Five Fashion Failures & A New Poetic Art Form--All In One Post!

Today I realized that it's been a while since I snarked around about fashion. And, it's been a while since I wrote some haiku. So, I'm going to blend the two and create an entirely new poetic art form called the Snarku.

The Snarku retains the original syllabic structure of the haiku: the first line is 5 syllables, the second line is 7 syllables, the third line is 5 syllables. But, the Snarku differs in that it is 2 stanzas, not just one. This allows the writer/crafter of the Snarku to really build up and then blow off the head of steam he or she has about the topic being expounded upon. The only other "rule" of the Snarku is that by the end of it, there should be some residual sense of snarkiness.

Okay, then. Here are my Snarku regarding Five Fashion Failures about which I can no longer remain relatively silent.

To the Wearers of Flip Flops
The least you could do

Is lift your feet when you walk.

The sound makes me nuts!

It's bad enough to

Look at your hideous feet;

Must I hear them, too?

Young Girls with Ill-Advised Tattoos

Oh my, a tattoo!

How nice that will look at your

Big job interview!

Or, just imagine

That Chinese symbol peering

From your wedding dress.

Adults Trying to Recapture Youth:

Here's a formula--

If you're not embarrassed to

Drive a minivan,

Then you are too old

To wear cartoon characters.

What are you, seven?

Questions for Wearers of Crocs

Are you gardening?

Are you braving tidal waves?

THEN WHY RUBBER SHOES?

These are egregious.

Nothing justifies their wear.

Even basement floods.

Men, This Is For You. Ladies, Read It To Them.

Is there a ceiling

Above where you are RIGHT NOW?

If so, take cap off.

Wasn't that easy?

(It's best to keep it simple;

Know your audience.)

I almost feel better. Like those were sort of PSAs. You know, part of the job of The Dept. of Nance, were it an actual department of some sort of something with some sort of power, would be for me to be able to arbitrarily allow and forbid things like this. Certain things would come across my desk for my approval or disapproval, and I would pick up my big blue YES or NO stamp and that would be the end of that!

Oh, but that's for another post. In the meantime, try your hand at Snarku in comments, or, should that prove to be too goshdarn worky, weigh in with your own fashion failure observations.

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: The Alaskan Adventure Part III

*try as I might, Blogger would not let me line up or space my Snarku correctly. I worked and worked at the HTML and regardless of how the post looked in "Preview" and in the "Edit" pane, it never looked that way upon posting. Sigh. Please cut me a break.

Disaster Averted, With Chuckles On The Side

Ever since the election of 2000, I have terrible moments when I wish horrid misfortunes on You Know Who. But I never wish anything too malicious, too...final. Because that, dear readers, would give us Darth Vader in The Big Chair, finger on The Button.

And no one, no one in the known universe, wants that.

But it happened. On Saturday, July 21st, 2007, The Angel of Death underwent a colonoscopy and, while he was anesthetized, handed the reins of absolute power over to Mr. Shoot 'Em In The Face Brand Of Crazy himself. Thank goodness he didn't get the urge to do anything sinister, and all was uneventful. I was relieved. I think we all were.

The worldwide media reported the event with all due diligence, as I found out today while Googling another medical story of earthshaking importance, at least to Jared--the fact that the research has confirmed the link between laptop usage and low sperm count--but I digress. My point, and I do have one, is this: the headlines of these stories carried by the various worldwide outlets are extremely entertaining. Here are some of the best:

Polyps Removed, Bush Reclaims Power--Economic Times, India

(doesn't this sound almost like a reverse Samson effect? now that those darn growths are gone, he can feel his super-strength return! what were they--kryptonite?)

Cheney To Be In Charge During Bush Colonoscopy--CNN.com

(wow. I had no idea Darth was a medical guy! he just wants to boss EVERYBODY around!)

Bush Will Cede Powers To VP Cheney During Colonoscopy Exam--International Herald Tribune, France

(geeze...won' t he have other stuff on his mind at the time...?)

Polyps Removed During Bush Exam--The Spokesman Review, WA

(er...okay, but good luck finding...er, never mind.)

Bush Goes Under; Cheney Takes Over--Brisbane Times, Australia

(those Aussies! they're just fun people. no misreading here, just creative!)

Doctors Remove 5 Polyps From Bush's Brain--The Spoof, UK

(I like--no LOVE--how these people think. you know so many other legit press wanted to use this but didn't dare.)

And finally, from a blue state with some obviously creative headline writers:

Bush's Bottom Breached; Cheney Takes Top Position--OpEdNews, PA

(oh hell--you're all plenty smart enough to appreciate this without snide commentary from me!)

Last Year at the Dept. of Nance--The Alaskan Adventure Part II

Because Sometimes, I Can Be Profound Like That

I offer the following real dialog that occurred during a viewing of a Silk Soy Milk commercial as proof of: A) the fact that life at the Dept. is positively Seinfeldian; B) maybe I am still overly-snarky and difficult to live with since I've returned from vacation:

Me: (sniffing disdainfully) Real cows don't wear clothes.

