The X Factor

It's that time again: I'm going through my seasonal bout of Food Fussiness. Nothing sounds good, I don't feel like planning what to have for dinner, and we are all enacting The Five PM Drama at the Dept. way too often lately.

Here it is, in its entirety:

Curtain opens on modest living room. Husband sits in distressed leather recliner. Wife sits in one corner of couch, legs drawn up, arms encircling them. Eldest son sits slumped in opposite corner with laptop computer open, staring blankly at screen.

Rick: Well, what does everyone want to eat?

Jared: I don't care.

Nance: I don't know.

Rick: Where's Sam?

Nance: Upstairs on the phone or computer. Jared, get him.

Jared: (takes out cell phone, speaks into it to voice dial.) Call. Sam. (pause, then--) Hey, get down here. Family meeting for dinner.

Nance: (stares incredulously) You just called your brother on the cell phone? Upstairs?

Jared: Yeah. So?

(Sam comes downstairs and stands in archway between living and diningroom.)

Rick: Sam, what do you feel like for dinner?

Sam: I don't know. What are the options?

Nance: It's late. If I have to cook, something has to have time to be thawed, then I have to cook it, and by the time you people decide, we won't eat until 8:00.

Sam: I'm going to go work out at 7.

Rick: We'll order out then. What does everyone want?

Jared: I don't care.

Sam: I don't care.

Nance: Well, I absolutely cannot handle pizza, and I won't do Wendy's or any fast food burgers.

Rick: O. Kay. What about gyros?

Nance: (makes face as if someone poured worm guts all over lap and into hair.)

Jared: Well, that effectively cancels out all the edible menu options within a 5 mile radius.

Sam: Do I have to stay here? Can't you just tell me what we end up with?

Nance: Well, just get whatever you guys want and I'll just find something here.

Rick: That's ridiculous. What about Chinese?

Jared: That's fine.

Sam: I'm getting a call. (Steps away to talk on cell.)

Nance: Well...

Rick: Then I have no idea. Nance, you're the X Factor here. It's gotta be up to you.

Nance: I know. I'm sorry. I'm awful.

Sam: That was Scott. I'm gonna go work out now. I'll just eat whatever when I get back.

Sam leaves. Jared and Rick look at Nance expectantly and annoyed. Nance makes herself even smaller on the end of the couch. Everyone waits. Eventually, they order_______.

Sad, isn't it? It's horrific. I just have no real interest in food and even less interest in making decisions regarding it. Everything about it is a chore. I'd just rather be taken out of the equation entirely. (Like Sam, who is the Poster Child for Passive Aggressiveness. Or something like that.)

I cannot wait until this particular bout passes. My husband is being a saint throughout it, but his patience certainly has its limit. Thank goodness he has a real fondness for peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches because I can see that being on the menu at least once this week. We've already had Chinese.

Flamingos: They Don't Teach You This in Teachers' College

Kris's mom came to see me yesterday. She stopped by my room before first period with a package in her hand. "Danielle wanted to come see you on Mother's Day with this," she said smiling ruefully, "but I told her not to. Then she had to go back to college, so I just decided to run up with it."

"Oh, she didn't have to do this!" I said, surprised, and started to open it.

"Nance, you probably shouldn't open it right now, " Deb said. "It's not that it's a big deal, but it's a little sentimental, and you might get emotional. When you see it and read the note, you'll understand."

"Okay, " I said. "I'll wait, then. But thanks. How are you, Deb? How are all of you?"

"Well, it's been three years," she said, "but it's not really getting any easier. We miss him so much. We got the results of his autopsy, you know. And we found out that, even if the marrow transplant had worked, there had been so much lung damage, we might not have had him much longer anyway. He did it for us, Nance. You know that? He was so tired. He only did it for us. We should have let him go. We just should have let him go."

I put my arm around her and tried not to let the tears which threatened begin to fill my eyes. "Oh, Deb, why go back and relive that decision now? That was your son. He was nineteen. Of course you wanted to try."

She smiled--smiled--at me. "If he had lived through it, he wouldn't have been able to play softball. He wouldn't have been able to play golf. He would have had to be on oxygen. He wouldn't have been able to do any of the things he loved to do. We just wanted him alive and that was all we could think about."

"Of course it was, " I said. "That's all any of us wanted."

"Well!" she said, taking a deep breath. "Dani saw this and right away thought of you. I told her I'd make sure you got it. So! Here it is. Nance, you look well. I'm so glad. Take good care of yourself. Promise me."

