Extra! Extra! Read All About It! They Said It, And I Talk About It! (What Could Be Better?)

In this modern, plugged-in world, information moves at breakneck speeds. News travels around the globe at the click of a keystroke, the flicker of a fiber-optic cable. No one knows when a microphone or camera is nearby, and then it's too late. Words and images are captured for posterity, such as it is, on film, tape, digital media, or HTML code for at least the near future.

Here at Dept. of Nance, I'm just trying to do my part. In case you missed them, I've gathered a few of the most memorable quotes spoken over the last few weeks that I've found newsworthy. Naturally, I can't help but add a bit of commentary, and I hope you'll be moved to do the same.

"We don't have much. What we have in excess is women. So if you want them we can give a few of those to you, some tens of thousands."--Mao Zedong Mao said this in 1973, according to some documents recently released by the US State Dept.'s historian. The occasion? Trade talks. I can only imagine what he wanted in return. What did we have in excess in 1973, do you think, that Richard Nixon would have traded in order to gain tens of thousands of Chinese women? Skylab? Perhaps, in hindsight, Mark Felt.

"I'm standing on the roof of Parliament because the democratic process has been corrupted."--Richard George This man was one of five people who climbed out onto the Houses of Parliament to protest the expansion of Heathrow. Can you possibly imagine what the Capitol might look like if Congress protested the fact that the United States' democratic process has been corrupted in just this fashion? How many people do you think would be perched on the roof? I'm hoping plenty.

"I'm not sure why it's going to take them three hours to learn how to press a button."--Mike Perry, owner of a small, locally owned coffee shop on Starbucks' three-hour closure to " retrain employees and improve coffee quality." Exactly, Mike Perry. Call bullshit exactly what it is when you smell it. Hey, Starbucks! Everyone knows what your three-hour session was: a corporate panic attack. And you're doing exactly what all big businesses do when the bottom line goes red, and that's blame the employees. I live near Cedar Point, a major amusement park. When it started losing money because it jacked up ticket prices, guess what it did. Did it say, hey! People around here don't have that kinda cash to lay out for a day at a rollercoaster place? No. They berated their workers (my sister-in-law was one at the time) and said that the Number One Reason park attendance was down was...Employee Rudeness. So, Starbucks, keep charging exorbitant rates for a cup of basically highly-sugared, overly-creamed, super-caloric java and I'll keep patronizing my second-floor lounge at The Rock.

"We're not gonna change. I'm too country."--Tonya Harris This woman is the winner of $275 million dollars in the Mega Millions lottery. Oh, that silly, silly woman. Of course she will change. I saw her and her husband, a very Georgia country singer looking guy with silvery hair and Colonel Sanders moustache, on television. They were still in shock. They lived in a little trailer-looking house and were talking about giving money to their grandkids and all that. I do believe that part, about giving money to the grandkids, but trust me, Tonya. You'll be shoe shopping and going on cruises and dropping the phrases "Manolo Blahnik" and "Marc Jacobs" in no time. No time.

"Last year, after Virginia Tech, I thought, 'I'm not going to be a victim.' "--Nick, senior at University of Utah. This student carries a gun now to his classes on campus in the only state to allow weapons at all public universities. I don't know whether to cry or throw up. I hate that Nick feels he must do this. I'm sickened that he can.

"The problem is time. There just isn't enough time. Men won't spend a whole day away from their family anymore."--Walter Hurney, a real estate developer on the decline of golf. Hey, Walter, here's a news flash for ya: golf is boring! And it promotes bad fashion. Remember what Mark Twain said, "Golf is a good walk spoiled." I think golf is too time-consuming and it's basically a downer. Rick and I have a rule, and this is it: he isn't allowed to tell me his score if it's more than 40, and that's for 9 holes. Really, any more than that and he should be embarrassed anyway. The only good thing about golf is that it gave me a husband. I met Rick in college phys. ed. golf class.

Finally, here's one that made me miss "The West Wing", which was one of the best television shows ever. I used to love when Rob Lowe's character and Bradley Whitford's character would suddenly crow "He got The Question!" And The Question would be something that would make that candidate or whomever become totally undone. Like when Poppy/Bush 41 got "How much is a gallon of milk?" and he had no idea. Well, get this: "That's interesting. I hadn't heard that. "--Angel of Death, unaware of predictions that gasoline would reach $4 in the coming months. "Interesting"?! That doesn't even begin to cover it, buster.

Back In The Dating Pool

My husband and I are dating, and I highly recommend it. Dating one's husband, that is, not you dating my husband. Obviously, he's taken. We've just decided to begin going out with one another again, just like Old Times--you know, back in the Eighties. (That's the 1980s for those of you ever-so witty DoN readers who like to imagine yourselves quite the youngsters. Sigh.) Hmmm...actually, we met in 1977, so we dated in the late seventies, got married in 1981, so I guess we actually dated in both decades, but--

But I digress. The point, and I believe I do have one, is this:

It's astonishing that those Things We Used To Do are, in fact, still out there! Are you all aware of this? And, you do not have to do only one of them in a day! Even if you are no longer a teenager, it is entirely permissible to, say, go to dinner and go shopping and go to a movie ALL IN THE SAME DAY! That is a date! And you can go on one with your husband!

I. KNOW!

Listen, don't feel bad if you're sitting there totally blown away by this. I know I was when I first figured this out a few weeks ago and then broke the news to Rick that what we had been slowly doing over the past month or so was actually "dating." But once we realized it, we embraced it.

No more Saturdays spent at the grocery store and bank and quickie oil-change places for us! No longer was his weekend attire going to be old college sweatshirts and paint-spattered jeans. That life was over. As a matter of fact, Rick got so into it, he didn't even hesitate when the saleslady helped him shrug into a gorgeous Michael Kors sportsjacket. (Of course, it helped tremendously that it was on sale.) He wore it yesterday on our date. He also wore cologne, dark denim jeans with no paint splatters, and shoes that were not his work boots.

We started off on a little shoe shopping trip for me. I haven't bought shoes in ages, and I've been feeling bereft in that area. That, and the foot of snow on the ground here left me in a sort of Fashion Funk. Thankfully, there were clearance sales, and I picked up two pairs of deadly sexy shoes for less than $65 total.

The first pair is a wicked little pair of black lace-ups that plays off of the old-lady sensible shoes that your grandma used to wear a long time ago. Vivienne Westwood showed a lot of these, but these are made by, believe it or not, Aerosole. I don't know if you can see the detail or not, but they have a great stack heel and lots of stitching. Very witchy. Great with a skirt or pants.

The second pair is made by my shoe god, Franco Sarto. He can put a heel of about eleven inches on a shoe and it will still be the most comfortable shoe in the world. These are steel grey suede and very sexy. I am glad I waited this long to find my perfect pair of grey pumps because these are it.

We had to drive to two stores to find shoes that I loved at the price I would pay because I am both picky and cheap. There is also the fact that I will not buy spring shoes now with a foot of crappy snow on the ground. As we drove, we chatted and laughed and held hands and talked politics and music.

After scoring the shoes we decided to get lunch because we were going to the afternoon movie! I know! (Yes, this is the man who hates to go to movies "in the middle of the day because it always makes me tired and then it's dark when we come out and the whole day is gone.") We got a nice lunch at a restaurant where we sat down and did not use paper napkins or plastic cutlery. Then we went to see There Will Be Blood so that I could finally witness Daniel Day-Lewis's brilliant Oscar-winning performance. (And let me just say here that oh my word his performance is not only riveting but downright scary.)

