If Amazon Thinks I'm Gay, What About Netflix?

When I discovered Amazon.com, I thought I had found the perfect relationship. I could sit in my little office in my comfy rolly chair and browse books, books, books to my heart's content. Then, I could order whatever of these lovely books that I wanted--in hardback!--simply by clicking with my mouse. Moreover, my cute UPS guy with the dark hair and lovely tan skin would bring them right to my door!

Naturally, a bill would eventually come, but there was FREE SHIPPING, and who could possibly bitch about that? It was a wonderful, idyllic time.

And then, I ordered two books that changed everything. They were: Tipping the Velvet by Sara Waters and Truly Wilde by Joan Schenkar. The first one was a Dickensian style novel about a girl who works in a fishmonger's house and meets a male impersonator. The second was a biography of Oscar Wilde's niece. I had read reviews of them both, read excerpts of both, and found them well-written and engaging. I didn't know it then, but the technobots at Amazon were clicking and clacking away at my destiny.

The next time I signed in to Amazon, the little banner greeted me, telling me they had recommendations for me, as usual. And what recommendations they were! I could tell by the titles of some of them that they were, as Amazon tags them, definitely lesbian literature, lesbian erotica, and lesbian fiction. All intermixed among my Salem Witch trial book recommendations, classic literature recommendations, nonfiction recommendations, history (mainly Lincoln) recommendations, and my husband's construction and computer book recommendations (Rick uses my Amazon account). Clearly, Amazon and I were having relationship issues. Amazon.com thought I was a lesbian. Or, a lesbian witch carpenter. With a history fixation.

This makes me start wondering about Netflix. Which Rick and I just signed up for about a month or so ago, once he realized that I was going through serious House and Project Runway withdrawal. We sat down together and, since I am the one who is most savvy and current with movies, I started adding movies to our "queue" (which is a fancy schmancy Netflix word for "waiting list." BFD.) We noticed right away an alarming preponderance of George Clooney movies at the top of said queue. Michael Clayton, Syriana, Good Night and Good Luck are like, in the first 5 movies we've rented. So, I'm wondering...Is Netflix going to make assumptions about me based upon what looks like an obsession for George Clooney? Am I going to be inundated with recommendations for the Oceans numerical series? Will I be hounded with offers to queue up the Facts of Life television series? So, I checked in with my Netflix account just to see how judgy it was.

Oh, Netflix. How I love you so!

Netflix doesn't base our relationship on just three flings with George Clooney! NO! It takes into consideration my other ratings, my entire queue, even my moods. It knows my preference for Daniel Day-Lewis and big, epic costume dramas. It even seems to know that it was Rick and not I that queued up Walk the Line and Falling Down, and Netflix isn't holding that against me! It still remembers that we watched and loved Once, and it recommends A Passage to India and Benny and Joon. It remembers that I loved Fast Times at Ridgemont High and laughingly recommends Sixteen Candles. Netflix knows that I'm an 80s girl! Does Netflix remind me that Elizabeth: The Golden Age should soon be in my queue? It is to laugh!

Amazon and I--we have some issues to work out. It's hard to get all my books in hardcover now, and I don't like having to trust someone else. I like sticking with what I know. I'll get it together. But Netflix--it's still got the bloom of a new, exciting relationship. And it's so easy and carefree! We completely understand each other. I think this might last a long, long time.

My Latest Obsession: I Stand Up For Mary Lincoln

"Certainly ill luck presided at my birth--certainly it has been a faithful attendant." --fragment in a letter from Mary Lincoln, November 1869


You would have to look hard in America's history to find a woman more roundly condemned and more valiantly championed, both in her own time and more than a hundred years later, than Mrs. Abraham Lincoln. She was, in many cases, a woman before her time, intensely interested in politics and highly educated, well-versed in banking and real estate, and no stranger to international travel and the ways of European society. She was fluent in French, adept in all social situations when she chose to be, and so charming that her brother-in-law once remarked that she could "make a bishop forget his prayers." True, her moods could be mercurial, but that was to be expected for the "middle child" whose mother died in childbirth when Mary was only 6 1/2.

Her father remarried quickly, too, bringing a cold, distant woman into the house who immediately began on a second family of nine more children. Mary left for boarding school as soon as possible, where she excelled. Soon, she was able to escape permanently to Springfield, Illinois, to her sister's house, where she met and--against her sister's wishes--married Abraham Lincoln. It had not been an easy engagement, however; at one point, they had a 6 month estrangement which proved almost suicidal for Abraham. Due to the intervention of well-meaning friends, they had several meetings and the engagement was salvaged. One year later, their first son Robert was born. Three years later, Edward, who they called "Eddie" was born.

