome is almost like wearing the right jewelry." Sigh. I spend very little time thinking about the interior of my car's style sense. As a matter of fact, the most time I ever spent on this was when I picked out new floor mats. I wanted grey ones, only because the carpeting is grey. The end. Truth be told, I don't even have my own "lbd." Good heavens. What a load of bullshit.

Good ol' Pat admits, though, "People want to be safe. And women especially want to feel safe, so you want to have the best safety" and then goes on to tout Ford's new hardware like airbags and rollover protection, for a whole sentence. But it just kills me that "women especially" want to feel safe. Because you know how we are. Such worrywarts about that sort of thing! Why can't we just let it go and drive, fergoshsakes??!! Duh! It's probably our fault that cars are so expensive.

Finally, though, a woman is interviewed! General manager Jill Lajdziak at Saturn will snap these boys into line with some cogent comments about what we women really want! Here's what Jill had for us: "We want what we want every day. We want to look great. You start to put on some jewelry, your earrings, your necklace. How do we do that? It starts with the lamp, the proud display of the brand bar and logo." Preach it, sistah! Wait--huh!?!?!?

What a disappointment. A woman sabotaging women everywhere. And why? For the company line. I'd love to tell Jill what she can do, proudly, with her brand bar and logo. But I'm too much of a lady.

Every Journey Begins With A Single Step: Help My Husband

Bless his heart, my husband is trying to buy me a car.

Most of you are probably reading the above sentence and thinking so what? Or, better yet, you might be thinking She's so lucky! I wish *my* husband would buy *me* a car! Or, if you are a careful reader, you might be homing in on the verb "trying." There you go: that's the key right there. For, dear Dept. readers, buying me a car is a journey fraught with considerable peril for so, so many reasons. Strap in--because I'm about to take you along with Rick on that virtual journey just for a moment. He feels so very alone right now, and he needs your help.

Mile Marker 1: The Start. My car is 11 years old and I love it. I hate to drive; no, I detest driving. But this car, a 1996 Ford Explorer XLT, loaded, electric and automatic everything, is a pleasure to drive. (That's a picture of the model up there.) It has everything I require, including a little thermometer above the rearview mirror that tells me the temperature outdoors so that I can complain about how cold it is or marvel at how warm it is in comparison to the ambient temperature inside my wonderful car. The outer mirrors are fully and completely adjustable with a mere push of a button from inside my vehicle. My power seats inflate or deflate to cushion and conform to my derriere. They also move forward or backward, electronically. I have the cruise control resident on my steering wheel. Even though Captain Audiotronics (Sam) replaced my factory radio with an unnecessarily complex one, I can find the buttons I require and "work" the CD player if necessary. This car has cost us less than $1500 in repairs, lifetime. I get decent gas mileage and only drive 5 miles roundtrip to work, Monday through Friday. We take 1-2 trips to Canada a year, and 1 trip to Maryland, near D.C. a year. It has been paid off for 8 years. We have no car payment. Did I say I love this car?

Mile Marker 2: Pothole Rick says, "This car is 11 years old. It's like shooting craps in Vegas. Pretty soon, our luck will run out. I am nervous driving long distances in this car. You are retiring in 4 years. Why not get a new car now, when there is 0% financing, and have it paid off when you retire and then have no car payment when your salary is reduced? You are making an emotional decision. We can get a more fuel-economical car. You are driving me crazy."

Mile Marker 3: U-Turn I remind Rick that in order for me to be completely comfortable driving, I have to have an SUV. I am tiny and have to be able to sit up above other cars. I have to feel like I am in a freaking tank. In order to reconcile driving an SUV with my personal, moral, and political convictions, the SUV must therefore be a hybrid and must, of course, be American. Rick sighs and sends Jared to the basement for beer. Correction: beers.

Mile Marker 4: Detour I have successfully, I thought, derailed the talk of buying a new car. Rick agrees to take me to the only Trader Joe's in the area--25 minutes away--so that I can get organic eggs and other quality foodstuffs. On the way, I notice we are not going to Trader Joe's. I have been ambushed. We spend the next 2 hours at car dealerships where there are no hybrids on the lot. Rick tries to get me to look at a reprehensible vehicle called an "Edge." It looks like a hearse and I tell him and the salesman this. They stare at me. I do not recapitulate. We find a dealership with a hybrid Ford Escape. It drives nicely and is very like my beloved Explorer. But we are misled by a previous dealer who had told us that the '08 models are at 0% financing; they are not. We say goodbye.

Mile Marker 5: Scenic View We stop at a Lincoln Mercury dealer who has a Mercury Mariner (?) to look at. But it is not exactly what we are looking for. By then I am cranky and cold and fussy, but I am heroically and stoically quiet. (Really! I was so proud of myself.) We do not drive it, but leave our names and Rick's phone number for when an '08 comes in that is what "we" want to drive and consider. They say they offer 0% financing on the '08s. Rick feels proud that he can just walk away with the upper hand at all of these places. I feel overwhelmed and confused and more attached than ever to my underappreciated Explorer, who has done nothing but give me practically uninterrupted service and unstinting loyalty for more than a decade. And this is how we thank it.

But I digress.

Mile Marker 6: Rest Stop We are now at a standstill. We have called friends whose opinions we value, we have talked and talked, we have slept on it, and we have sighed. And now, we don't really know what to do. The Lincoln Mercury dealership called yesterday. They have the car for us. We are going to go out and drive it Saturday. Then what? I have no idea. Today, my car, which makes a little honking noise sometimes when the heat or a/c is on, made it again, and all I had to do was rev the accelerator again a tiny bit to make it stop again. It's just a tiny little thing. Imagine having NO car payment. For SO LONG. And then having one. FOR SOOO LOONG.

My husband, I must say, has never made a bad financial decision for us. When we hash these things out and I cannot bear it anymore and announce exhaustedly, "I just can't make the call here. It's whatever you say. I trust you," it has always turned out excellently. So why, you are saying, can't you just let him go on this one? Because I am cheap, frugal, a spendthrift, and can't stand to go from NO car payment to A car payment. Period.

Help!

Update: Car salesmen are big, fat liars. Rick just told me he stopped at the Lincoln Mercury dealership today. The salesman casually mentioned that "oh yeah, the '08s aren't coming in at 0% after all, but we do have some attractive financing and the hybrids have some tax incentives---". Rick cut him off with a few words and left. We have found this with every dealership. Car salesmen have the credibility and integrity of the current Vice President and the rest of their ilk. Aaaargh.

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.