"I will," I said. "I promise. And you do the same. Give Danielle my love, as usual."

And with a wave, she was off.

Last night I was edgy, headachy, and so very tired. I waited until this morning to open the package. Inside was a note from Deb and two photographs, one of which was Danielle taking a photograph of a flock of flamingos, my favorite bird and the welcoming tacky-chic decor of my English classroom. Also inside was a silly flamingo bottle opener, one of the kind that has the insides of oil and water so that a bright pink flamingo perpetually floats aloft within. Part of the note reads:

...all Dani could talk about was how much you loved these animals & then we found the bottle opener in a gift shoppe right at our timeshare and the rest is history. I know she hasn't forgotten anything you did together, whether it was in class or in support of Kris or our family. Those are what pulled us through the worst part! Yes, 2 years after her graduation, the impact of you as a person/teacher still affects her thoughts and actions! So that is why I am so grateful that both of my kids were able to have you in their lives!! I know you are/were in both of their hearts!

Someday, I'll tell you about Kris. But that's not what this post is about. This post is about teaching, the career. The life of it. The way you are born into it. The way it becomes who you are. And the way that, no matter what college does to prepare you for it, no university course can ever prepare you for what I just told you about. Or the dozens of other kids in my heart. I wanted to tell you about someone else, too. But I think this post is big enough. There's time enough for all the rest later.

If Moms Wrote Horror Movies, Redux

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

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

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

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

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

Teen: Mom, taste this.

Mom: Why?

Teen: Just taste it.

Mom: But I don't want any.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Teen: Is there something on my back?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If Moms wrote the script for a horror movie, can you imagine what it would be? Mine, now that my kids are 19 and 22, would be one in which the boys never left home but got some low-life trashy wenches from the Fundamentalist Right "in trouble" and tried to live here with their babies, played country music at top volume, spoke with bad grammar, and brought yappy dogs into my house. Seriously scary stuff, that.

Just Off the Top of My Head...

Time to pop the top off my head and release the pressure. Here's the latest passel of cerebral sediment that's gotta go.

*I love baseball. For a sport with such funny pants, it has a very elevated vocabulary. The phraseology is downright elegant. "Designated hitter" just begs to be pronounced with an intelligent British accent. And "intentional walk" has a four-syllable adjective with a pretty sinister undertone. And here's my all-time favorite: "defensive indifference." This is a real term. I am not kidding you. This is a perfect term to describe my entire strategy when Sasha in my 7th period junior class cheats on her vocabulary test. I never bust her because, no matter what she does, she ends up with a 62% at the end of the term anyway.

*The Oscar Mayer jingle irritates me. They sing about their first and second names and then spell them. But then, they say at the end, "Oscar Mayer has a way with b-o-l-o-g-n-a." But in the song, they have pronounced it baloney. If they are going to SING "baloney", then they should SPELL "baloney." There is a difference, is all I am saying. One is pronounced ba-LO-na. The other is pronounced ba-LO-nee. Get this right. Geeze.

*White cars look odd to me. They just look like they're not done yet. Like they aren't painted. I saw a white Scion the other day, and it reminded me of an old-timey ambulance. It looked like it was perhaps European Army surplus from like World War II or something, and they painted over the red cross. OR, it looked like a funny clown car ambulance. I half expected it to stop at the intersection and have a bunch of clowns come piling out of it, all wearing like huge yellow rubber stethoscopes and carrying oversized hypodermic syringes. They could hit each other with those rubber mallets and then fall down onto big stretchers and bounce back up. Anyway, white cars: I'm not a fan.

*Speaking of white--I'm at the point now where I'm wavering on the White Shoes Issue. Technically, my mother would weigh in now and say that since we've had Easter, it is officially White Shoe Season. Since I cannot seem to find mine, it's sort of a moot point. No one on my floor at school has worn hers yet. I wonder if they're waiting for me?

*My cell phone ringer is perpetually set on "Joy to the World." The Christmas carol, not the Three Dog Night Song. This is because I never, ever used to know when my cell phone rang. I could be holding it, hear it, and would wonder aloud, "Whose phone is that?" I am completely serious. Finally, I set it on "Joy to the World" because I have never heard anyone else's phone ring in that tone. Now, when my phone rings, I jump, terrified, and frantically try to silence it. Or, I don't hear it. Both reactions are incredibly annoying to my family. On Friday we were in my car on our way to dinner and my phone rang. Because we were in a closed-in place, I was jolted out of my skin and, panicked, tried to find my phone and wrest it off its clip in order to answer it. I was unsuccessful in both arenas:

Me: Dammit! My heart is racing! Feel it! And I still didn't get to it.