Rick: Or stand on two feet.

Me: (dismissively rolling eyes.) That's hooves.

Rick: (trying again) Or talk.

Me: (still staring at t.v.) Maybe not to you.

Rick: Never mind.

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: The Alaskan Adventure Part I

*this begins my 7-part series of my Alaskan cruise, complete with some lovely pictures. If you'd like to read ahead, just hit July 2006 in the Archives and enjoy.

Everything Has Its Price: Good, Bad, Beautiful

Oh, I'm back from vacation and you know how that is: in order to go, you have to earn it and when you come back, you have to pay for it.

The entire Dept. packed up and went to Canada, specifically Niagara-on-the-Lake (what a bitch to type that is) for their annual Shaw Festival. We saw two plays (Tennessee Williams' Summer and Smoke and George Bernard Shaw's--for whom the Festival is named--The Philanderer), walked about the quaint downtown area for lovely shopping, and visited nine wineries along their famed Wine Route for tastings and purchasing. In addition some nice meals were eaten, Niagara Falls was visited, and I took a great deal of heat regarding the five pairs of shoes I packed for our Tuesday through Thursday (plus Friday for driving) excursion. I am absolutely justified in all five pairs; I am sure each and every one of you would agree.

Having said all of that, upon returning to NE Ohio I have fallen into a somewhat snarky and reflective mood. Do allow me to share.

~#~ Before we left, TravisCat was having some, er, difficulty using the litterbox consistently. As in, he would make eye contact with me, maintain it, then saunter over to the corner by the fireplace windowseat and water the carpet. As you all know, I am not entirely attached to either of the cats, so I immediately went ballistic and informed him that he would be traveling to Dr. Miller for the needle, i.e., to be put down. I barricaded the corner, sprayed it with a variety of products, and basically lost my mind. Finally, I took him to the vet--he needed his shots anyway--and long story short, he has a kidney or urinary tract infection which, I guess in cats causes this issue. I proceeded to feel immensely guilty about threatening a crazed-by-illness animal with The Death Penalty. Until I got the bill. For over $125. And he is a bastard about taking the medicine. I will not elaborate.

~#~ In Canada (or as my children like to pronounce it "Canadia") I was continually struck by the overwhelming friendliness and routine courtesy of every single Canadian we met. Now, it was not lost on me that the people we had dealings with were in the hospitality or tourism business, so that was pretty much their job, but time and time again, each and every Canadian was warm, friendly, patient, and pleasant. This is not the case with all U.S. Americans with whom I've dealt in the hospitality business all over the country as I have traveled. There was only one exception to this, and I will discuss it next.

~#~ I wholeheartedly recommend vacationing in Niagara-on-the-Lake. It is lovely, and I especially recommend visiting the many wineries. The wineries post a tasting charge, but the majority of them, especially the small, family-run ones, don't charge a thing. They are regulated strictly and may only pour 1 ounce, but that's per variety you taste. I won't list all the ones we visited, but will note that we especially liked Caroline Cellars, Frogpond Farm (an all organic vineyard), Reif Estate, Hillebrand, and Jackson-Triggs (their tour is very interesting--start there.). The only place we did not like was where we encountered the very unpleasant and off-putting Canadian, a woman who looked like a younger version of Joni Mitchell. I was, however, quite mellow from all the other tastings at the more pleasant wineries, so in that state of largesse, simply left without comment or purchase.

~#~ Jared had taken along his laptop. On Thursday, he received a Breaking News Email from CNN and shared it with us: Al Qaeda is stepping up efforts to sneak terrorists into the U.S. and has rebuilt most of its capability to strike here, an intelligence estimate states, according to The Associated Press. All I could think of was, 'Hey! I thought the Republicans were constantly telling us how it was they who were making the U.S. safer from terrorism. How the Democrats were soft on terror. And hasn't the Angel of Death been saying for years that "we're fighting them over there so that we don't have to fight them over here?" And didn't he also say awhile back that he hasn't given Osama much thought? What the heck!?' And then I got back home and saw the devastation that had been wreaked anew upon my backyard by the goddam moles. And I realized that the moles are part of Al Qaeda. That they have stepped up their terrorist efforts. That no matter what I have done or will do, they simply rebuild their network and strike--again and again and again.

~#~ At one point in our travels, we stopped at a roadside fruit stand to get some cherries. Sam began eating them in the car. Soon, we heard a low moan followed by an exclamation of profanity from the backseat: he had gotten a smear of cherry juice on his pristine white polo. I urged him to just take off the polo since he had a perfectly acceptable tee underneath. "Mom!" he sighed. "I have to have an undershirt on underneath it. And I'll mess up my hair. How far are we from our hotel?" Lucky for him, we were only about a mile away. We stopped back so he could safely change and everyone could make a pit stop. Jared, feeling a bit of urgency, pounded on the bathroom door, "Sam! Jesus! Come on!" Looking wounded, Sam exited and used the other mirror to apply the finishing touches to his hair. Jared was in and out in a flash. Disgustedly, he looked at Sam. "Come on, Paris," he said.