During the movie I never took my coat off because it was so frikking cold in that theater. Horrid. I was freezing. And because it was the weekend and we live in Ohio where everyone eats between the hours of 5 and 7, all restaurants around us were packed to the rafters when the film let out at 6:15. Knowing that we'd have to wait forever to get seated and I'd be eating with my coat on anyway, we opted for Chinese takeout at home in the comfort of our toasty little house. In our jammies.

For those of you keeping score, that's: shopping (2 pair shoes), lunch, movie, dinner. A pretty darn good date.

Tomorrow, he's ordering concert tickets for a June date. He's really getting good at this.

Back With A Vengeance: DD-L, Bunnies, Politics, Polls, Fashion, Brian Williams, And Snow! Don't Blame Me; I'm Just Capturing It All For Posterity

I shall do my utmost to keep this post relatively brief--in the Dept. of Nance definition of the term, you understand--but there is so much clattering around in my cranium that I have to set it free.

Firstly, I could feel the breeze of your collective sigh of relief when Helen Mirren announced that My Crush, Daniel Day-Lewis, had won the Oscar for Best Actor on Sunday night. And then, I experienced the immediate vast, sucking vacuum of your collective gasp when he took the stage in his Audrey Hepburn-esque black skinny-pants and brown suede Oxfords a la Hushpuppies. I offer absolutely no excuses, for, as I have made it abundantly clear many posts before, My Man is an artiste who is not bounded by The Whims Of Fashion.

Besides, I blame his wife.

After all, every single one of you female DoN readers knows that, were it not up to you, your husband/boyfriend/paramour would be out there wearing a shocking ensemble of his own device that would only change when A) he got too fat for it and had to replace it with one exactly like it; B) it became so filthy that it stood on its own in the corner and it had to be laundered or replaced by an exact duplicate from a discount mart; or C) he borrowed another one from a friend. Do not lie to me! You know this is true! The wife is the X Factor.

Sadly, the evidence is all too abundantly clear. Ladies and gentlemen, I offer Exhibit A:
Urg.

How can DD-L be expected to fall into line, fashion-wise, when his Best Influence is dressed like some sort of Victorian streetwalker who appears to have been invited to a Halloween fete, the theme of which is "Harlequin Dog Show Birthday Party"?

Sigh. At least his hair did not have a ton of product in it like it did at the SAG awards. And he WON! Moving on.

It delights me beyond words--though you know I shall struggle to find some. La!--that the wise marketers at 7Up have seized upon the Untapped Bunny Market for their beverage. Over the weekend, I saw this commercial which featured enterprising bunnies who, at the end of the ad, have a bit of a gastric outburst. There is not as much Bunny Usage or Exposure as I would have liked, but it's a start, anyway.

Another bit of news that causes me squirmalicious happiness is this: A new American Research Group poll shows just 19% of Americans approve of the way The Angel of Death is handling his job as president and 77% disapprove. These are the lowest ever approval marks in the survey's history. #43 is often heard to duck questions regarding the "achievements" of his presidency by saying that it is for "history to decide." Well, you keep makin' it and we'll keep trackin' it!

Finally, I am at home and at my leisure today thanks to a Snow Day. We are getting 6-10 inches of the stuff, and it will give me a chance to catch up. I will not, however, be catching up on The Tie Report. It will be just too entirely tedious to watch three days of The NBC Nightly News on the computer screen and try to come to terms anew with Brian Williams' continued indifference to my sage fashion advice and spot-on critiques. Besides, if you've been keeping up either here at the sidebar or over at The Tie Report, you already know February's a lost cause.

That Groundhog Can Kiss My...

"Now is the winter of our discontent..." Shakespeare sure knew his way around the human psyche. I'm feeling oppressed by winter, imprisoned by the cold, grey days and victimized by the icy winds that render me a hostage of layer upon layer of polar fleece and numbing sameness. I get up in the dark, drive my 3-4 minutes to work in a cold car along streetlight-illumined roads, and at the end of the day, drive home in a cold car, barely making it in the door before I kick off my high heels and enrobe myself in my fleece and slippers. Some days I give in entirely and just zip into a grownup-sized blanket sleeper that I got for Christmas one year as a sort of joke gift.

How sad am I? Forty-eight years old, and in my jammies by 3:30 in the afternoon, and toddler jammies at that.

It's pathetic.

Winter for me is an endurance test. It's a struggle that I barely win each year. I'm one of those annoying women that is cold all the time, truly. My hands are like those of a corpse, and even wearing mittens doesn't help. I have a blanket on the back of my chair and a small, portable ceramic heater that travels with me at school. If I could be sure of an outlet nearby, I'd take it with me to restaurants, which are always far too cold for me. During the winter, we rarely eat out because Rick cannot stand to sit across from me and see me eating with my coat on.

(And no, it wasn't always like this, and I won't bore you with a lot of details about previous illness and medication side effects and all that long drawn-out crap. Suffice it to say that if just bundling up in a ton of sweaters and long underwear and Cuddle-Duds was all it took, well, hell, I'd have already done all that.)

I'm cold everywhere and all the time. And, you know, after a while, it starts to have a major impact on every little thing in my life. As in--I don't have a life in the winter.

Because to have one, you have to go outside. And it's cold out there.

I do a lot of waiting. Waiting and reading and sighing and wondering about things. Things like why do I have to live in Ohio where we get winter 6 frikking months a year? Things like

why does my skin feel warm, yet I am so cold that I can even tell my guts are cold? Things like were those really--I hope you are all sitting down for this--stirrup pants that I saw at Express last weekend? Because if Express is bringing back stirrup pants then we are in for The Apocalypse. And things like where is the olive green sweater I have been waiting for?

And Shakespeare is right. I'm not content at all. February has 29 days this year, and that means an extra day of winter. How very discontent-ing.

Dept. Of Nance Endorses...

Despite tremendous pressure from all quarters, the Dept. of Nance is withholding its Official Endorsement of a Democratic Candidate for President at this time. Ohio's Primary is not until March 4th, and there is still sufficient time for all Buckeye State voters (and Marylanders, and Virginians, etc.) to carefully and thoughtfully consider both viable candidates for the Highest Office In The Land. (Huh? "Other party?" What "other party?") Far be it from me to exert any outside pressure upon anyone still considering his or her choice at this time, especially when both Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton are scheduled to be in Cleveland, Ohio, debating the issues at Cleveland State University, moderated by Meet the Press's Tim Russert and/or Brian Williams, of NBC Nightly News fame.

I am still seething over the incredibly archaic practice of these ridiculously front-loaded primaries in which first, a couple of states are fussed over and "frontrunners" are declared; then, a few mores states get to decide who half of the country gets to vote for. Finally, on a "Super Tuesday," the remainder of the candidates are fodder for that half of the country, and when the rest of us get to cast our ballots, it's like the dingoes in the Outback snarling over the bones. What the hell kind of system is that when a field of more than a dozen is cut back to five before everyone even gets to vote? It's time for a National Primary.

But I digress. Sigh.

Despite the fact that I will not endorse a Presidential Candidate at this time, the Dept. of Nance is happy to give its Official Endorsement to the following:

The Novia Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. This dog is my new favorite dog to watch for in all televised dog shows, replacing both the Boxer and the Bernese Mountain Dog. It has a very lovely face and demeanor, and looks placid and friendly. It's unusual and has a cool name, and as a bonus, is Canadian. I read up on it, and it has a life span of 14 years and is good with children. Also charming is its proclivity to "round up and herd smaller pets."