Sam: You're ridiculous. How hard is it to answer a phone?

Me: I hate this freaking clip. It's impossible.

Rick: Nance, it's just a phone. You always go crazy.

Me: I know. But I feel like I have to hurry.

Jared: She used to never even hear it. This is an improvement.

Rick: Somewhere between terrified and oblivious...that's where we need for you to be.

And that's what I've been aiming for all these years...

Adventures in Fine Dining: Or, Blogworthy Stuff from Macaroni Grill

On Saturday, Rick and I celebrated Sam's 19th birthday by going out to dinner. Without him. Or Jared. The boys were slated to go with us, but they were attending an NFL Draft Day party and ate like water buffalo there and ended up calling us and cancelling. So Rick and I said, "Fine. We'll just do it another time. Stay as late as you like and call us when you're coming home." We sort of stared at each other and then decided to go out anyway.

Then began the Ritual of Nance Fussing About Whether Or Not What She Had On Was Dressy Enough. Rick hates and detests this Ritual because it really never ends and there is not a satisfactory role in it for him to play. He strode purposefully off to his closet to toss something on that was not bristling with whatever bushes he had been trimming before and was, naturally, ready within minutes. Shortly after that came Act II of The Ritual, which is Now I Don't Look As Dressy/Casual As You Do which is followed by Rick's own Ritual, which is The Slamming of The Back Door And Heading To The Car Ritual.

So we end up at Macaroni Grill, one of the few restaurants around that still take reservations. They had an opening when we called at the spur of the moment and we were able to make it. We were seated, and let me just say this: my fears about proper attire were immensely, vastly unfounded.

Seated directly to my left was a family of three: the parents were probably about our age (late 40s) and they had a teenaged daughter. The mother was wearing the obligatory Mom Jeans and a shapeless sweatshirt, the color of which defies even my descriptive powers. I think it used to be blue, but was perhaps washed with black jeans, and is now dusty bluish-grey. Naturally, to complete the ensemble, she wore filthy tennis shoes with rundown heels so that she is walking perpetually askew. Her husband was wearing a trucker's hat--you know, the billed cap with the adjustable plastic band in the back. Thankfully, I didn't see the front so I didn't have to read a slogan like "If this truck's a-rockin' Don't come a-knockin'" or "Eat at the Y". He was also wearing jeans, sneakers, and a shapeless garment on top. The daughter had her hair pinned up with a variety of hair implements: clips, bobby pins, and a scrunchie. And, in addition to sweat, she was wearing a spandex volleyball warmup and her athletic shoes. Charming. My martini could not come fast enough.

Which leads me to my next blogbit: martinis at restaurants.

Okay, look. Stop effing around with my MARTINI. Here's the deal. Martinis are sophisticated. They are a classic drink. They are the epitome of the urbane, debonair cocktail. I embraced the martini several years ago. (Purists would claim that even I am pushing it by drinking vodka martinis instead of gin.) But don't go throwing a bunch of crap into my martini--like ice--and bring it to me! Don't sugar the rim of the effing glass like it's a freaking margarita! Don't put plastic stirrers into my MARTINI! Don't insult me by pouring the whole shebang into a goddam highball glass! Part of the allure and culture of the martini is in that gorgeous glass. God help you if you ever, ever put an umbrella in there. Now, I can get behind the Lemon Drop, the Appletini, the Cosmopolitan (aka the Pink Martini), and at Macaroni Grill, I even ordered the Pomegranate Martini. But they sugared the rim and put two plastic stirrers in there. I was apoplectic. Get a grip, bartenders and "mixologists" everywhere. The martini is sacred. Stop screwing around with it.

Finally, I have to speak about the 60-something woman who was dining with her female companion a few tables over from me. I wasn't looking at her on purpose--I simply could not help it. No one could. Her head was on fire.

Not literally, you understand. It was her hair color: a bright, neon/fluorescent orange. I suppose it was supposed to be something somewhat akin to her original haircolor in her youth. But she was still trying to work it. It was teased and shellacked into a sort of helmet-ish affair with carefully placed individual spitcurl bangs. Eventually, I could look away. But not before I took in her attire in all its glory: a Scooby-Doo sweatshirt. My eyes filled with tears. But not before I saw the 3-inch gold crucifix pendant on a chain prominently displayed outside said sweatshirt. I just knew she wore it to complement the metallic copper handbag I saw on the floor next to her chair. Later, when she tried valiantly to signal her waitress and succeeded in alerting the entire diningroom, she used her sequined checkbook wallet (which matched her purse!) to do it.