~#~ So, now I'm home. Boy, is vacation over. Sam's car has been to the repair shop; Jared is (very vocally) trying to navigate obtaining a student loan; the carpet had to be shampooed; there are no towels, yet the boys tell me they have none upstairs in their room at all; I had to go to the grocery store; the pond developed string algae while I was away; I'm so behind on everyone's blogs.

See? That's how vacation is. When you go, you have to earn it; when you come back, you have to pay for it.

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: Everyone Needs A Hobby

Playtime With The Baby Boomers

The Baby Boom generation has provided researchers with a vast and fertile playground. Those of us born during that period of 1946-1964 have been studied for our buying habits, bedroom habits, and pretty much everything else. Now that summer is here, it seems that our recreation is the next to be put under the microscope.

In an article the Plain Dealer cribbed from the Baltimore Sun, "10 timeless toys" from the Baby Boomer generation were touted as "putting the play back in the child." I perused this article expectantly, looking for the beloved toys of my own Baby Boomer Childhood. Feh. This article was full of Loser Toys. See what you think.

1. Slinky. Are they kidding? This hardly qualifies as a toy. A coiled piece of metal that you held, one end in each hand, and bobbled up and down. Rarely could you get it to "go downstairs" for more than a step at a time, and when you did, so effing what? Then, the urge to see how far it would stretch would overcome you...disaster! The slinky got kinky. End of toy. Once that sucker got a bend or kink in it, it was done with. What the hell was this thing?

2. Magic 8 Ball. Never had one. My friends, Lisa and Laura across the street, had one. We asked it questions a few times. Big deal. Then, Lisa, who had a proclivity for taking things apart, couldn't help herself. She bashed it with her dad's sledghammer behind the garage. End of "toy." Notice again how neither of the 2 things already mentioned is really a "toy."

3. Silly Putty. Oh Boy. We all got this stuff. My family has a story for this involving the putty melting down the side of the brand new couch. A certain sibling got into HUGE trouble. Me? I could never resist the urge to bite Silly Putty. After a while of transferring comics and stretching the images of "Terry and the Pirates", the putty got ugly grey and icky-looking. The egg it came in--hey! why an egg container? I don't get that--seemed to always get cracked and then the putty, which could be rolled into a ball and bounced very high and irregularly, would get lost behind furniture. That stuff cannot be effectively scraped off of avocado sculptured carpeting, either, let me tell you. I had to try once. Yikes.

4. Mr. Potato Head. Okay, this one was pretty okay, but after a while, it just got gross. Then, when a plastic potato was provided, it was just dumb.

5. Wiffle Ball. Now, this was brilliant. It was marketed as an alternative to window-smashing baseballs, but let me tell you: our wiffle ball games produced at least one broken window, leading my mother to make us move the contests to the street out front or the driveway, which was gravel. Our wiffle ball game rules were vast and complex, especially my brother Bobby's driveway games with his he-men weightlifters. Good god. The gallons of Bactine and mercurochrome, let alone the boxes of Band-Aids they went through in a summer were a testament to their manliness.

6. Play-Doh. I am one of the few people I know who has never eaten Play-Doh. But I played with this stuff like nobody's business. My sister was born 5 years after I was, and I am grateful that her birth extended my Play-Doh time. You name it, I made it out of Play-Doh, and that was before all the cool playsets came out. My own boys had the Play-Doh Diner. Long after they lost interest in a Play-Doh session, I would still be at it, making burgers with little pickle chips and fries with realistic looking blobs of ketchup draped over them. Sigh. Love it.

7. Frisbee. What a scam. This dumb thing. I could never throw it and was always afraid to catch it. This is still the case. Especially when my nails are long. This is basically--well, let me show you:

'Nuff said. Oh shut up, those of you who never got over your college days! IT'S A DOG TOY.

8. Hula-Hoop. I can only imagine how immensely ridiculous I looked doing this. I was a short, fat girl with no waist trying desperately to shimmy like some sort of Hawaiian pole dancer on crack. Oh. My. God. It makes me now want to go buy one and practice, take The New Size 2 Me out into the middle of my old street and Hula Hoop Like There's No Tomorrow. Sigh. How do we ever survive our childhoods?

9. Etch A Sketch. This toy rocks. I was pretty good with an Etch A Sketch. A genius, if you asked my father. My specialty was houses with nice, symmetrical windows with flowerboxes under each one and a chimney on the roof with a flowing plume of welcoming smoke. But every day, I fought the demons who teased me about how it worked. If I was really smart, I would have bought Lisa across the street one for her birthday.