Nutella. This is, quite simply, an orgasm in a jar. I thought I had gotten over this chocolate and hazelnut spread about a year and a half ago, but it's not so. I cannot have it in the house and feel safe. On a graham cracker, on a banana, or just on a spoon...excuse me. I'll be right back. Or not.

L'Oreal Voluminous Mascara. I cannot live without mascara, yet I am cheap about makeup because I think most of it is a scam. Clinique, Lancome, all that crap that is in the big department stores--I used to use it and lament the big bucks it cost me. I always came back to the drugstore brands, and later I was vindicated by Paula Begoun (author of Don't Go to the Cosmetics Counter without Me) . My eyelashes will never be without this product. I am vain; I know it and I'm not going to lie. This stuff is about $7.50 a tube. Sometimes Walgreen's puts it on sale for $4.50, or on a BOGO. I stock up like it's chocolate.

Bunnies. Cutest animals ever on a consistent basis. Whether they are full-grown or babies, bunnies are always cute. They are grossly underutilized in advertising media. I will never stop championing their cause. As a matter of fact, I may start putting a daily or weekly bunny in my sidebar until someone finally gives Bunnies Everywhere their due. Bunnies--Not Just For Easter Anymore.

Lay's Classic Potato Chips. This is the World's Most Dangerous Snack Food. I have been known to threaten severe bodily injury just for the folded ones.

Pilot's Precise V5/7 Rolling Ball Pen. Teachers everywhere know what a pain it is to find a perfect grading pen. This is it. It is smooth, fine, and does not tire after grading eleventy billion horrid essays about "How the Salem Witch Trials were a test of Puritanism." Plus, it has the added benefit of the little window in the barrel to (A) show the level of ink and (B) allow you to tell a student that it is filled with the blood of former Creative Writing II students.

Project Runway. I hate reality television on principle because it isn't reality. I mean, how many times are you ever stuck on an island or dared to eat pig testicles or paired up to samba with a has-been prizefighter? Exactly. But Bravo TV's Project Runway (aka PJR) is a creative show full of talented young designers who have to cobble together clothes that show their design point of view within a shockingly short time limit and with a new challenge each week. It also forces very disparate personalities to work closely together, and this is fun to watch. Add to that the fact that I love to listen to gay guys snipe at people and critique fashion, and I'm in heaven every Wednesday at 10 PM EST. One designer recently eliminated actually quipped, "Life is too short to have on a bad outfit." Words to live by.

I'll be watching the Interwebs closely for all of your endorsements, DoN readers. Isn't Democracy wonderful?

If It Hadn't Given Me A Decent Blogpost, I'd Have REALLY Gotten Irritated

This is an open letter to the woman standing in line behind us at Best Buy today as I waited for the Head Geek to finish trying to reassure us that we weren't getting screwed again as we sent out Jared's laptop for service for the third time. For the same problem. Under its one-year warranty. (It is a Toshiba, fyi.)

But I digress.

Dear Ms. X.--

Hi. You won't remember us, but we sure will remember you! It was actually hard to concentrate on what the computer technician was saying when all we could hear was your snapping, popping, and cracking behind us. I never knew that kind of volume could be produced from the human mouth and gum before. And you were keeping a discreet distance of a few feet behind us in line, too. As a high school teacher, I recognized the sound, and couldn't help but turn around, expecting to see a teenaged girl who could possibly be coaxed or embarrassed a bit into more courteous behavior by a rather curious stare. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you. (For a couple of reasons, which I shall enumerate.)

You are clearly, at age 35-40something, old enough to behave better. When I caught a glimpse of your grinding maw, you were oblivious. You were staring off into space with the look of a somewhat contented bovine chewing its cud in a pasture somewhere, mouth hanging open, jaw working its wad, eyes glassy and fixed on something in the distance. About every third chew, you produced a snap worthy of a whipcrack, yet you registered nothing in your expression, not even a little self-congratulatory smirk. I was transfixed by your sophomorically rude behavior. That, and your tragic outfit.

Madam, no one--and let me be very clear here--no one should wear a baseball cap inside a building unless that building is a domed baseball stadium and one is a spectator at a baseball game. Or a player in said game. And you are far too mature in years to be wearing a "varsity-style" short jacket made of obviously fake "leather," even if said pleather is on the sleeves only. I suspect it was not even yours, but possibly one of your sons'. May I say that I even hope so. Plus, it made you look...stumpy. You are not a tall nor a...slim woman. Which leads me to your trouser selection. Ma'am, black polyester stretch is simply not a good look on most women, and a strange bellbottom that did not even meet the top of your sad, shabby (were they grey or just horrifically dirty?) tennis shoes did not improve this look on you. Certainly we are both fortunate that I did not look at your shirt/top choice. I shudder at the thought.

Finally, if you thought, Oh, I'm just running out to Best Buy to pick up the computer. Who will notice what I look like? then you shouldn't chew gum. Because you can't do so quietly and courteously and without drawing attention to yourself.

I noticed what you looked like. And I have a thing about rudeness and bad fashion.

Maternal Guilt: Of Bras, Underwear--Stay With Me Now--Teenagers' Rooms, Rescue Workers, And Microwaves

Remember when your mother used to admonish you about wearing clean underwear or making sure your bra had no safety pins by presenting to you the scenario "What if you were rushed to the Emergency Room! All the doctors and nurses would see that!"? My sister Patti and I would roll our eyes and stomp upstairs muttering about how stupid Mom was, and later in life we'd reminisce and talk about maternal guilt and confess that we'd say the same thing to our own kids. (Well, she'd say the bra thing to her three daughters; I had two boys and could employ the clean underwear line on a fairly regular basis.)

As Jared and Sam became teenagers, I found that I could improvise upon my mother's basic salvo and apply it to their lair upstairs. Sad to say, my sons were no different than any other teen boys: the room they shared was a disaster all of the time. Dressers were unused because the floor was much easier. The cordless phone was located only by calling it from the cell phone and using an advanced system of echolocation. At one point, Rick forbade me from even going upstairs because I became a madwoman unleashed. "What if something happened and emergency services had to break into this house for some reason? Firemen or rescue people would come up here and see all of this! What would people think!? The headlines would read: LOCAL TEACHER'S HOME A MESS--HEALTH DEPARTMENT SUMMONED!" I'd yell.

Truth is, the only person who any of that works on is the mom. I truly believe that my mother's only objection to our safety-pinned bras was that someone else might see them. And, if my boys wanted to wallow in squalor of their own making and I didn't have to see it, well, then, okay, but I didn't want to have to take the fall for it. Know what I mean?

And here's what made me wax philosophical about all of this.

Cleaning my microwave.

Seriously.

Cleaning my microwave.

First of all, I have no freaking idea how my microwave gets so crappy. I cover every darn thing I put in there, I don't cook in there, and no one is around here to use it but Rick and me. And Rick does not use it. I have major issues with a dirty, grungy microwave, but as you know, it is a bitch to clean because you can't just fire up the old Mr. Clean and go to it. (No, you can't! You can't use a chemical in a microwave and transfer all those polymers and carcinogens to your food! Ugh!)

But I digress.

So, I started getting really complacent, and then when I put in some meat to thaw, I saw it. Oh my God, I thought, What if someone comes over and sees this? They'll think I'm a pig. I got the old Pyrex measuring cup out, and steamed that baby up. Totally clean now.

Sadly, I feel so much better. So! If there is some sort of emergency--heaven forbid--at the Dept. and rescue personnel are involved, they damn well better look inside my microwave!