As you can probably imagine, dinner conversation did not lag. At one point, Rick said, "Why don't you just have some cards made? They can say Congratulations! You just made my blog! Go to http://deptofnance.blogspot.com/"

I think that might just be rude.

Why Brian Williams and Bill Clinton and My Husband Take Up Space In My Brain

It's strange the way the human mind works, and mine is no exception. As a matter of fact, mine works in such oddball and incomprehensible ways that I, at times, cannot even possibly explain its complex and twisting pathways, even to myself.

But, stuck as I am for a blogpost this week, I have to try.

I was reading my email, and in it was this astonishing comment from Ortizzle on my most recent Brian Williams Tie Report of 4-26:
Before you go psychotic, why not send him a beautiful, uh, say, forest green tie? I looked him up on Wikipedia: HIS BIRTHDAY IS MAY 5th! (When he will turn 48, by the way).

My first thought was: Omigod, my birthday is May 3rd and *I* will also be 48! This is some sort of cosmic sign that Brian Williams and I...but is this really how I want to be remembered: as the woman who became famous as the One Who Sent Brian Williams a Tie and Subsequently Was A Segment On The NBC Nightly News? But, how will I really be remembered? And do I really want all those people staring at me, remembering me anyway? I don't like people staring at me when I'm alive, let alone when I'm dead, and can't really do anything about it.

The rest of her comment said:
Anyway, you still have time. You could send it with an explanation of how you started the Tie Report, give him a link to DoN, etc., etc.

Well, that sounds really worky to me. It sounds like looking up the address, getting to the Post Office, which is always a parking and traffic nightmare in our town, and also like a bit of a pain. I'd have to carefully compose a really charming letter that would sound engaging, yet chiding, but without being too snarky. It sounds like at least two drafts, and I don't mean beer. And, remember, I have no online archives of The Tie Report, so I'd have to include hard copy transcripts, and some of them are...well, downright biting. Easy for Ortizzle to say, and honestly, she did offer to share any expenses (which was really sporting of her--I like her! I really like her! see Sally Field Oscar acceptance speech), but I'm just in this for the casual nature of it all. I fear commitment at this level; it's the man in me....

And speaking of men, I then branched out to: I wondered if perhaps I was starting to become a bit enamored of ol' BW on a more-than-style level. He's kind of my type: boyish yet intelligent, not traditionally handsome, and a sort of sardonic wit about him, especially last night at the MSNBC Democratic Candidates' Debate. At which, by the way, there was no appearance by Hillary Clinton's husband, Bill, who I will forever love, as all of my loyal DoN readers know. He was in Russia, but I don't fear for his health anymore. I recently saw him on tv and he looked great and said he was feeling fine. He said he would do whatever he was asked to do, and I'm assuming he meant by Hillary.

I think that's a great policy. More married couples should have it. If more husbands had that attitude, the divorce rate would probably be much lower. Personally, I don't ask much of Rick. Lately, it's been pretty standard: get in bed first so it's warm when I get there; get up first so I don't always have to be the one to make the coffee; decide what we're having for dinner so that all I have to do is make it. Is that so terrible? Basically three jobs:
1. Warmer
2. Maker
3. Decider
That last one...seems familiar....

DoN Re-Images Professional Sports

I'm not real sporty, but I do enjoy watching some athletic contests; mostly this is out of self-defense, sharing the home as I do with three men. But you all know that I do have a very definite fondness for fashion, and I am just irritated beyond all measure by some of what goes on, sartorially speaking, in the world of sports.

Let me get one sport out of the way right off the bat--how cute, a baseball reference--and that is football. I don't care about it, and they don't have much control over their uniforms. Not much opportunity for individual style there, although I do appreciate the flowing locks of such players as Troy Polamalu sticking out of the backs of their helmets. Other than that, they all look the same: tight jerseys, tight knee breeches, helmets, taped-on shoes. End of review.

Moving on.

The NBA (National Basketball Association) may as well change their name to the NCA--National Culotte Association. How these players can run down the court without a severe case of chafe-rash is beyond me. These men have on the equivalent of what was high fashion for me in the sixth grade when we were not allowed to wear shorts to school, but were able to skirt (!) the dress code by wearing the "shorts which looked like a skirt", the culottes. Look:

Is that ridiculous, or what?