10. Trolls. I take issue with this nomenclature. Back during my childhood, they weren't called "trolls." They were called "Wishniks." These sharpei-like Yoda-esque creatures came in all sizes and were mystifyingly attractive to girls of about 8. They had them on their dressers, they tied them to their bike handlebars, they carried them to school. I just didn't get it. They were supposed to be good luck. I never had one and didn't want one. Again, though, not a toy.

Top ten? Huh. What about The Thingmaker? I had the one that made Fun Flowers. That toy would never fly in this hyper-kid safe, litigious world. That one was basically an open oven and toxic waste facility. But I loved making my own little fake rubber flowers with the oily junk called, appropriately enough, Plastigoop. I also had a Footsee, a sort of ankle hula hoop. It consisted of a plastic ring you put around one ankle. Attached to the ring was a cord about 30 inches long with a bell-shaped weight attached to it. As you twirled the ring with one foot, you hopped the string with the other. I was pretty good at it, when I wasn't going so fast that I stepped on the cord and tripped, falling on my face.

Aside from those, I had the usual stuff that wasn't exclusive Boomer territory: metal clamp-on roller skates, a second-hand two-wheeler, jump rope, jacks, and a set each of badminton and croquet. (Although the croquet set was a mystery to me. I think we set it up once, fought during a game, and quit.) Beyond that, we were into playing statues, freeze tag, Mother May I, and Red Light-Green Light.

Sigh. I feel old. But strangely smiley. I can't wait to read your toy memories in Comments.

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: Men (2)

My Name Is Nance; I'm Party-Impaired

My hair stylist had a huge pile of baskets sitting on one of her dryer chairs. They were of varying sizes, and I just assumed she'd bought them from someone who'd delivered her order to the shop. We were chatting about summer plans and I asked her what was next on the horizon.

"Oh my God," she said, dramatically. "I can't make a single plan until I get This Party over and done with! It's taking over my life! See those baskets over there? Those are to hold the plates, napkins, and cutlery. I thought it would be nicer than to just have them sitting on the table; plus, it'll make sure they all stay in one place and don't get blown around or fall on the ground. Whaddya think?"

I told her I thought it was a great idea, but had no idea what party she was talking about.

"Oh my God! Mike's daughter's graduation party! It's next week, and all I do when I'm not here doing hair is cook for it, shop for it, plan for it, get stuff for it. Clean for it! You know me, Nance: I am cleaning everything like a maniac. The party is outside, but am I cleaning closets? Yes. Am I cleaning the tops of the kitchen cabinets? Yes. Do I need therapy? Yes! This isn't even my daughter. Hell, it's not even my step-daughter, but I don't want anyone to think I live in a messy house. You know how it is."

Yep. I do know how it is. And that's why I don't "entertain." It turns me into That Maniac. And I hate Her. I "entertain"--my, how I detest that word; it's so impotent when it comes to what one really does when one sets out to do "it"--once a year. I host Christmas Eve at my home for my extended family. It entails approximately 20-25 people, a full buffet, and maniacal cleaning and preparation. It also involves profanity, pharmaceuticals, alcohol, and some other things I won't go into here. And let me be completely and totally honest: all of this is entirely self-imposed. My family would come cheerfully and tactfully under any conditions and eat anything I tossed at them. And I would never hear about it. Ever. It's all me.

I think I can trace back the beginning of my profound distaste, though, for entertaining to one Christmas Eve in particular. It was circa 1989-90. Sam was about 2, Jared about 5. This was back when Christmas Eve at my home was a true Open House affair: the guest list was much larger and it was not unusual to have 40-45 people show up, sometimes all at once in our little house. I used to get up extremely early and get started with as many of the preparations as possible while keeping the little boys happy and busy, too. (These days, I look back and wonder how I did it!)

It was about noon on Christmas Eve and I was in the middle of getting the ham into the oven and had settled the boys down at the table with some lunch. Rick was pulling on his Carhartt coveralls and boots, readying to go outdoors. I turned around and said, "What are you doing now?" He looked at me, face open and innocent, and said--I'll never, ever forget it--

"I'm going out to clean out my work van."

I stared at him, open-mouthed, for what seemed like five minutes. I probably asked him to repeat himself. Then, I looked at the kitchen counters covered with cutting boards, crockpots, cans, and food detritus. Finally, I snarked, "Why? Are you going to be giving guided tours of it tonight?" And then I let him have it. No--that's not quite right. Actually That Maniac let him have it. She launched into a full diatribe, replete with lists of things that She had already completed without his help; things that had yet to be done; things that would probably not be done and that were sure to be noticed; and things that he could be doing right now without being told. As diatribes go, it was impressive.