Mary, who believed that homemaking and mothering were the most noble of callings, set about making her home a haven for her children and her often absent husband, whose job took him away from his family. Nineteenth-century housekeeping was brutally hard and nonstop. And the lack of sanitation and refrigeration made illness a constant companion and threat. In 1849, Mary lost both her beloved father, for whom her eldest was named, and her grandmother. At the beginning of the following year, in February, her beloved son Eddie died of "consumption". And Mary went into paroxysms of mourning. In these Victorian times, women were expected to bear up under grief, to accept it as God's will and to be strong. Mary Lincoln never grieved that way, and she was seen as extreme and unchristian for it. She had watched her child of only four years old waste away from sickness for fifty-two days and then die. She could not bear it.

Ten months later, Willie was born. And three years later, Thomas "Tad" Lincoln joined the family. And with Mary's help and ambition, Abraham Lincoln entered the White House in 1861 with the country torn asunder and gave his inaugural address with Federal snipers posted on the top of key buildings in Washington in case any Southern "secesh" should try his luck at taking out the new President.

Already the gossips and newspapers were vilifying First Lady Mary Lincoln, who was born in Kentucky. They speculated about her loyalties. The North accused her of espionage for her rebel family; the South accused her of being a traitor. She read the papers, heard the epithets being thrown at her husband: black ape, tyrant, imbecile, gorilla. She heard of death threats against her husband as well as plots to kidnap him. Her own carriage was tampered with, causing an accident. In 1862, Tad and Willie became gravely ill with typhoid, and Willie died. The day he was buried, a tornado swept through Washington. Mary was overcome with grief, and for three weeks could not move from her bed. The President harbored fears that she had become deranged. Tad, still sickly, seemed unable to regain his health, and the country was locked in a bloody civil war.

Mary had lost two half-brothers to the Civil War, but she dared not mourn them; they fought on the Confederate side. At this time, a new wave of pseudo-science was sweeping the globe: Spiritualism. Mediums claimed they could bridge the chasm between the spirit world and the living. Mary, bereft of her two darlings and overcome with grief, began to attend seances. She convinced her husband to allow a medium to come to the White House. He humored her, and a long interest in Spiritualism followed.

On April 6 or 7 of 1865, Abraham Lincoln confided to his wife that he had an unsettling dream: he had been awakened by the sound of weeping. Wandering through the White House, he came to the East Room where he saw a catafalque on which a coffin rested with a body inside. He asked a nearby soldier, "Who is dead in the White House?" One answered, "The President." On April 14, 1865, Mary Lincoln witnessed the assassination of her husband in the chair next to her.

On May 23, Mary, dressed in the heavy black mourning that she would never, ever give up, finally left the White House. There was no provision made for her residence at the time; no money appropriated. Abraham Lincoln, a lawyer by profession, had died without a will. She and her sons lived in Chicago, for Mary Lincoln could not bear to return to Springfield, a city rife with memories of her beloved husband and their young family's early years together. They lived cheaply, and Mary worried constantly about money. She petitioned Congress for a widow's pension, but her reputation in Washington was sullied by last-days looting of the White House by souvenir hunters and petty thieves. The White House was open to the public in those days, and anything not nailed down or under the watchful eyes of guards was easy pickings. China, silver, draperies, art, even furnishings had disappeared after Lincoln's death. And an astonishing number of Washingtonians blamed Mary Lincoln. Even after some things showed up in private homes or in pawnshops, she was still called a common thief among social circles and in the newspapers.

In 1868, Mary felt defeated. She decided to leave for Europe with Tad. She was in ill health, persecuted, a pariah in her own country, a country that owed its very existence to her husband, the Martyred President. She left for Europe, hoping to take the cure in some of its most recommended health spots. Tad, under the tutelage of a scholar, began to improve in his studies, but soon became homesick after so much continental wandering. In 1871, they boarded ship, but Tad, ever susceptible to illness, caught a cold which developed into pleurisy. Back in Chicago, he worsened and in July, Mary lost her third son. This time, she was able to attend his funeral, but her only remaining child, the distant and very Victorian Robert, left inexplicably less than two weeks later for a Colorado vacation. Mary was left alone.