From UFOs To DD-L: Officially, Of Course

For seven long, long, long years now, I have tried with all my heart not to let my antipathy toward a certain resident of Texas completely sour my entire outlook toward the whole state. I mean, I have some loyal readers of the Dept. who live in Texas and are actual living, breathing Democrats. But now, after reading the news lately, I just have to ask some of you out there:

Are you all crazy, or what?

Everyone down there in the Lone Star State is all wrapped up in seeing UFOs. It's gotten to be practically an epidemic. People from Stephenville who witnessed a UFO and caught it on video (Why is it that everyone who has a video camera also seems to have a southern accent? Have you ever noticed that on "America's Funniest Home Videos?") were even interviewed on "Larry King Live"! The whole town is into being The UFO Capital of the USA now, and get this--Stephenville hopes to become a UFO landing spot. We know this is true; it says so on CNN.

This leads me to wonder: will this be An Official Designation? If so, will there be Paperwork involved? And, if this does occur, can anyone file Said Paperwork for Official Designations? Because, if so, then I want to file one immediately.

And Daniel Day-Lewis is involved.

Allow me to explain.

As Dept. readers already know, I have been obsessed, in varying degrees, with Mr. Day-Lewis since 1992 and it has not been an easy task. His interminable hiatuses between films, his maddening refusal to reprise his Romantic Hero role a la Hawkeye in The Last of the Mohicans, his reprehensible lack of fashion sense, his horrific bald, concentration camp-like gaunt appearance after his last commercial film Gangs of New York, and then his terrible year of looking like the Gorton's Fisherman while doing press for his wife's little indie film...all of this added up to a very off-putting time for The Obsession. I consoled myself with memories and the fact that I was lofty enough and smartypants enough to Care Deeply For His Art.

Which was bullshit.

I switched over to Johnny Depp like everybody else. Come on.

Anyway. Now, Daniel Day-Lewis comes out of his self-imposed...whatever...and makes a new film and gets tons of accolades for it. His performance in There Will Be Blood has already gotten him a Golden Globe, an Oscar nomination, a SAG nomination, and a bunch of critic awards. He's out there doing press and interviews and, more importantly, he looks like this:

Oh. My. God. It's the Old Daniel. And by "old" I mean the Daniel Day-Lewis that got me all...er...interested before. So.

Back to my original point.

And I do have one.

I would like to file Official Paperwork to designate the Dept. as The Daniel Day-Lewis Landing Spot. And I don't want to have to go on "Larry King Live" to do it. Unless Daniel Day-Lewis is a guest, too. Then I'm all over him...er...it.

The Name Game

This news item caught my attention on our local news recently. First of all, there is absolutely no reason for anyone to ever harbor a snake that is 24 feet long and "as thick as a telephone pole." This monster, a reticulated python, should be killed immediately. If not sooner. The Columbus Zoo is asking for trouble placing it on permanent display while it is still alive. This thing eats "two huge rabbits a week." May I remind everyone that"rabbits" means "bunnies."
Allow me to provide a visual aid:

Perhaps the Columbus Zoo hopes to soften the blow when it displays the snake's name. For this vicious bunny-eating slitherer goes by...Fluffy. Yes. Fluffy the Reticulated Python.

I'll admit it. The name is fantastic. If I were going to have a 24-foot long reticulated python, I'd consider naming it Fluffy, for it is the very antithesis of all things snaky. But when it comes to naming pets, I usually opt for people names. There's something very dignified and familial about having a dog or cat or guinea pig with a person name. I just like it. And I like the name to be literary, usually, unless the animal in question has so much overt personality that the name is just apparent.

As many readers of the Dept. know, my most recent pets are Emily and Travis, two cats. Sadly, Travis is no longer with us, but Emily still dodders around, toothless, half-blind, and arthritic. There were no silly kitty-witty names even considered for either feline. Never once were names like Mittens, Whiskers, Scratch, or Mr. Freckles even brought up. Or any boring, dumb names like Brownie, Patches, or the uninspired Kitty.

And please, please, please spare me "Boo Boo Kitty."

I could vomit. A lot. On myself.

My friend Roger thinks everyone should test pet names by going to the front door and yelling for the prospective pet, loudly, several times. If you feel stupid or it sounds just plain idiotic, then it's not a good name. He has a huge Labrador. Its name is Newman, after the lackadaisical mailman on Seinfeld. Roger says that the name has become a self-fulfilling prophecy since Newman now does very little except sigh and loll around a lot. This summer, he may get Newman a pet puppy and see if that turns things around a bit.

Jared, my eldest son, thinks that "Pushbutton" would be a great name for a bunny. I would have to see the bunny in order to decide. I like the name "Robert" for a small, brown boy bunny. I have yet to meet any small, brown boy bunny that did not look like a "Robert."

My pet peeve with zoos is that they get all carried away with naming baby animals in the language of their native country. Then we get stuck with all these terrible names that are sometimes hard to pronounce and get attached to. Also, the names really don't suit the baby animals. One exception to this is Knut, the baby polar bear from the Berlin Zoo.

He looks like a Knut, and it's not hard to pronounce.

Now there's a brand new baby polar bear at the Nuremberg Zoo who was rescued from her mom who zookeepers feared might try to eat her (!), and a naming contest is already underway. Naturally, a bunch of loser names have already been submitted: Franka, Lina, Snowwhite, Yuki Chan. I like "Elinor." I have already watched video of this baby polar bear and looked at photos. This is an "Elinor" if I've ever seen one. Trust me.

I have a backyard fishpond and I have several fish in it. Every summer, I end up having to replace at least one fish due to a predator, the harsh winter, or the fact that someone just can't get with the program and keeps ending up in the skimmer/filter. So, I have to come up with at least one new name each year. One year, I briefly flirted with the idea of naming a fish after a national monument, just for the hell of it. But I couldn't find a fish that looked like one. Current pond residents are: Iron Chef, Johnny Depp, Nancy Grace, Garbo, Ziploc, and Tupperware. Those last two names do bear some explaining, I realize. See, they were leftover table decorations from a school dance, the theme of which was "Under the Sea." Leftover fish...get it? I am still in mourning over the death of Barnabas, the black fantail who kept ending up in the skimmer. I think the weight of his head, due to his huge popeyes, just kept pulling him in with the current. What a way to go. But he had the coolest name.

Update: After receiving more than 30,000 emails with more than 50,000 suggestions, the baby polar bear's name is..."Flocke", which is German for "Flake." What a loser name. This kid is now destined to be a flake--an eccentric screwball, someone who is pretty much on the fringes of civilized society, like Phil Spector or Dennis Kucinich or Sandra Lee, the Semi-Homemade chick on the Food Network. Whatever. "Flocke" will always be "Elinor" to me.

Would You Like Some Politics With That?

One would think that since I am a political junkie, I would be in heaven with this absurdly long Primary Season we've had, seeing as how it began last spring with a debate aired in late April. Now, we are actually all excited about THE! IOWA! CAUCUS! , a political ride in a wayback machine at which I think The Menfolk stand around in plaid knickers and weskits whilst the little ladies circulate demurely in petticoats and farthingales and serve lemonade and try very hard not to swoon. Or something. The press got all revved up about the results from a little flyover state which is geographically kinda mid-north, but whose personality is plumb South (give us our guns, God, and go-away-gays). Suddenly, a town meeting is do-or-die, and hurry, catch your breath because New Hampshire is here. (Two candidates for the Good Guys have already dropped out, Biden and Dodd.)

New Hampshire is not indicative of the tenor of the nation, either. (How many black people live in New Hampshire? How many Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, or Asians live there? NH has a much bigger percentage of registered Independents than other states, and this is for them an open primary. They can decide to cast their ballots either for a Democrat or a republican. ) The press, however, predict dire consequences for the candidates who don't do well here.
It would seem the Big States and Super Tuesday don't mean a thing. And that's what really frosts my cupcakes.

