Sigh. Life's Little Tragedies

Is it too much to ask that I be happy? Is it too much to ask that my life be smooth, uninterrupted bliss? That things be hunky-dory? That a smile be my umbrella? That, instead of clouds, I skip and go directly to silver linings?

Well, apparently.

For instance:

Is there not a single decent unscented "invisible" antiperspirant? Because I have been looking for it for a year now. I am weary of white marks on my clothing. When I did find a clear gel that was okay, it actually bleached my colored tops under the arms! All the Dove brand that guarantee to be invisible (look! we can wear our tops on inside-out!) are scented. I don't want to smell like my deodorant. I want to smell like my cologne. Where is my perfect, unscented, invisible, non-damaging antiperspirant? WHERE IS IT?

I lost one disposable contact. Now I have one more rightie than I do leftie. Forever. I will never get back in sync. When my six-month prescription is done and I must re-up, I will have an extra rightie. I'm trying to stretch out this pair, but my one eye is getting all blurry and crappy and icky and I really need to switch it out, but it's not time for the other. It's all very annoying and upsetting. I like to keep things even and symmetrical at all times whenever possible. You should see me try to keep the dining room rug straight all day. Oh. my. god.

The meatloaf pan did not come completely clean in the dishwasher. This irritates me to no end. I mean, I have a DISHWASHER. The whole point of a "dishwasher" is for IT to wash the dishes. If I have to then handwash something when it comes out of the dishwasher, what is the convenience of that? Back in the old days, before I was forced into the position of modeling good behavior for my personal children, I would have let that sucker ride in there for as many loads as it took for it to come clean. (I think the record for a coffee cup that Rick let fester in his workshop was like, maybe, twelve times. At that point, we ended up tossing it.) But my point, and I do still have one, is this: It is the dishwasher's job to wash the dishes. That is what I paid for it to do. I don't think that is too much to ask.

This weather sucks. We were in a drought for the entire summer. Up until this past weekend, when we moved Jared into college. It rained--no, it poured, continuously the entire time we moved all 6 cartons, refrigerator, microwave, rolling cart, television stand, and miscellaneous stuff into his dormitory tower. It was freezing and wet and miserable. It has continued to rain here in the top tier of Ohio. My fish can pretty much swim over the rim of their pond, check out my basil and tomatoes in the garden, and come knocking on my back door. I go back to work at The Rock on Friday, at which time the rain will be replaced with sizzling 90 degree temperatures and Amazonian humidity. Of. Course. Shoot me now.

Ah, well. "Only through adversity do we become strong." Who said that, anyway? Right now, I wanna smack him. I say, "Bitch a little, wallow a lot, then move on." Or is it, "Bitch a lot, wallow a little...?" Whatever.

Vintage Dept. of Nance: I even had something to say about Pluto!

Dinner For None

It's official. I have, for one reason or another, totally given up these foods. They are off the menu, out of the rotation, not on the list, without standing.

1. Cheetos. This one is a shocker to everyone who knows me. I am a Cheetos devotee from way back, but last month, I finally hit my limit. I binged and they turned on me. My stomach was a roiling bag of greasy insurrection. Never again.

2. Doughnuts. I cannot recall the last time I had one of these, actually. Or called them by anything but their nickname "GutBombs." Oh sure, they look good. But once I would eat one, it would stick with me--literally, and in every way--for days and days. Honestly, I think the last time I consumed one was in 2000.

3. Orange Juice. Okay, not a food, but a beverage. It always looks so nutritious and sunny and innocent and healthful. But if I drink it, I immediately pay with The Vomity Belches of Destruction. You know what I mean. Those burples that are squirty little surprises of acid in your throat. And then comes the stomach ache. So not worth it. So, forget you, Orange Juice. A day without you is like a day with more sunshine.

4. Sloppy Joes. I finally have come to the realization that, after all these years, I just really do not like these and I do not care who makes them, so do not flood me with your special recipes. It's not the fact that they are or aren't really sloppy. I just don't like them. I'm not really sure why. Maybe because I feel like they are really a sauce masquerading as an entree sandwich. Maybe because my mother used to make such interchangeable chili, sloppy joes, and spaghetti sauce that I just got sick of all three and took it out on the sloppy joes by default. I almost never make them for the Dept., and when I do, I use Manwich. And I just pick at a clump, sans bun, on my plate.