Thank goodness the NB(C)A has eliminated the Ballerina Tights from the legal uniform. This look was popularized by Cleveland's own LeBron James when he had a leg injury and then other players started copying it because it kept their muscles warm and loose and for some, they felt it created a sense of confusion on the hardwood for the opposing players who were trying to pick up their defensive moves. Here it is, in all its fashion horror:

I know. Don't even say it.

At least the NBA coaches dress. They pace the sidelines in suit and tie. And some of them look wonderful. I have always admired Pat Riley for his well-cut suits, and the former coach of (pretty much everybody and) the Cleveland Cavaliers Mike Fratello for his ties.

Actually, let me insert here that the NFL coaches could take a lesson. They stalk the sidelines, some of them (most notably Bill Belichick), in clothes that look like they picked them up off of a frat house floor. What's up with that? I miss the days of Tom Landry, former Dallas Cowboys coach, who always looked dapper and well-dressed and wore the distinctive stroller hat.

Now to Major League Baseball, and let me tell you, I have some issues with these individuals. This league needs to come to a consensus right now, people, about PANTS. Let's decide: are we wearing the pants down, like jammies, or up, like traditional baseball pants? Because if we don't get some consistency soon, we are just out there, people, like a bunch of third-graders playing a pick-up game of stickball. I cannot take it anymore. I mean it! Personally, I like the pants-up look. It's baseball! The Great American Pastime! (Historically, anyway. Everyone knows that now, the Great American Pastime seems to be acting like you are the only one in the world and talking loudly on your cell phone whenever and wherever you like. But I digress.) If we wear the pants down, we might as well be playing golf. Pants up = baseball! Just look:

That's Grady Sizemore and Travis Hafner, both Cleveland Indians.

Okay, finally, golf. This is a sport which has really cleaned up its act, and I would like to think that I had something to do with it. I didn't, of course, but I would really, really like to think that I did. Golfers used to have carte blanche to dress in terrifying plaids and disgusting flat hats and knickers and banlon stockings. (R.I.P. Payne Stewart. I know you tried to be retro and bring this back and it was a bold statement. But it is telling that, in your absence, no one has taken up this Fashion Cause/Risk.) I just wish that the ubiquitous billed hat was not so...ubiquitous. I am so very tired of baseball caps being worn if the wearer is not fielding a grounder or popping up a fly ball. At least Greg "The Shark" Norman wears a different sort of headgear:

I find it refreshing and interesting. And I can definitely get behind a signature look. Tiger Woods, take a lesson.

Finally, in a completely selfish, yet public-service announcement sort of way, here is a picture of the completely unabashedly stylish and cute cheetah-print slingbacks I told you I bought on sale with my son's (the shoe store assistant manager) discount. Many of you asked about them right around the time of my road trip.

Did you note the detail of the black leather button on the sling? I love these. You cannot believe what they do for a black skirt and sweater outfit. Okay, you probably can.

Miss Independence

When I was eighteen I started out at the local community college; I was paying for my own education and I needed to work part-time as a bank teller to finance my degree. Like most college freshmen, I was sort of undecided: in my heart I knew I was born a teacher, but having had a string of furry pets during my teenage years made me flirt with the idea of veterinary medicine. Bravely, I enrolled in some science courses until I realized I had a tendency to faint at the sight of blood and that my hatred of math--present since birth--only intensified and deepened.

Never one to dawdle at decision-making, I quickly changed my major to secondary education, reasoning that I could become an English teacher and blend the best of both worlds: I could still work with animals, but there would be a lot less blood. (rimshot)

I was caught in such an odd, in-between world. I was in college, but I was living at home. I was working and earning my own money, but I was living at home and had a curfew. It was the strangest thing. I had always been self-motivated and independent, but it felt like I should be somehow different now. What was the answer?

Cigarettes.

That was the Big Blow I Struck For Independence. I started smoking.

Laughably, though, I couldn't really do it much. I couldn't smoke in the car, because technically, it wasn't mine, it was my parents'. And I couldn't really do it much in very public places because my mom and dad knew everybody. Mom was a teller for the same bank I worked for. Dad was a security guard at the steel mill in town and knew every person, every cop, every family, and everybody who went to our church. It was ridiculous. So, when did I smoke?

In class.