See, Ohio--my state--doesn't hold its primary until March. I don't know why, and I don't really care to know. All I know is this: I don't want my candidate, whomever that may be, to already be decided for me by then. Especially by THE MEDIA. Just because they've had a feeding frenzy of opportunism. You know what I mean because you're seeing it with Hillary. She wasn't "inevitable" until the media started all of its polling eleventy billion years ago. She became the presumptive front runner and then It started. And it became the "I-word." Inevitable. We saw it with Howard Dean. "The Scream" didn't take down Howard Dean (and, for the record, I was never a Howard Dean supporter), inevitability took down Howard Dean.

So, I'm irked at this stretched out, epic primary election season. It's unnecessary and reminds me of the Benjamin Franklin quote about visitors who stick around too long: "Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days." Well, politicians and the process, like fish, begin to stink, after almost a whole effing year. AND THAT'S JUST THE PRIMARIES!

Can someone please tell me why every state doesn't hold its primary on the same day? On a SUPER MEGA-TUESDAY, if you will? Seems fair to me. That way, the media can't pee in anyone's pool, so to speak. It's all fair and everyone gets a shot. Even Little Dennis.

Speaking of Dennis, I took a quiz online that was supposed to help match me to my candidate. I've cut and pasted the results below, as well as the link to the quiz so you can make a similar connection. I have to say that I'm a little concerned about my top results. Obviously, they can be analyzed in a variety of ways, and initially, one could say that the results show that I am in serious need of some psychiactric help. If one cares to be more astutely analytical, I think it shows just how deeply disillusioned (read: driven to the far left liberal agenda) I've become due to the Angel of Death's immoral and corrupt agenda for the past 7 years.

87% Dennis Kucinich
86% Mike Gravel
86% Chris Dodd
86% Barack Obama
85% John Edwards
84% Hillary Clinton
81% Joe Biden
75% Bill Richardson
40% Rudy Giuliani
26% Tom Tancredo
25% John McCain
23% Ron Paul
22% Mitt Romney
19% Mike Huckabee
10% Fred Thompson

2008 Presidential Candidate Matching Quiz

Go take the quiz and get back to me in comments. I'm off to see the results of New Hampshire. Yawn. Screw them. Maybe I'll just watch a House rerun instead. Who cares about a bunch of Independent caucasians who talk funny anyway? ;-)

Nance & The Seven Dept. Dwarves (Even Though Disney Misspells It As "Dwarfs"--No Lie)

Wow. So...that was a bit of a break, wasn't it? Sadly, it was back to The Rock for me today, and while I was busily mining the grey matter of my sophomores for the fine distinctions of indirect objects and objects of prepositions--not to mention the obligatory simple subjects and action verbs, of course--it brought to mind the Miners Extraordinaire themselves and, thus, a Theme for this post was born!

Dopey: For Christmas I received The Book of General Ignorance by John Lloyd & John Mitchinson. Not only is this book filled with fascinating trivia that disproves conventionally believed trivia (no, Thomas Crapper did NOT invent the flush toilet and a rhinoceros horn is NOT actually made of hair), but the writing is delightful. One of my favorite sentences: When surprised, rhinos urinate and defecate prodigiously. What a smart way to say an alarmed rhino poops and pees a lot.

Grumpy: I am increasingly irritated by the number of diet plan, low-fat food, exercise equipment, and other "health"-oriented ads now on television since The New Year. What a load of guilt-driven bullshit. These are the same people who hawked nothing but food and booze for the entire two Holiday Months previous. Leave everyone alone! If the consumer wants to lose weight, he will. He knows what's out there, believe me. Shut the hell up and go back to advertising the Gas-Guzzling Trucks Sold By Obnoxious Country Music Singers even though gasoline is sky-high and our carbon footprint is the size of Sasquatch's. Sigh.

Doc: Would all of You Sick People stop coming to school and work and contaminating me and my work space? You are not heroes, my darlings, really. You are Sick. You need to stay home with your viruses and your bacterials and get better with rest, megadoses of vitamin C, lots of liquids (not sherry or JB), chicken soup (add a knob of fresh ginger; trust me, it is delicious and helps break up that hideous mucus), and lots of lovely movies on the DVD player. We can--we must try--to get along without you. It will be okay. Come back when you feel better and are not contagious and icky.

Bashful: Are you kidding? ME? I haven't been bashful since my last mammogram, and since I'm flat as a board, that wasn't very.

Sneezy: Every morning in the lounge, I have the urge to sneeze and I can't get it to come out. Oh yes, I look at the light, I breathe in real slow through my nose, yadda yadda dah dah dah. It never happens...until my third period class. Then I sneeze. When I am in school, I do NOT sneeze "for real." I have a tiny, little, peep of a sneeze because I am afraid a huge snotful thing will fly out, so when I sneeze in school, it sounds like Tweety Bird is saying "tyoo." It is ridiculous. But...it is better than a huge snotful thing flying out.

Sleepy: Yesterday, I discovered how pathetic I really am. How I am at the mercy of the Caffeine Monkey On My Back. I did not have my usual mug o' coffee, and by 2:45 PM, I was dragging my ass around like it was a toddler in a backpack. But, of course, if I had a cup then, it would keep me up all night, and I had school the next day, so I didn't dare. By 7:00PM, I fell asleep sitting up on the couch, waking up 15 minutes later, totally disgusted with myself. With an enormous banging headache. I WAS IN CAFFEINE WITHDRAWAL. FROM ONE CUP A DAY! HOW SAD AM I?!

Happy: Over break, we discovered that we were down to our last bottle of Cattail Creek Off-Dry Reisling. This is the wine we fell in love with from our last jaunt to Niagara-on-the-Lake. Rick said, "Let's go to Canada the weekend after Christmas and get some more!" So we did! We hurriedly called an inn there for a room, Rick got home from work early that Friday, and we spent the weekend there having a lovely time visiting wineries and relaxing. We snagged two cases of our favorite wine to last us for a while until we can get back there again. If you are ever in the mood for a lovely trip to Ontario and can visit N-o-t-L, please go visit Rosi at Cattail Creek. Their wines are incredible and will make you happy, too.

Speaking of happy...Happy 2008, everyone, from the Dept. of Nance. I'm ever hopeful.

Merry Christmas

As I grow older--and, I fear, none wiser--the temptation to grow far too introspective near year's end takes hold, especially around Christmas, a holiday fraught with the peril of traditions handed down from generations of family upon family and heavy with the burdens of so many added tasks and stressors. It's easy to become overwhelmed and isolated. Things look impossible, or at least incredibly difficult.

This feeling is not new, I found out. Writer Julia Peterkin put it aptly in A Plantation Christmas:

I hear that in many places something has happened to Christmas; that it is changing from a time of merriment and carefree gaiety to a holiday which is filled with tedium; that many people dread the day and the obligation to give Christmas presents is a nightmare to weary, bored souls; that the children of enlightened parents no longer believe in Santa Claus; that all in all, the effort to be happy and have pleasure makes many honest hearts grow dark with despair instead of beaming with good will and cheerfulness.

That was in 1934.

As we rush headlong into 2008, plugged into life digitally and otherwise, I hope we try to give ourselves a break. I hope we find some peace. I hope we try.

And I hope the effort isn't so very hard after all.

Merry Christmas from The Dept. of Nance.