And you know, it wasn't entirely undeserved. I mean, how on earth could he be so incredibly oblivious? And why would he think his work van had to be cleaned out on Christmas Eve when he wasn't going to go back to work for the next two days? And couldn't he see that there were things that were far more immediate that needed to be done? After all, it was his party, too.

We've had the conversation since then. Let me just say that my memory places far more importance upon the incident than his does. I see it as a pivotal event. Him...not so much. But I still abhor entertaining. I don't see the payoff. All that craziness and agonizing and preparation and then I just don't have a good time. I never even eat the food I spend so much time cooking because by the time I get done fussing over it, I'm sick of it. I can't relax and enjoy the party because I have already put so much into it. I'm on edge, making sure that the food is okay, well-supplied, that the ice is fine, that everyone is happy, that things are continuing to function along. AAAAARRRRRGGGHHHHH. How do normal people do it?

I need to know, at least before December. I can learn almost anything in five months.

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: Oh The Agony

Am I Not Human? If You Bug Me, Will I Not Bitch?

Let me just say this: after 22 years of parenting, I refuse to be resigned! I'm not going to just give in and say, "Well, okay, then. Sam is just never going to hang up the hand towel and I'm not going to make an issue of it any longer. It's just not worth it." Nor am I just going to--I was going to use the metaphor throw in the towel but that would be redundant now, wouldn't it?--give up and say, "All right. It's over. Jared will never, ever take all of his dishes into the kitchen from the living room, so I'm done harping about it. It's pointless."

NO! Because that is what THEY want. Who? Well, yes, Sam and Jared want that. Oh, my, yes. They would love that, although their constant refusal to acquiesce to my simple requests/demands would indicate otherwise--that they in fact love to hear me harp and harangue about handtowels and snack detritus, so often do they perform behaviors that result in it.

No, I am talking about a different THEM. I am speaking about the followers of Pastor Will Bowen of Christ Church Unity in Kansas City, Missouri. "The one thing we can agree on," says Pastor Will, "is there's too much complaining." He asked his congregation to take a pledge: go for 21 consecutive days without complaining even once. If they caught themselves griping at all, they had to start over. To help them, he gave them each a purple rubber wristband like the one pictured at the top of this post. Each member of his flock placed it on his or her wrist. If he or she erred, the congregant then switched the wristlet to the opposite arm and started counting again from day one. Some members reported that it took seven months to complete the pledge and attain their "Certificates of Happiness." Others were successful in as little as three months. One member asked her sixth grade class to take the pledge with her. The students found their biggest obstacle to be brothers and sisters who could be "really mean!"

Reverend Bowen is looking to attain World Domination with his no-complaint program: "We're going to be the center of no complaining around the world!" he said. And truthfully, he has planned for this eventuality by appearing on shows like Oprah!, Good Morning America, and has been interviewed in People magazine. He's even giving away his purple rubber bracelets for free on his website http://www.acomplaintfreeworld.org/, which will automatically lead you to his church's webpage.

Well, Reverend Bowen, not the whole world...!

Because I, for one, will not be sucked into your little purple plan! I reserve the right to beef, bellyache, grouse, grumble, kvetch, carp, object, lament, sound off about, bemoan, fuss, bewail, and crab about pretty much whatever I feel like here at The Dept. any old time I want. I find it cathartic and necessary. Some people find it entertaining, and as the old saying goes, "misery loves company."

So...take your little purple bracelets and snap 'em.

Last Year at The Dept.--...And That's What's Known As Relativity

If A Blogger Falls In The Forest...

Cyberspace is a strange and surreal place. We've become part of an ethereal community in which we are friends, but most of us have never met. We know each other, but we've never heard the sound of one another's voice. We care about each other, but very few of us even know--or really care--where or under what circumstances the other lives, works, or indulges in his or her pastimes. Many of us couldn't find our blogger friends in a phone book because we not only don't know their last names, we don't even know their real first names.

If something happened to one of us, how would the rest of us find out?

In my case, no one here at The Dept. knows my Blogger sign-in information. Rick, Sam, or Jared wouldn't be able to post a notice, if they even thought about it. True, there are several of my "regulars" who live near me and who also blog, and they might kindly make mention of it at their blogs, or think to append a notice in the Comments section on my Last Post. But that seems pretty self-aggrandizing to take that for granted. Still, there are a few of you who might care and want to know.

You know, if Something Happened.

Well, I'm here to tell you that someone has already thought of all this. Of course. Let me introduce you to Deathswitch. A deathswitch is a program that prompts you for your password on a regular schedule that you have predetermined. If you don't respond within a previously agreed-upon time, it will prompt you again, several times. If you still do not respond, your computer assumes you are dead (or critically disabled) and basically goes on an automated emailing binge, sending out prescripted messages that you have prepared for this eventuality. "A deathswitch," reads their website, "is information insurance. Don't die with secrets that need to be free."

Holy Crap.