Back then, in the late seventies, we could smoke in class unless somebody objected. And no one did. So, for my eight o'clock Eighteenth Century British Lit. class--oh my god, what a yawner!--I'd stop in the cafe, get a huge coffee, grab my pack of Salem Light Longs or Kent Somethings (I forget, but they were in a silver and green pack, I think), and head to the back of the room. That class nearly killed me for a variety of reasons. Can you imagine drinking like 24 ounces of coffee and smoking probably 4-6 cigarettes while meandering through the likes of Alexander Pope, Jonathan Swift--and let's not forget Dryden. Dryden. I mean, I was supposed to read Tristram Shandy for that class. (I never did, you know. I just thumbed through it, came across those odd blank, black, and swirly pages and did an essay on those. BS'ed my way through it and Dr. O. thought I was a genius. I did, at least, have the grace to feel guilty about that.)

But I digress.

Back to My Rebellious Smoking. I smoked like a smudgepot during all my classes and felt very professorial and beatnik and English-studentish. I even gestured with my cigarette and used my empty styrofoam coffeecup for an ashtray. How pretentious I probably--no, surely--looked. But I wasn't the only one. There were lots of us, but I bet I was the only one doing it for a sense of dangerous independence. The only one who had to do it there because if she didn't, her mother or father would find out and probably ground her or lecture her and make her feel like a disappointment. Sigh.

But it didn't last. In November I met a boy, and that made me quit cold turkey. Because there was one thing I really detested about me smoking and it was this: I hated the way I looked when I was smoking. I thought it made me look hard and cheap and tawdry and trashy. I hated the way my mouth looked when I would draw in, and no matter how hard I tried, I never looked cool or sexy or even smart when I let the smoke out. So, when I met this boy, I just stopped. And that was it. Because I knew if I didn't, sooner or later, he'd see me smoking and it would be awful.

The funny thing is, that was almost thirty years ago, and every once in a while, I still get a yen for a cigarette. I completely understand people who try to quit, over and over again. I get it. But it looks ugly. And you know me. That's enough.

Spring Breakdown

It's been a sorta crummy Spring Break. The weather has been lousy: cold, windy, snowy and rainy by turns. I've retreated into a sort of Mushbrain Mode, and little by little, I have given up any semblance of adult dignity and household control. Yesterday, I didn't even get dressed and I washed my hair at 7:3o. P.M. Yeah.

Today, I knew I had hit bottom when I realized that I had been carrying on an entire dialogue in the kitchen with Jared in my Napoleon Dynamite voice. Complete with well-placed movie references. I stopped, chagrined.

Me: Oh my god. That's it. I am almost forty-eight years old and I'm doing the Napoleon Dynamite voice. This is all your fault. I won't have any friends left. No one will want to hang out with me anymore. No one.

Jared: Sure they will. Just be the one to bring the booze.

Visual Basic

Sometimes, a picture really is worth a thousand words. (Panel courtesy this site. )

Easter Greetings, Road Trip Wrap-Up, And A Cell-Phone Story

Happy Easter, and to those of you who do not celebrate the holiday, why, hello there!

And speaking of Easter, let me just say here and now that once again, the opportunity to use copious amounts of bunnies was wasted. The Cadbury people did not use the Cadbury bunny ad in which the bunny clucks like a hen and lays the creamy Cadbury eggs. No fluffy cute bunnies were used to advertise Easter sales on spring dresses or hats. No bunnies were paraded around for frikking anything. So, in an effort to give cute bunnies their due, here is an absolutely terrifyingly, mindbendingly cute bunny.

So there. And I have absolutely no segue into the next section, which is about my road trip. Except to say...

I made it through The Road Trip With Mother, sanity intact, and all with only two pairs of shoes. She was so well-behaved, Mom was, that I was almost ashamed of my pre-trip trepidation. True, there were a few moments when we had to explain her cell-phone to her again--she's had it since Christmas--, and we did have a few "Nance and Patti as Shirley and Evelyn Moments", but all in all, the old girl did all right. I think most of this was due to the fact that she was sitting in the backseat of the van and couldn't always hear all of the conversation clearly all of the time. But I could be wrong. But I doubt it.

I must say that I was deeply touched--deeply--by the concern some dear Dept. readers expressed in the comments regarding my taking of only two pairs of shoes. You were so very kind to be worried about this obvious fashion risk. But rest assured that I am nothing if not fashion savvy. I made sure that the two pairs I did take worked perfectly well with the choice of pants I packed. And, our motel was right next to an outlet mall that had several shoe shopping offerings should a footwear crisis emerge. None did, and sadly, our itinerary was so packed and the weather was so inhospitably cold that the opportunity never presented itself even just to browse. But fear not: I have a pair of incredibly stylish leopard print point-toe slingbacks on hold already here at home. On discount. You would not believe me if I told you the price, so I won't.