The Lights Are On, But Nobody's Home

Although I've been teaching for 26 years, I still often forget that many teenagers are just not that tuned in to anything that doesn't directly concern them. I mean them directly, such as their cell phones, their Ipods, their driver's licenses, their curfews, or their social lives. So, I still get an enormous shock every now and again when they express their unmitigated ignorance of the world around them, especially politics.

(Naturally, I realize that I am a political junkie. Politics is, for me, like crack. I am addicted; I need it to live. Politics informs everything I do. It's sad, really. I'm trying to quit.)

But I digress.

A few days ago, I was giving my students their daily quiz on their reading assignment for The Scarlet Letter. I assign three chapters a night; they come in the next day and I ask them a half-dozen questions aloud, which they write the answers to. It's a quickie way to assess whether or not they read the chapters and also a nice way to force them to read. (Honors kids do anything for points.) Anyway, one of the questions was: What does Hester Prynne say was the result of her one meeting with the Black Man? (In the context of the book, which is set in 17th century Puritan New England, said "Black Man" is, of course, in their parlance, the devil.)

Jokingly, I said, "And don't go writing down a Vote for Obama button!" Several students in the class chuckled and, heads bent over their papers, wrote their answers.

One girl looked at me, bewildered. "Huh?" she said. "Who's that?"

I stared at her. "Really? You have no idea who Barack Obama is?" I asked.

"No," she said. "Why?"

"Do you watch the news or get a newspaper at home?" I asked her.

"We get the paper," she said.

A couple other students in the class said, "I don't know who he is, either."

"How can you not know who he is?" I said. "His picture is everywhere. He's been in the news, on tv, on magazines, everyplace! I am absolutely shocked! Don't any of you ever watch the news at all? Please tell me that you know something besides entertainment garbage!" They all just looked at me. I turned back to the original student who was still sitting there, absolutely devoid of any sort of interest in anything at all except a piece of her hair. I said, "Okay. Never mind. You at least know what country we live in. What country do we live in?"

She stared at me, mouth open. A full three seconds went by. The class waited patiently. Several students had the decency to look shocked. Finally, her mouth formed the answer.

"North America. Right? RIGHT!?"

Remember, I teach Honors.

Three Views Of A Marriage Or Canonizing Rick

**Scene Opens**

Interior of Nance's new car. Rick is in the driver's seat, Nance in the passenger's. Time is recent past.

Nance: Rick! Did you have the brake on when you put the car into 'Drive'?

Rick: Um, I think so.

Nance: Well, you have to. You have to have the brake depressed to start the car. And to put it into 'Drive.'

Rick: Then I probably did.

Nance: (audible sigh) You know, you have to drive this differently. It's a hybrid.

Rick: I. Know.

(Some time elapses as they drive. Soon, Rick accelerates to pass someone on the highway.)

Nance: Rick! You can't just jam on the gas like that and go hurtling into traffic! This is a hybrid!You have to accelerate smoothly. It's part of the way the engine works to use fuel efficiently. This isn't your old Ford Ranger you know, where you just punch on the gas pedal like you're killing a cockroach.

Rick: Oh my God, Nance! Do you want to drive?

Nance: No. I just want you to drive my car properly, that's all. Apparently, that's a bit much to ask.

**End Scene**

**Scene Opens**

Interior, night. Rick and Nance are in bed. Time is a couple nights ago. Rick suddenly gets up and gets out of bed.

Nance: Where are you going?

Rick: I have to check to see if the back door is locked.

Nance: Well, do you have to fling back the covers like that? You uncover me, too, you know.

Rick: Well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.

Nance: Why must you leave a chair or a bed with such vehemence?

Rick: Huh?

Nance: Seriously. Even Emily notices it. When you get out of the recliner, you leave it rocking so violently that she--

Rick: (interrupting) Good God, Nance! Emily is a cat!

Nance: (calmly) I'm aware of that. That's why she can't help but notice. (pointedly) She's usually in it when you leave it heaving like some sort of cataclysmic geologic event!

Rick: I can't believe we're having this conversation.

Nance: Well, you started it.

Rick: How?!

Nance: By exposing me to the arctic blast of you leaving the bed with such violence.

Rick: Can I do anything right?

Nance: We'll find out when you get back in. Try not to uncover me.

**End scene**

**Scene Opens**

Exterior, day. Rick and Nance are in line at the Christmas tree farm. Time is Saturday. They are waiting to have their chosen tree put on the shaking machine, which rids the tree of all dead needles and detritus before it goes into nifty baling machine that wraps tree for transport home.

Rick: This is a pretty nice tree. And we found it in record time.

Nance: I know. I'm impressed. Usually, I'm more picky.

Rick: So, all we have to do now is take it home and put it up.

Nance: I just noticed something...

Rick: (in voice of doom) Oh no. What?

Nance: After they shake all the crap out of the tree, they lay it back down and drag it right through more crap to get it to the baler.

Rick: (relieved, then...) Yeah...they do. (worried now, he glances at her)

Nance: That's just stupid. It doesn't make any sense. Does it make any sense to you?

Rick: Um. No. I guess not.

Nance: So, basically, they are just shaking crap out, then putting crap back in.

Rick: (resignedly) Yep.

Nance: (thinking) Hmmmm.

Rick: It's our turn.

Nance: It just doesn't make any sense.

Rick: You already said that.

Nance: Oh well.

Rick: (face wreathed in relief) Let's go.

**End Scene**

Christmas Kickoff...Complete With Crocs And A Six-Pack

Now that it's December, we here at the Dept. can officially recognize the Christmas Season. I really feel like I've given Thanksgiving its due, right down to serving leftover turkey dans la sandwiches avec la sauce d'airelle for at least one dinner when I didn't feel up to actually cooking something. (Hey! I used some lovely Hungarian bread that I had to slice, even! Gimme a break.)

But I digress.

As readers may recall, we had something of a controversy last year when I inadvertently jumped the gun on the Season, but there has been no such breach of Holiday Etiquette this year. Tradition is a powerful thing, especially at holiday time. And the people at Staten Island Mall certainly learned it the hard way this year.

Marketing manager David Albertson made up his mind to get innovative this year at the shopping mecca and decided to depict a Santa at home on Mondays through Thursdays. When stay-at-home Moms in the Staten Island, NY, area would bring their wide-eyed tots in for a Kris Kringle visit, they'd find Santa a bit more casually dressed. Rather than outfitted in his traditional red velvet suit trimmed in white fur, the everyday Santa kicked back in a green plaid lumberjack shirt, red suspenders, and red pants. To top it all off, he was wearing green-and-red striped socks and red Crocs. His red velvet coat hung nearby.

Customer Maria Borruso was shocked when she brought in her 15-month old son Nicholas in for photos and a visit. "I was completely disgusted. I didn't think it was appropriate," she said in a telephone interview.

**Editor's note: Naturally, I am assuming she is talking about the Crocs, first and foremost. Crocs are both disgusting and inappropriate, of course, not to mention impractical for the North Pole from a purely climatological standpoint. Add in the fact that there is no way in hell that Santa Claus would ever wear Crocs--a man who is such a traditionalist in every fashion sense of the word--and Ms. Borruso has every right to be shocked and disgusted. Moving on.

Ms. Borruso continued by saying that she opted not to have Nicholas's picture taken with Santa that day in his present incarnation. "My son could have been sitting in any old bald man's lap."

Albertson said that feedback regarding the At-home Santa idea was largely positive, but acknowledged receiving two complaints. "Some people like it, but some people don't," he said. Store managment, however, must have received substantially more, for they decided to put a more traditional Santa back in place seven days a week. As far as the other idea, Ms. Borruso remained firm. "It didn't fly with me," she said. When reached later and told of the switch, Borruso was thrilled.