Let me just say this: I have a ton of secrets. A. Ton. And I am taking them to the grave with me. The whole point of secrets is just that. They are secret. Benjamin Franklin said, "Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead." No way I'm emailing a bunch of secrets. No one is getting The Pesto Recipe. Among other things.

And, is it just me, or are the rest of you seeing oh, about eleventy billion scenarios in which this deathswitch thing could go horribly awry? "Oh, sorry about that, Aunt Martha. We had a power outage and my computer got all screwed up and my deathswitch accidentally sent you that. Ha ha. Never mind." or "Hello? Oh, hi, Mom. No, it's really me. No, Mom. Please, Mom. Stop screaming. Mom, please. Mom, I really do love you. It was a joke. My roommate was just goofing around on my new computer. Mom...!" or "Hello, New ISP? I can't seem to get my email set up correctly...."

No, no Deathswitch for me. Instead, I'll opt for an index card with my Blogger info on it. I'll put it with my will and, when it's time for The Last Post, either someone at The Dept. will do it, or they'll recruit one of you.

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: The Cats Are Pointless

So, I Was Talking To Hillary, And I Told Her...

..."Look, Hillary, at some point, you've gotta show you're human like the rest of us. I know it's a tough gamble for a woman who's running for the most powerful office in the world and all, but you're coming off as too polished, too 'handled.' It's not like you have to cry or admit to PMSing all over the place or needing your chocolate fix or whatever--you just have to have a couple of hey, I get you sister friend Oprah-type moments. Trust me on this. I mean, if I can't speak the truth to you as a friend, then what are friends for, you know?" And I think she got me. We'll see. It might not show up in a debate, say, but she'll know when to pick her spots. She's that good.

Psssssssssssssssst. How was I just then, up there? Did it sound credible? I've decided to follow a new national trend, making it big by faking it. According to Elizabeth Large of The Baltimore Sun, (reprinted in The Cleveland Plain Dealer 15 June 07) this is perfectly acceptable. "These days it's fine to fake it," she writes. As a matter of fact, there's a book out to help us on our way: Faking It: How to Seem Like a Better Person without Actually Improving Yourself. The mantra of this program is "It's not who you are, but who others think you are." Although this book is designed primarily to help newly graduated college students navigate in the real world, it contains many helpful hints for those who are looking to impress. These hints include:

*Pretend you're a good host by filling top shelf liquor bottles with off brands when you finish them.
*Pretend you're intellectual and well-read by leaving impressive magazines on your coffee table like The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly and The Economist; get a copy of the latest NYTimes best-selling nonfiction book and dog-ear every 40 pages or so. Leave the dog-ear down about halfway through the book.
*Pretend you're a gourmet cook by constantly referring to complicated dishes or ingredients you hear on Food TV shows by claiming to make/use them yourself.
*Avoid exposing your ignorance by being dismissive or saying with a chuckle, "Well, that's a pretty complex issue" and then offering refreshments.

If you're self-righteously shocked by this cool and duplicitous strategy, I ask you: have you never, ever faked it? Not even once?

Have you ever re-gifted? You know, gotten a present from someone, felt really lukewarm about it, stashed it away and, one day been in a spot when a gift was needed on the fly for someone else and...Eureka! That wrong-fit gift became the perfect present for that someone else.

Or...you were asked to bring a dish or dessert to a reunion or a party or a picnic. You didn't feel like putting in the time and effort. You went to a deli or a bakery or the prepared-foods section of a local market and bought something, put it in one of your own dishes and took it to the party. If anyone asked--sure! You made it. Oh, it was no big deal. The recipe? No, you don't dare tell...family secret! (Oh yeah, it was a secret, all right!) I did this! And I admitted it in a previous post.

We've all, as the old old saying goes, "gilded the lily" at one time or another. Who knew it would turn out to be a Millenial Lifestyle Choice? According to professor Ty Tashiro at the University of Maryland, recent research seems to suggest that people are "fundamentally motivated to lie." Technology has made it easier for us to do so, what with Instant Messenger, email, MySpace, texting, and the like. We don't have to face each other to communicate. "People are pretty effortless liars," said Tashiro. And now cyberspace's anonymity and vast network of virtual reality have added to the sense of unreality already out there.

Some have called space the Final Frontier. Is the Internet the Prevarication Perimeter?

Last Year On Dept. of Nance: Men

The Nance Show

It is almost time for the cable bill to come, and that means it is almost time for Rick to sigh heavily and say to Jared, Sam, and me, "This is ridiculous. This much just to watch television?!" Naturally, that is our cue to defend our Pet Channels so that the Budgetary Axe of Death does not fall:

Jared: Life without ESPN, ESPN2, or FSNOhio is not a life I want to live. Are you really prepared to have that on your conscience?
Me: I have to have the Food Network. We've gone over this a hundred times.
Sam: What's this now?