That fall, the Chicago fire broke out. Fighting smoke and flames, Mary escaped with a few items, losing many valuable letters, papers, and mementos of her husband. She spent the night and part of the next day along the shore of Lake Michigan. After that, she became a continental nomad, wandering Europe and North America, seeking mediums to help her make contact with her beloved Mr. Lincoln and her dead darling boys. She was especially pleased with the picture made by a spiritualist photographer which showed the spirit of her husband hovering behind her, his hands placed protectively upon her shoulders. It would prove to be the last photograph ever taken of her.

In May of 1875, her son Robert had had enough. His mother's constant mood changes, her odd behavior, her shopping sprees and her buying mania were not only embarrassing to him, but were worrisome. No longer could she be termed "eccentric"; she was, since his father's death, literally insane. He convened, secretly, a half-dozen doctors, the majority of whom had never even seen, let alone examined his mother, and presented his evidence. They wholeheartedly agreed: She needed to be confined to protect not only herself but her assets. She might spend herself into the poorhouse. Robert sent a family friend and a guard to collect his mother, who had no choice but to acquiesce with humiliation. The trial was a jury trial, and Mary Lincoln was never called to speak on her own behalf. Indeed, she had no idea until she got there and was told so that Robert was the one who initiated the proceedings. When it was all over, she was declared insane, and was ordered confined to Bellevue Place, a private asylum.

Her stay there was short because Mary Lincoln began an immediate campaign for her release, much to her son's chagrin and dismay. She wrote letters, comported herself admirably, and did not require any restraint or strong medications. She even involved the newspapers, her most hated nemeses, inviting a reporter to visit her at Bellevue and write about his impressions. It was sensational. Entering Bellevue on May 20, she was released on September 11 to the care of her sister Elizabeth in Springfield. By June of the following year, she was declared in court to be "restored to reason." Robert, it must be noted, strongly objected to both the release and to her declaration of full sanity. He did so, however, out of concern for her well-being both times, he continued to reiterate. There is not definitive evidence to the contrary. But Mary Lincoln never forgave him and, at one point, planned to shoot him with a pistol packed away in one of her trunks.

As was her usual habit, Mary Lincoln left for Europe after this battle. But she was forced by continued ill health and loneliness to return in 1880, unable to care for herself. She had fallen and broken her back, weighed now only about 100 pounds, and was nearly blind, a condition actually caused by her excessive weeping. She was unable to bear most light and spent the remaining two years in a darkened room at her sister's home, one of four that she paid rent for. One was a sitting room, one for her bedroom, and two for her sixty-four trunks of possessions, whose combined weight was four tons and caused much concern as to whether the structure of the house could bear it. Mary Todd Lincoln died on July 16, 1882, of a stroke. She would have loved her funeral, held three days later. It was full of flowers and music; the mayor declared it a holiday; thousands lined the streets. Even the newspapers printed a thick black mourning band on their mastheads.

And at the end of it all, Mary Lincoln was laid to rest with her beloved Mr. Lincoln and the rest of her family.

It's My PityParty And I'll Cry If I Want To

"Spring Break"...yeah, right. It's been Winter here forever.

Today, I looked out on our deck and was greeted by the omnipresent glacial pack of icy snow. No, I am not kidding. That damnable slab of snow has been there for a month. I cannot even begin to think of traversing the Arctic tundra that is the backyard to check on the status of the fish, whose pond I have just now seen the surface of. God only knows if any of them have survived. We have reached the giddy heights of 47 degrees one day this week for our high temperature. There has, at least, been sun. Yet, that effing snow has barely ebbed a centimeter. I told Rick last night that by tomorrow, if that goddam snow hasn't disappeared, I'm taking the hose to it if it is the Last Thing I Do. I am at DefCon 5. Or whatever DefCon it is that means stark raving apeshit.

We are in The Snowiest March On Record. We've had two blizzards. Our district is down to only one last Snow Day. I have worn my winter coat every single day. I'm sick of all my sweaters.

I get that it's all a big cheat this year. That Easter is way earlier than usual and that Daylight Saving Time is, too. That we're all jumping the gun.

But, dammit. I'm cold, I'm tired of the cold, and it was supposed to be "Spring Break."

So there!

Pillow Talk From The Marriage Bed

**Scene Opens**

Interior of Rick and Nance's bedroom. They are in bed. As last scene of "Medium" flickers to a close and endless litany of pre-news commercials begins, Nance shifts to pre-sleep comfort position in which she lies on her side facing Rick in fetal position, bony knees jabbing into his side, shins carefully touching him for warmth. Slyly, she slides the remote control onto his chest, thereby abdicating all responsibility for volume, sleep-timing, and anything else television-related should they not make it through the entire newscast. Again.