5. Fish. Of any kind. Don't try to tell me all about orange roughy or halibut or tilapia--how mild they are or how they "aren't fishy at all" or how they are firm and meaty like chicken. That's a lot of crap and you know it. Fish is fish. And no, I don't like salmon, really, and yes, I've had it grilled, planked, poached, maple-glazed, and cooked really well by someone who knows how. In Alaska! Pulled right out of the ocean in front of me! So there! I will eat shellfish, but not oysters, which are just the equivalent of a fishy softboiled egg. Quelle horreur.

6. Dutch Loaf. This used to be my favorite luncheon meat when I was a kid. I haven't had it in decades. I probably would, but it now looks so suspect to me, in light of my adult knowledge of nutrition. Also, my kids won't eat it, nor will my husband, and I'm not about to buy it just for myself. So, it's goodby Dutch loaf. (Probably just as well anyway.)

Now, this list is not to be confused with foods I don't like; in a pinch, I'd probably eat each and every one of these if pressed. For example, if you were to invite me to a dinner party and one of these was on the menu, I would be polite and eat it (although if you threw a dinner party and served Dutch loaf sandwiches and Cheetos, I'd probably discreetly tuck a few bucks into your pocket at some point).

So, what foods are off your menu forever and why? Any surprises?

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: The Alaskan Adventure--Part VIII, The End

Time To Purge: Of Fireflies, Shoes, Politics, And, Of Course, Brian Williams

I'm so full of it lately.

Not that--I'm always full of that; didn't you see that adverb "lately?" The "it" I'm referring to now is random junk that I keep giving thought time to in spite of my best efforts not to. So it's time for another one of my purgative posts wherein I set free these pesky little Thought Nerfuls that keep tickling the grooves and twists of my grey matter. Now they're yours.

In no particular order:

~#~Man, if pointed-toe shoes go out of style soon, I am in a world of hurt. Oh, I know the round-toe babydoll look sneaked in there briefly, but I let it pass. I knew it wasn't For Real.

~#~I think I'm watching waaaay too much Food Network. I've noticed that when I'm prepping and cooking, I sometimes keep an internal narrative going inside my head: Okay, now when chopping up the red peppers, it's best to chop skin side down so that the knife goes more easily through the vegetable. And, add the cheese last when making pesto so that it doesn't process into paste. I don't do it all the time, but often enough that I'm definitely starting to become concerned.

~#~Hey, I'm here to tell you: It is the humidity.

~#~I've noticed something this summer. Not so many lightning bugs. At least that's what we NE Ohioans call them. You may call them "fireflies" in your location, but whatever you call them, I've seen precious few of them here. I used to have a running contest with the little kid who lived next door as to who would see the first lightning bug of the summer. They were always the harbinger of the season. This summer, there have been very few, and as with most things, I blame the Republicans. Which brings me to...

~#~The fact that I can pretty much boil down every environmental, economical, and societal ill to a Republican failing. Actually, I shouldn't say "Republican" without qualifying it by saying "The Angel of Death's Administration and Its Policies" which basically, for me, typifies what Republicans are. It's like the father in My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding who can trace every single benefit of civilization back to the Greeks. My son, a diehard liberal Democrat who says that only Dennis Kucinich truly stands for everything he (my son, Jared) believes in, said to me once, "Mom, there are some good Republicans." I said, "I doubt it." But I digress. My point is, there are probably fewer lightning bugs due to the outrageously poor environmental policies of the current administration which favor big polluters. See what I mean?

~#~Which brings me to this very useful visual aid, sent to me by my dear VBF, Leanne of Maryland. Not only are her (infrequent) emails often humorous, as I mentioned in an earlier post, but sometimes they contain valuable political info. Here is a wonderful site where you can view a comprehensive but easy to read chart that shows you every presidential candidate's current position on all the big issues from Abortion, Capital Punishment and the Iraq war to No Child Left Behind, Universal Health Care and Same-Sex Marriage. Thank you, Leanne.

~#~All Dept. of Nance readers are well-acquainted with my fascination for Brian Williams. I do, however, watch other news programs and have noticed something. See what you think:

I find these three men facially similar. Especially Chris Hansen, of Dateline's Catch a Predator fame, and dear Brian. It's almost a...Newsman Triptych of sorts! And don't you think that Stone Phillips, with very little major makeup, could play Ronald Reagan in a biopic of same? Take a long look now, and think about it.

~#~And while I'm playing Separated at Birth, here's another good one.

That's William Schneider of CNN and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew of Muppet Labs. I told you that I was full of it. And believe it or not, there's something I'm forgetting, but it'll just have to wait. In the meantime, set your own Nerfuls free in the comments. I've got some extra room now.