Shortly after that, I also remind him that the cable bill also represents our internet connection. He mumbles something from behind his laptop and proceeds to ignore us for the rest of the evening. He forgets that the majority of his surfing and eventual stopping takes place on cable-provided programming, too. His television watching is just not nearly as interactive as mine is; therefore, it is quieter and not as noticeable.

I am, by nature, a chatty individual, and the fact that the television is supposedly a one-way entertainment device doesn't deter me in the least. I'm quite free with my comments, advice, and dialogue along with the program on the tv. As a matter of fact, Jared thinks I should have my own show something along the lines of Mystery Science Theater 3000, only with a cooking format.

Are you familiar with MST3K? It was a silly show hosted by a human and three robots who sat and watched really awful movies and kept up a running commentary--usually witty and critical--during the films. Sometimes they'd do alternative dialogue, too.

Well, instead of watching bad films, I'd watch the cooking shows of Food Network "stars" that I really dislike. I'd criticize and generally eviscerate them as they cooked, then do my own recipes after their segments. It wouldn't be hard. I already do it at home. There's nothing I like better after a hard day at school than coming home, changing out of my Mrs. D. clothes, kicking back on the couch with Jared and watching Everyday Italian with Giada de Laurentiis, who I simply cannot tolerate as a cook. She is, in a word, terrible. I unwind from my day by ripping her apart, from the fact that she cannot accurately estimate nor measure to her constant use of the word "perfect" and description of every single herb as "lemony." She is also the only Italian I know who refuses to cook generously or even enough. Her guests must have to stop at McDonald's on the way home from dinner at her house.

Anyway, after I got done blasting Giada (or Emeril or Tyler or whoever was on the hotseat that day--but never Paula Deen, NEVER MISS PAULA!) I would then cook a better and Nancer version of whatever dish they had completely screwed up.

Every so often, I might mix it up and have a segment on of the Food Network people I like. Like Alton Brown or Paula Deen or maybe one or two segments that I can tolerate of Michael Chiarello--when he's not saying the word "caramelize" every three seconds and demanding that we see him as a raging heterosexual. But I'd have to see how it goes.

And I'd never have a guest on. Because they might want to talk, too. And I'm just not up for that.

Last year on Dept of Nance: Guilty Pleasures

I'm Just Thinkin' Here

Forgive me if this post is a bit incoherent, but I just finished up my 26th year of teaching today and celebrated the end of another successful year by having a couple of Cape Codders with a group of colleagues at Harry Buffalo's. Uncharacteristically, I nibbled at a snack and drank outdoors, something which I unequivocally detest. But, for my fellow teachers, I will do just about anything. We drank, we chatted, we got incredibly silly and philosophical, depending upon the level of alcohol in our glasses and beer tubes.

Oh, not eating outdoors? No, I'm not a fan. I find it horrid. I hate the whole idea of it. What's the point? You battle wind, bugs, paper plates, sun in your eyes, uncomfortable weather conditions, hot food that isn't optimally hot and cold food that isn't optimally cold. You hope that the wasps circling your open can of soda don't actually go inside, forcing you to accidentally get stung on the lips or tongue. Sometimes you have to sit at picnic tables and be vigilant that too many people don't get up from the other side of the bench, causing your side to teeter-totter downward. How embarrassing! Nope, eating outdoors is too much like work or punishment for me.

There are a few other things I am not, at age 48, ever going to do ever again. Here they are:

1. Be forced into stupid party games or outdoor family reunion games. I don't do sackraces or big softball games or contests. These are just plain ridiculous. I am 48 years old and have earned the right to say NO when I don't feel like doing something.

2. Go to every relative's party or event or send money in my stead. Nor do I expect them at mine. I don't have a lot of cousins, thank goodness. I don't see them often. So, if one of their kids gets married, I don't expect an invitation. If I get one, I don't see why I should feel obligated to go. I haven't seen this kid since he was born, if then. I don't see why I should send a gift, either. Who is this person to me? More importantly, who am I to him or her? Am I part of his or her life? Obviously, this is a ploy for a gift or cash. I'm not falling for it.

3. Send cards all the time. I find greeting cards to be a huge waste of money and time. Let's face it: yes, the thought is nice. Yes, it's pleasant to get mail. But, greeting cards, unless you get generic, awful ones at the Dollar Store, are grossly inflated in price. And, what do you do with them? You look at them, smile, perhaps put them on the mantel for a week or so, then you toss them out. For me, that's not a good return on my investment. I'd rather get and send an e-card, really. I can look at it, save it indefinitely with no clutter, even save it as my desktop wallpaper if it's particularly clever. I realize that the argument can be made that it takes more effort to remember in advance the person's special day, then select the card, stamp it, and send it in plenty of time. But, so what? Do I love my sister less because I call her or send her an e-card? Sometimes belatedly? I think not.