But I digress.

The trip to take my mom to see her sisters was a ton of fun. I re-met cousins and my cousins' daughters and the wives of cousins. There was a lot of talking and my uncle mixes a helluva martini. He and my aunt are incredibly good hosts and democrats. I love them. And they are good to my mother--way better than I am. Someday they may look under the bed in the guest room and discover that I have been living there quietly for months.

Finally, I want to share with all of you what I came home to. No, not a messy hellhole of a house. It was clean and wonderful and Rick and Jared and Sam were glad to see me. They even wanted to wait until I came home to color Easter eggs. No, it's this:

Jared came downstairs this morning, still a little sleepy. We said good morning and he started grinning. He even chuckled a little. We started laughing, too, even though we didn't know what was so funny. "What is it?" we asked. "I got up," Jared said, "and I always grab my cell phone first thing. I noticed that sometime in the night I had gotten a text message. So I retrieved it to see what it was. It was from Sam. It said, STOP SNORING."

Time to Go...But First--

Just a real quick post; the Ladies are almost here!

I've tragically overpacked, as all American Road Travelers are honor-bound to do. In an almost visceral rebellion to the restrictions of air travel, I've packed all full-sized toiletries and all of them are in gel form. All of them. I've packed two pairs of shoes, several sweaters, two pairs of pants, and probably ten pairs of underwear.

And I've rehearsed my Speech to Mother for my Entry into the Vehicle. It is to ensure a nice, pleasant trip for all of us. But especially for Me. Here it is:

Mom, let's get a few things straight from the get-go. Number one, I've already counted my grey hairs, and they'd better be the same at the end of this little journey. I have 31. Number two. I will be riding shotgun and will have ultimate control of the heater and the vents. Number three will cover the topics of conversation, and they are: not the grandchildren, not Bobby, (that's the brother of ours who she lives with), not previous road trips if they concern the fact that I became carsick, not the time I got lost in the new church coming back from communion, not the time Dad knocked me off the dock and I almost drowned because I forgot to close my mouth, and finally Number four, you are not to start calling us Evelyn and Shirley (her sisters) before we even cross the Pennsylvania state line. We clear on all of this?

That oughta take care of a lot.

See you Saturday or Sunday.

Road Trip!

Kids these days!

They'll never know the glory of the family vacation like the rest of us experienced it. Nowadays--oh does that word ever make me sound like my hair belongs in a bun at the nape of my neck, skewered by a couple of knitting needles--kids travel in luxurious vehicles complete with their own I-pod jacks, specially cooled cupholders, reclining seats, and (this really kills me dead) DVD screens that magically fold down in front of them. Honestly, add their own laptops and Xbox game systems, the screens of which are built into the seatbacks of Mom and Dad's captain's chairs, and they are actually unaware that they have even left home. I could puke.

Case in point: each and every morning on my 2.5 minute jaunt to work, I observe the Catholic Family Van next to me. It contains The Children on their way to St. Wonderful School, which is a neighborhood school. No one lives more than about 5 minutes away from this school. Yet, there is a DVD of Barney or Dora the Explorer on the flip-down screen inside this vehicle every single morning. Now, I ask you: can these juveniles not be ripped away from these simpering characters for five freaking minutes? Are they even aware that they are in a car? And a moving one at that?

When I was a kid, we used to go on a family vacation every now and then. If it was a long ride, say from our home in NE Ohio to our cousins' in Gettysburg, PA, we really planned for it. That was a 6 hour ride, at least. We got our crayons and coloring books, we made score sheets for all the state license plates, and for those of us out of all four siblings who didn't get headaches reading in the car, we laid in a supply of Archie comic books and some Encyclopedia Brown paperbacks. Mom made us a bed in the backseat by putting the coolers on the floorboards and topping it off with blankets, and we were ready. If we were awake, we looked out the window and noticed stuff out there!

I wonder about this new batch of kids. They can crisscross the country and not see a thing but Grand Theft Auto and DVDs of The Wiggles and Harry Potter. To them, the countryside looks just like their livingrooms: a screen, empty cans, snack packages, and their parents' mouths moving.

Which all reminds me...

I'm going on a road trip!