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

I Blog, Therefore I Am...Two!

I think I've figured out why I've been so snarky lately. It's the Terrible Twos! In a shocking display of commitment and sticktoitiveness, the Dept. of Nance celebrates its two-year anniversary this week. Two years ago, almost to the day, I claimed my tiny piece of the Internets and posted this. And I sat back and waited. In my laughable naivete, I was unaware of how it all worked and honestly thought that readers would just find and read my blog and post comments galore and I would be happily read and enjoyed by people all over.

Um, duh.

And I also thought that I would have a neverending wellspring of things to write about with wit and wisdom and that I would post every single day. Wasn't I always thinking and opining about something? And wouldn't I be more than thrilled to have a forum in which to air my personal and political views about, oh--everything?

Sigh.

Luckily, I am a student at heart and if the written word exists on the subject, I will read every single syllable of it as many times as is necessary to make it part of my personal knowledge base. Little by little, I researched and read and visited other blogs and became part of the blogging community that began to build around me.

Some bloggers are "niche bloggers." They're food bloggers or mommy bloggers or political bloggers. Honestly, I'm not real sure what I am. One blogger who links to me categorizes me as a "culture critic." I kind of like that. It gives me lots of wiggle room. Sort of a wide berth to move around in. One of my colleagues offered "social satirist." I'm not sure if what I write is always strictly satire. I do like to exploit the irony in everyday situations. I am a little Seinfeldian in that; I am sort of an observational humorist in a lot of what I choose to write about. I'm not sure if I even have to be categorized, do I?

I know a few bloggers who are a little upset that they've kind of plateaued. They've not increased their page hits or their comment counts, no matter what they've done in the past year or so. One or two have taken a hiatus to rethink their blogs, and to perhaps decide whether or not to even continue blogging. I guess I can understand that. It all depends upon why you got into it, I suppose. Sure, I'd love to increase my hits and my comment count. I'd love to suddenly explode with new readers and have lively discussions among my commenters. I'd love it if, suddenly, The NBC Nightly News contacted me about my Tie Reports, or CNN picked up one of my posts about, say...bad fashion or cows in the press, or I had hits on the caliber of Neil at Citizen of the Month, or the mother of all blogging, you-know-who (rhymes with juice), but honestly, I'm doing pretty okay. Could a few of my lurkers come out and just post a comment and say, "hey, I usually lurk, but wanted to let you know I read you"? yeah. Would I be ecstatic with an average of 25 comments? yeah. But I'm pretty happy.

Finally, I think I'm going to have to quit being such a procrastinator and overall fraidy cat and make the Final Last Leap to "New Blogger." I've been resisting the change because I will totally lose all my sidebar changes and have to redo every little single thing. It will take a ton of picky work and likely be an entire afternoon. I have to copy/paste/save every little thing before the move, and I'm frankly scared to death. I hate change. But there are some cool things available on New Blogger that I'd like to do, and also, once the change is made, future revisions will be much easier. Wish me luck.

Oh, and the cake is for everyone. Enjoy. Happy Anniversary to me!

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

My Beef With All The Bad Press About Cows

Cows again, my friends, are in the news. I don't go looking for these items; they find me. Yes, it seems that it is My Destiny to be an advocate for my bovine brethren...er, sistren, is it? whatever--since they cannot effectively manage their own publicity. Cases in point:

Item: Steer's Owner Ticketed for 'Excessive Mooing'. Incredibly, a Washington County, Ohio resident, who owns a single cow named Wally, was served with a misdemeanor citation for "ongoing nuisance cow mooing." Wally, who lives on a 33-acre farm zoned for 50 head of cattle, "moos maybe once or twice a day," says his owner, Karyl Hylle. Important to note is the fact that when the sheriff and/or his deputies had been called out on each of the 21 complaints by the neighbor, Mark (who asked that his last name not be used), Wally never said a single word. Even when prodded by reporters, Wally never uttered a sound. The citation carries a $1000 fine and/or 90 days in jail. Clearly, Mark just hates cows. Or has no knowledge of them. Cows moo. That is their native tongue. And, it would seem Wally does precious little of that as it is.