This summer will perhaps be a time of reflection for me. I may rethink these positions. But I doubt it. Perhaps I will, instead, ponder my many obsessions. Like:

1. Brian Williams's ties. Maybe I need to stop perseverating over them and just learn to accept.

2. Lay's Potato Chips. I eat the folded ones and make Rick give me his folded ones.

3. My search for the perfect brown leather slip-on sandal. Where is it? So far, nowhere.

4. My hair. Why isn't Aussie Real Volume shampoo working for me anymore? Or Pantene?

5. Omar Avila. He was on the finale episode of House. Oh my God. He is making me rethink my anti-Latino man position in so many ways. Seriously. So many ways. So many.

6. Breaking up with TravisCat. He is exhibiting rebellious litterbox habits that are ruining my life. I am trying to freeze him out by not speaking to him and making my lap off-limits.

7. Squirrels. They are constantly on my birdfeeder, but I cannot keep shooting them with the bb gun. My aim is not what it used to be, and we have new neighbors behind us. 'Nuff said.

This list should keep me busy through June...perhaps July, if I take weekends off. Naturally, I will consider all propositions/helpful hints offered in comments. But honestly, it's summer. And the livin' is supposed to be easy. Especially for us teachers on vacation.

Rock Me Like A Hurricane...Or At Least TRY!

Hurricane season is upon us, and we are already tracking the movements of one Tropical Storm Barry.

Sigh.

I'm sorry, but I would have a very hard time getting worried and scared about a storm named Barry. That name isn't doing it for me. When I hear the name Barry, I picture either Greg Brady (actor Barry Williams) or a fifty-something guy with kind of curlyish hair, glasses, and plaid Bermuda shorts walking around a backyard barbecue with a can of beer saying, "Well, my accountant looked it over and said he could reduce my tax bill next year by about two percent."

I wondered who the heck was responsible for naming these storms and why they continue to do such a crappy job. It's the National Weather Service, and they started adding men's names to the list in 1979. There are, in fact, six lists of storm names now, and they simply rotate them. The original naming began in 1953 to simplify the task of reporting the storms to the general public; I imagine that they will begin to add even more ethnically diverse names if the public begin to demand it.

Here is the official list of Storm Names for 2007:

Andrea

Barry
Chantal
Dean
Erin

Felix

Gabrielle

Humberto

Ingrid

Jerry
Karen

Lorenzo
Melissa
Noel
Olga
Pablo
Rebekah
Sebastien

Tanya

Van

Wendy

Now, I don't know about you, but those are some wussy names for hurricanes. I'm not about to board up my windows, pack up the Prius, drain the bank account, and load the cats into the carrier for Hurricane Jerry. I mean, jeeze...this is a hurricane that does charity work. Come on! And Hurricane Noel? A Christmas Hurricane?!

And Hurricane Pablo?

I think I've made my point here. Okay, one more, and you have to see it coming.

Hurricane Felix. Get serious.

These pointyheads at the NWS have to get down and dirty and come up with some kickass intimidating names for these storms. Who's gonna run from Wendy? Her dad makes square hamburgers! So, I'm proposing a few names here, and then you should do likewise in the comments. Here's my partial list to replace a few of the pantywaist names in the NWS List O'Losers:

Bart

Dirk

Jake

Mick

Vito

Zena

Gert

Vera

Zelda

There! I've gotten you started. Now, get busy in the comments and intimidate me. Oh, and no fair designating Hurricane Nance. Ha ha, LOL and all that.

Politics, With a Side of Poetry

It's been far too long since I posted something political. I refuse to take any polls too seriously; it's much too early, and as most of my compatriots know, I'm waiting to see if everyone who is anyone has declared himself a candidate yet. But I'm very much following things as they develop, and nothing escapes my notice.


I've decided to have a little fun and compose a few Political Haiku about a few of the candidates from both parties, and I encourage you to play along in the Comments section. For those of you who need a quick refresher:


Haiku is a Japanese style of poetry consisting of three lines. The first and third lines contain only 5 syllables. The second line contains 7 syllables. Taken all together, the poem states a complete thought. (Traditionally, Japanese haiku would be seasonal poetry; naturally, I will be ringing a bit of a change on that theme.)


Without any further ado, here are my Political Haiku:


Barack Obama,
Kicked in the ass by his own:
"He's not black enough."

Hillary makes us
Women feel as if we owe her
Votes no matter what.

Fred Thompson, actor.
Is he in or is he not?
G.O.P. pricktease.

Oh, Rudy, Rudy!
Come on, now! Even you know
You're a Democrat!

The Straight Talk Express
Looks to have been detoured by
McCain's bad driving.

Chris Dodd, your white hair
Gives you an air of wisdom.
Boy! Could we use that!

Mike Gravel, you are
At least entertaining and
Keeping me awake.

Okay, everybody, it's your turn. 5-7-5; it's not like it's hard. You don't even have to take off your shoes! I can't wait to read your haikus.

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....