And Albertson? "Some battles are just not worth fighting," he said.

Oh, I don't know, David. New traditions have to start someplace.

Of Edgar And Literature And Abraham Lincoln

Occasionally while lost in the throes of literary passion, I forget that I am in a room full of jaded, ultracool sixteen-year-olds who find much of anything written before say, yesterday on their cellphones, pretty extraneous and boring. I get all excited and emotionally invested in what I'm talking about--flinging myself about the room, perhaps even welling up a bit and getting verklempt and all, gesticulating meaningfully--and they watch, not the least bit amazed or impressed. Oh, at first they were frightened, sure, but now it's become so commonplace that they just sort of wait me out until it runs its course and the moment passes and I come back to them.
This week, it happened with Edgar Allan Poe. Edgar is...well, I feel like I am A Special Defender Of His Memory. This man has been so vilified for so long that I never let an opportunity go by to set the record straight on his story. (And, yes, I am on a First Name Basis with him. I've studied him and his works and taught him for so long and protected his legacy so unstintingly that I feel I have the privilege.)

I always start out introducing Edgar by asking the students what they think they already know about him. They trot out the usual crap: he was a drug abuser. Wrong. He was an alcoholic. Wrong. He was crazy. Wrong. Sigh. About the only thing they get right--and gleefully announce--is the fact that he married his 13-year-old first cousin. That much is true. Then I tell them the whole story of how he called her "Sissy," how he lived with Virginia and her mother for a time and was concerned with the scandal it was creating, how he and Virginia were childless for their entire marriage, and how the most recent scholarship says the marriage was likely never consummated based upon the above and other letters and evidence. I tell them about how Edgar's biography was first written by his archenemy, Rufus Griswold, and how it became the accepted story. And then, I tell them to look at the photo of Edgar in their textbooks while I read them a better bio of his life. And I say, "Can you just see the terrible sadness in this man's face? Look at him. His whole life was one of want and loss. He practically gave his genius away. The story we're reading today was sold for only ten dollars! Let's give it more than that for him." Later, as the students were analyzing the story in groups, one group called me over to ask me a question about the story's theme. We talked about the evil inherent in man, and man's instinct to struggle to survive. I related it back to Edgar's life. "Poor Edgar," I said ruefully. "I just want to go back in time and try to save him from it all."

The two girls smiled at me. "Oh, Mrs. D.," one said. "You can't do that. Then he might not have written all these stories. And then Stephen King might never have written any of his stories. "

"That's true," I said. "But, haven't you ever looked at an old photograph of someone and seen something in the person's face, in his eyes? Something that told you what that person had seen or been through?"

"No," one girl said, eyeing me cautiously. I think she was starting to worry that I'd be off again into one of my little spells.

"I hate old pictures. They creep me out," said the other girl.

I was undeterred. "Well, I have a thing for Abraham Lincoln," I began (probably an unwise choice of words, I soon realized by their expressions). "I read books about him like crazy, for some reason. And when I look at his picture, into his eyes, it's like I fall in. I can just completely get him. I find him fascinating and human and incredible. But his pictures; I can't explain it. It's not entirely like that with Edgar, but I care about Edgar."

Just then, another student in another group raised his hand. As I moved away, I heard the boy near the girls' group say, "What was that all about?"

"Mrs. D. was talking about Poe and Abraham Lincoln," one girl said.

"Yeah, she kills me," the other girl said. "Now, I'll never be able to look at Abraham Lincoln's picture the same way again. Or Poe's. She does that to me a lot."

Merci, Gracias, Dankie, Amyaji Chezu Tinbade, Yokoke, Dank Je, Mahalo

OUR COMMENTERS!

Now that it's deeply November, we here in the U.S. of A. have entered into that dangerous Wad O' Time known as **THE HOLIDAYS**. (Of course, if you believe the Retail Giants, we entered into that WO'T right around September 30th and never get out of it until July. Except on February 15th, when we are allowed to take a small breath right before they put out Cadbury Cream Eggs and chocolate bunnies and bikinis and sunblock. Because you know, then it is time for Easter and Memorial Day and Fourth of July. But I digress. Who, me? La.)

In the midst of all of these festivities and hubbubberies (I did just make up a new plural there), it is easy to lose track of things that are important to us, the blogging community. Born out of this concern and exigence was Thank Your First Commenter Day, a blogging community holiday brainchild of Neil, host of Citizen of the Month. On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving 2005, Neil decided to use his blog to thank his very first commenter for giving him some validation for putting himself out there in the blogosphere. He suggested that all his fellow bloggers do the same. I did that and thanked my first commenter, St. Jim of So. Maryland for commenting on one of my very first posts back in my early days of blogging, now over 2 years and some 204 posts ago. Even though St. Jim is a friend of mine, it still was exciting to have a comment and some feedback on the Internets. Regular visitors to the Dept. may notice that St. Jim has been in absentia for some time now. Perhaps I have thanked him too vociferously and he now thinks I am stalking him. Which I am not. (I don't stalk anyone these days, except maybe occasionally Daniel Day-Lewis and that is primarily out of habit. A bad, old habit that is, like smoking for some people, hard to break and almost instinctive in nature.)

Sigh.

Bearing that in mind, I am adapting Thank Your First Commenter Day this year a bit and simply thanking all my commenters. Let's face it, all of us bloggers are a bit vain and/or egotistical in our own way, or we wouldn't be putting it out there on the Internets for everyone. We would be squirreling our innermost thoughts away in password-protected Word documents or scribbling them in inky longhand on countless spiral notebooks hidden in cartons deceptively marked "Tax Receipts 1985-1990" under the steps. We want to be read. And, more importantly, we want to know we've been read!

I love my commenters! DO YOU HEAR THAT? I LOVE YOU, MY COMMENTERS! I love that you read DEPT. OF NANCE and that you have something to say. Being naturally chatty myself, I automatically want to respond to you. So I do. In comments. Such fun! Thanks a bunch for chatting along with me. And if you've never commented before, I hope sometime that you do. And, St. Jim, thanks again. And sorry if I've frightened you. Sigh. It's only once a year. Tradition, you know. And as for you, DD-L, oh never mind. I'm so over you it's not even funny.

I, Nance, Do Solemnly Swear, To Do My Duty...

For years I have fantasized about the Dept. of Nance being a real Department. As my masthead says, I do believe that the government needs me. Someone has to right the smallish wrongs being perpetually perpetrated everywhere in our otherwise civilized society. It has become increasingly clear to me over the years that we are, in fact, unable (or, even more sadly, unwilling) to do this ourselves. I am happy to do this task. It is bipartisan in nature. Both Democrats and republicans seem to commit these egregious faux pas and societal sins, so I can work within the bounds of any administration without interference. I am a separate entity, beholden to no one. I can be funded by the Supreme Court's order and a constitutional amendment in perpetuity.

Or whatever.

I do not require a huge office, just a moderately-sized one with adequate ventilation and good natural lighting. I do not need a big staff, just a secretary and one other assistant who may even be part-time as long as he can drive me as required as I will not be driving myself since I do not plan to drive in Washington, D.C. It is too trafficky and strange to me. Finally, I will not clean my own office. I will, however, supply and water my own plant or plants.

Once installed, I will immediately act. Much like House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, I will begin a strenuous agenda of reform and will, within the first 100 days, show my vigorous commitment to making life better and more civil for the American People. Here is my short list of what I will do:

1. Require all theaters to install cell phone jammers.

2. Require all sit-down restaurants to take reservations regardless of party size.

3. Ban all inflatable lawn decorations.

4. Decree that all underwear is visible in public only at fashion shows.

5. Ban all leggings. Forever.

6. Decree that all Christmas decorations, music, displays, sales, and ads are prohibited until December 1st. The only exception made will be for craft stores. Period.