Item: Man Admits Sexually Molesting Cows. Lest you think this is a random, one-time thing, this 56-year-old man was charged with the same offense in 2000, but "police decided against bringing a cruelty-to-animals charge against Viens [the offender] after consulting with a veterinarian, who said no harm came to the cows." Did this horrific act occur in some Third World, unenlightened country as part of an occult ritual? No! It occurred in Vermont, U.S.A.! The farm employees caught him in the act, the police were called, and Mr. Viens gave them a sworn confession on the spot. Why not? He will only be charged with trespassing, I'm sure. After all, no harm came to the cows! How do they know?

Item: Global Warming and Stylish Cows. I am grown increasingly fatigued of cows being blamed in part for global warming. First was the FearMongering of Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy (mad cow disease--how I even hate to see it in words before me!), and its effect on beef and dairy, and now the insidiousness of the Republicans trying to mitigate the responsibility of big business by pointing the finger at innocent bovine flatulence. Who amongst us has not had a bit of intestinal gas every now and then? If your diet was made up entirely of grains and grass, wouldn't you have a bit of the bubbleguts? But I digress. An OpEd writer from Pennsylvania went to the PennEnvironment press conference to learn more about the devastation that could be wreaked upon Pennsylvania's particular environment by global warming if left unchecked. According to one spokesman, the forecast is dire for the state's dairy cows, whose milk production would drastically reduce due to heat stress. Rather than take this threat seriously, this cavalier writer instead spun it to blame the cows themselves, asking that since "gassy cows produce one quarter of the methane that's causing global warming," wouldn't it be better if the state's cows die, meaning that fewer of them are producing the gas? When the PennEnvironment guy reminded him that the cows wouldn't necessarily die, but produce less milk, this wag of a writer offered this solution: “couldn't we affix large, floppy sun hats to the cows' heads so they can graze in the heat? They would stay comfortable and look stylish.” I cannot even begin to enumerate the problems with this if he doesn't know them already. The least of which is that no one looks good in large, floppy sunhats especially if one is already large. Duh.

The incessant, inexplicably vicious campaign against cows continues. Their one champion besides me would be, perhaps, the Real California Cheese advertising campaign in which the happy cows play Marco Polo, Knock Knock Zoom Zoom, and otherwise frolic and behave in acceptably fun ways while decidedly not wearing clothing. Do your part. Become an advocate for cows today. Appreciate them. Count them when on long car trips. Moo at them when you pass them. Don't buy figurines of them wearing clothing. And never, ever order your beef well done. That's just wrong.

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

I've Got Mail--And It Tickles

According to this study, U.S. Americans are quite taken with email. Some of us check it at work (60%), some of us get up in the middle of the night to check it (36% of women, 44% of men), and 83% of us even check it while on vacation. And 52% of us have at least two or three email accounts to check!

That's a lot of email, everyone.

But I love it. I love email. I love the ease and immediacy of it. I love getting up in the morning during the summer, having my coffee, wandering by the computer and turning it on and bringing up my email. I love watching Outlook Express flicker to life and seeing the boldface font scroll down the open pane, announcing my emails: comments on my blogs! my daily notice from Political Wire! my Word of the Day! and, if I'm lucky, some chatty emails from friends, former students, and my sisters who live in neighboring towns. Once in a while there will be a smart bit of humor or incisive editorial from my uncle in Gettysburg, a fellow Dem and former English teacher who knows what piques my interest. And, sometimes there will be little glints of gold--those unintentional hoots that happen when someone sends me something that hits me just right and makes my day.

My friend Leanne is great for those. She lives in Maryland and we don't see each other very often, maybe once a year. She gets bored with email, (too much effort to type everything) and for weeks at a time, she will maintain what I call Email Silence. Then, I have to send her a snarky missive and threaten her. Not long ago, she casually emailed me and told me that she and her husband were going out to dinner to meet her son's quite-possibly-future in-laws. She promised to report back with all the details. I waited and waited with bated breath. Nothing. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I emailed her and asked. And waited some more. Here is her reply:
Dinner was fine. I wasn't wild about the stuffed shrimp but everyone else seemed to enjoy themselves ok.

How can you not love her?

Every once in a while my sister Susan can give me a giggle, too. She's one of those people who emails exactly like she talks, which is how I email, too. (Those of you who get my emails are probably thinking 'yeah, that's true. Her emails go on and on and on...!') She had jotted me a quick email including this gem (Oh, and wait till you see her term for "treadmill," very apt):

Ballsy full-bodied workout done and 1 mile on the dreadmill. I feel better and have more energy. Several of my girlfriends have told me that my ass was looking real good.... My ass isn't my problem area. Sigh.

My only reply was can I use part of this email on my blog?

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

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.