My mother has decided that she wants to visit her sisters in Gettysburg, so I'm back in the back seat and headed east. With my sister. We're taking the old woman and dumping her off for a month. I figure this is the best way to get back in her good graces for never calling her. Ever. This should be good for...say, at least 30 phone calls, wouldn't you say? Mom said, "I know how you hate long car rides, Nance, so do take some Nice Pills or something, won't you, before you leave?" She knows me so well, it's almost as if she were my mother or something. So, I've promised my sister I will wait until we get out of my driveway before I start whining and asking "How much longer?" and that I won't put my feet in her face or say, "I think I have to--blaaarrrp--" and throw up as I'm telling her I might have to. Because I'm a grownup now.

Seriously.

It'll be fun.

Playing Politics: Another Game For You

The Angel of Death's administration has made things way too easy to figure out: everybody is lying, everybody is cheating, and everybody who isn't smart enough to do that is an idiot. So I thought I'd provide you with a little brain teaser to test your political acumen and stretch out your current events muscles. Here's all you have to do: read the quotes below and match them with their speakers. I'll categorize them for you to help focus their context. Answers are given at the very end of the post, so grab a scrap of paper and a pen and scratch your head. It's time for Which Politico Pontificated?

Round 1: On The Iraq War

1. "We have misunderstood, misread, misplanned and mismanaged our honorable intentions in Iraq with an arrogant self-delusion reminiscent of Vietnam."

2. "We're not winning, we're not losing."

3. "He can swagger all he wants but we have 3,241 dead Americans."

Here are your possible speakers: A. Chuck Hagel, (R-NE) B. Tom DeLay, former senator (R-TX) C. Angel of Death D. Harry Reid (D-NV)

Round 2: On Running for President

1. "No tengo futuro." (translation: "I have no future.")

2. "I don't have any plans to run. Nor do I have any creative denials. I'm using the same ones. They'll soon be out on DVD."

3. "I'm going to tell you something, and whether or not it's plausible given the world you come out of is your problem. I am not 'running' for president. I am seeking to create a movement to win the future by offering a series of solutions so compelling that if the American people say I have to be president, it will happen."

4. "I've learned a lot of lessons being involved in politics. I also believe that when you are attacked, you have to deck your opponents."

Here are your possible answers: A. Arnold Schwarzenegger B. Hillary Clinton C. Jeb Bush D. Al Gore E. Newt Gingrich

Round Three: On the Current President

1. "He’s not accountable anymore, which isn't totally true. You can impeach him, and before this is over, you might see calls for his impeachment."

2. "The president listened too much to the Vice President... Of course, the president bears the ultimate responsibility, but he was very badly served by both the Vice President and, most of all, the Secretary of Defense... Rumsfeld will go down in history, along with McNamara, as one of the worst secretaries of defense in history."

3. "He has 24 months left in his presidency. I don't think I'm being mean-spirited by saying [that in] the first six years of his presidency, there's been nothing accomplished except the biggest foreign policy fiasco in the history of our country."

4. "I don't know if they're bad people. I don't know what's going on. I just know they got us into a mess, the likes of which this country has probably never seen. It's one of the great catastrophes of all time."

Here are your options: A. Donald Trump B. Harry Reid (D-NV) C. Chuck Hagel (R-NE) D. Newt Gingrich E. John McCain (R-AZ)

Round Four, Final: Potpourri

1. "I have a politically incorrect smoking tent -- I don't know if you have heard about that one. People come in there, Democrats and Republicans, and they take off their jackets and rip off their ties and they sit down and they smoke a stogy and they talk and they schmooze."

2. "If Al should decide to run -- which I'm afraid he won't -- I would support Al Gore."

3. "Let's say I believe firmly in Ronald Reagan's 11th Commandment: thou shalt not speak ill of a fellow Republican. But it's very hard sometimes to adhere to that where Chuck Hagel is involved."

4. "I think that's weird and it's nuts. To suggest that everything we do is because we're hungry for money, I think that's crazy."

5. "I have to be in politics or I will evaporate."

Here are your choices: A. Nance of Dept. of Nance B. Pres. Jimmy Carter C. Darth Vader (aka VP Dick Cheney) D. Pres. Bush #41 E. Pres. Bill Clinton (if there were gold font I would put his name in it) F. Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger

Answers:

Round 1: A C D

Round 2: C D E B

Round 3: C E B A

Round 4: F B C D E

How'd you do? Was it fun? All quotes were supplied by Taegan Goddard's Political Wire. I am on their daily mailing. I highly recommend a subscription to this feed if you're a (Democratic) political junkie like I am. If you didn't do so well, that can only mean one thing: you'd better start upping your dose of "Meet the Press" and Newsweek. Remember, a wise man once said that it was up to us "that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth." Believe it or not, the guy was a Republican.

One of the good ones.

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."