7. Require spelling to count ALL THE TIME, EVERYWHERE.

8. Ban the sale of Crocs except at swimming pool stores and garden centers, where they belong.

9. Reinstate Pluto as a planet.

10. Ban the mention of celebrity birth, marriage, public brouhaha, or rehab issues from legitimate news broadcasts.

11. Bring back the following retired Crayola crayon colors: blue gray, orange red, raw umber, violet blue, lemon yellow, orange yellow, and mulberry.

12. Ban the wearing of baseball hats by anyone not at a baseball game.

13. Make "telling someone about this dream I had" in detail a felony.

14. Abolish call waiting (a.k.a. "licensed rudeness").

15. Prohibit anyone over the age of 12 from wearing animated characters on his or her clothing or person.

I could, of course, go on and on and on and on. But this is, as I said, my short list and will likely occupy much of my first 100 days. (That, and decorating my office, hiring my secretary and assistant, and selecting my plant or plants. Plus, I will have to acclimate myself to Washington, D.C. Heretofore, I have only been there as a tourist. Once it becomes my workplace, I will have to view it in a new way, as a Beltway Insider. ) I trust that, in Brainstorms, you'll give me more to do.

Sunday Salmagundi: Politics, Gravy, Madison Avenue, Brian Williams, and Verbal Vexations

On Sundays I wake up, make some coffee, grab The Cleveland Plain Dealer off the front porch, and settle in for over an hour of reading and shopping-by-advert. Then, by 10:30, I hunker down for Meet the Press with Tim Russert and whoever he's got on the hot seat. Most of the time I'm hoping it's not a republican because Sunday is traditionally supposed to be a Day of Rest, and I get way too steamed up and hectic if I have to debate one of Them. They sit there, pretending They cannot hear me, regardless of all the cogent and salient points I make, and I end up irritated and frustrated and all hackled-up for the rest of the day, almost, in my Democratness.
It's just not good.
But I digress.

Today in the PD, Macy's has an ad for their bigass Veterans Day sale. (Macy's is always having a big honking sale, so I never take them seriously. If you ever go there and pay full price for anything, then you are foolish and perhaps stupid. Between their coupons and shopper's cards and sales, there is simply never a reason to.) Anyway, in the ad today, there is some jewelry. A strand of "genuine freshwater 8mm pearls." Now, get this: the original price is 80 bucks. The sale price is 40 bucks. But for Veterans Day, you can pay only 19.99! What does this tell you about Macy's? Does it tell you that: A) they are really honoring those who fought in the service of their country? B) they care deeply about the consumer? C) their jewelry prices are incredibly jacked up to begin with and are not to be taken even remotely seriously? Oh, I think we all know the answer to that one. And that is just one example of the ridiculousness in this ad.
Supposed $320 Liz Claiborne suits are being offered for $59.99. My friend Sue used to work for Macy's and said new shipments arrived with the tags already marked down and stickered with the sale prices. Alrighty then.

How exciting is this: Brian Williams is broadcasting The NBC Nightly News live from Cleveland, Ohio tomorrow night. Sadly--and I wonder if this is directed entirely at me--they are keeping the final location of his remote broadcast site confidential. Sigh. Because, as you know, I would absolutely recruit Rick to drive me there, possibly with tasteful forest green cravat in hand, to witness it. In total silence, of course. I respect his journalistic integrity. I have even given thought to what I would wear, had I gone to see him. Tomorrow's weather is forecast to be overcast with a possibility of showers and a high at 6:30 PM, EST of 56 degrees F. I would wear my black pencil skirt, black sweater with red cami and my tartan pumps. I would have to wear my black leather jacket and possibly employ my red tartan umbrella, which, when not in use, would be at my side, tastefully rolled. Brian, know this: If I knew where you were going to be, there I would be also. Tastefully attired, and giving you quiet and fashionable moral support.

Barack Obama was on Meet the Press today, and I was again struck by the irritating proclivity all politicians have developed lately, republicans and Democrats alike (and believe you me, it pains me tremendously to have to say that), when speaking in interviews or in debates, to use the very rude imperative "look" as a sort of address, absolutely to the point of nastiness. When Tim Russert asks a question, they say, "Look, what we've got to do in Iraq is..." or in a debate, they say, "I'm not saying my opponent is wrong, but, look, the point is...". Not to pick on Obama, but he really beat it up today. I went back and read the transcript and in his 40 minute interview, he used "look" as an imperative a staggering 14 times! I'm sorry, but that's just awful. And it always sounds petulant, rude, and well, bossy!

And while I'm at it, here's another thing Obama's interview got me thinking about: this constant badgering of candidates who say they're anti-war but vote consistently to fund it. Russert got Obama on that one, too, and Hillary's gotten it ad infinitum. Is it just me, or is this The Most Disingenuous Question Ever? Who in his or her right mind is going to sit in a big comfy chair in Washington D.C. and play a game of Political Chicken just to prove a point and leave thousands of soldiers in hostile territory with depleting supplies? Why is this question even a question? Is the person asking it even remotely serious? Why hasn't someone called them on it? Like Joe Biden, who has to be the sanest straight-talking non-PC guy up there in the Dems' row. Am I missing something? Please tell me because I hate being an idiot and not knowing it.

My snark level rose a bit yesterday because I had to go shopping in our local "Lifestyle Centre." Which is a snobby way of saying "upper-crust stores that are not housed in a mall, so I had to be cold and walk in the wind even though Rick drove me right up to the front door of Express because he is wonderful like that." I realize that, when I choose (read: have to because no other stores have my size in decent dress pants in NE Ohio) to shop there, I am going to necessarily deal with a much, much, much younger demographic sensibility. To be brief: the music was way loud. So loud, in fact, that Rick waited outside for me to shop for pants. Which took almost an hour. So loud that the salesgirl had to bend down and put her head to my head in order for us to communicate. I felt like crying. Or screaming. Or both. Later, I went to Bath and Body Works to buy another bottle of Lavender Vanilla body mist perfume, which I love.
And, they apparently no longer make. !?!?!?!? I love this scent. It has been my perfume for years. I am constantly told how good I smell. I am serious when I say that students come up to me and just smell me. And now it is no longer available. Oh, they continue to make it in lotion, candles, bubble bath, and something called "pillow mist", but not in perfume. This is unacceptable. I am completely bereft and pissed. I am...berissed. Or...piseft. I'm mad.

Finally, (and thanks for staying with me, whoever you are) let me just give Thanksgiving its due since hardly anyone else (except for the folks at Butterball) does. For many, it has become a stumbling block in the path of the Christmas Juggernaut. But I love this holiday, for which no one has to go mad shopping for gifts, mail out cards, do a ton of decorating, buy special music, or string up lights on every conceivable edifice. Thanksgiving means getting together with family and possibly friends and making and eating comforting food, like turkey gravy. To me, turkey is the best possible flavor of gravy ever. And I am a huge fan of gravy. My dear friend Ann from Florida, who might love gravy more than I do, once said, "As far as I'm concerned, most food is merely a vehicle for gravy." I hear that. I am all about the rest of the dinner, too, though. This year, it's my turn to have the kind of stuffing I want, which means adding cornbread. I don't know why Rick and Sam and Jared even care; they eat massively no matter what.

So, how about all that? And, what's going on in your head this Sunday?