Rick: (sighs, then suddenly draws his breath in with a sharp gasp as if in pain)

Nance: What!? What!? What did I do?

Rick: (with real effort) Nothing! I have a terrible cramp in my foot! OW!

Nance: Well, geeze! I thought it was something really horrible the way you were acting.

Rick: Nance, this really hurts!

Nance: I'm sorry. I'm sure it does. What should I do?

Rick: It's almost gone now. God! That's just horrible. It would be nice if you would rub my foot.

Nance: (look of revulsion) It's not like you can't just pop down there and reach it yourself.

Rick: (look of pained amusement) I would rub yours, you know. I have rubbed yours. And not because they hurt, either. Just because I'm a nice guy.

Nance: I know, and that's very nice of you. Thank you.

Rick: What if I was dying? What if I was dying, and the only way to save my life was for you to rub my feet? Then what?

Nance: (pause) Then that would be rough. You might die--

Rick: (incredulous, interrupts) You have got to be kidding me! Are you telling me right now that if I was dying--

Nance: (interrupts, calmly) You didn't let me finish. I was going to say if they let me wear gloves or put plastic baggies on my hands, then I would do it. This isn't fair. You know how I hate feet.

Rick: No. No. No plastic bags or gloves. It has to be bare hands or I die. That's just the way it is for some reason. Now what?

Nance: (pause) Now you're just making shit up to piss me off. I would try probably. I would try, but you might die. There. Why do you insist on making me say things that just end up hurting you in the long run. Now turn off the tv and go to sleep. We've missed the weather.

**End Scene**

If There's Such A Thing As Reincarnation, I'm Coming Back As One Of This Guy's Cows

Certainly, things looked bleak for bovines after horrific videotapes were released showing the brutal treatment of so-called "downer cows" at the Westland/Hallmark Meat Packing Co. in Chino, California. Thankfully, our local NBC affiliate gave ample warning with regard to the content, and I was able to look away, but Rick and many friends relayed to me their savage and inhumane content. Poor animals!

Happily, the suffering of those cows is not the lot of all cattle. Let me tell you, all Bossies should be as blissful as the cud-chewers hanging out at the farm of one Bill Timmons of Geauga County, Ohio! This is a man who has a soft spot in his big farmer's heart for his dairy cows. And, as a result, not only do I heart Bill Timmons, but so does his harem of lovely Holstein ladies. They've upped their milk production by more than twenty percent. Why? you may ask.

Waterbeds.

Oh, yes. You read me right: waterbeds. Timmons installed 200 of them, and the herd is happy. Ideally, a cow should spend about 12-14 hours a day lying down, chewing its cud, stimulating blood flow to the udder, making milk. Most pastures and stalls just don't provide the optimum comfort that encourages Her Highness to recline and do that. But these new bovine waterbeds, designed in the UK and recently introduced to the States, do. They're made of a tough rubber hide and contain only 14 gallons of water, so they're more of a water mattress. But they cushion the cow, provide comfort, and do not irritate the skin or the udder. "Research shows that the mattresses help keep the cows healthy, limiting hock swelling and knee and thigh scratches," said Temple Grandin, an animal-welfare expert and professor at Colorado State University.

Advance Comfort Technology, Inc. is the lone North American producer of the cow waterbed. Their website boasts the many features of its product, the least of which may not be that it is flexible, thus preventing manure buildup. I know I'm sold.

And so is Timmons. He spent $40K rehabbing his barn into a Bovine Boudoir, and he thinks it's been worth every penny in increased moo-juice production. "You take care of them and they'll take care of you," he said of his contented Dairy Queens. What a guy.

On Lying

In the book To Kill a Mockingbird, Scout sagely observes, "one must lie under certain circumstances and at all times when one can't do anything about them." That kind of lying is no fun, and is what I term "Survival Lying." It's the kind of prevaricating we invariably practice out of kindness to our mothers, in tolerance of our in-laws, and with sheer instinct for our children. Serious business, that kind of lying. How many times have you said outrageous untruths in emergency rooms, seriously minimizing the level of pain or the number of stitches? How many times have you told your mother that "it's no trouble at all?" And the in-laws...grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Then there's the fun kind of lying--what I call "Recreational Lying." This is really best done with children, of course, because they are most gullible. (Certainly, if you have some of your own, this is easier and safer.) Often, when the boys were little and we would go out to dinner I would lie to Jared and Sam about the status of their meals. They were usually hungry and a little impatient, so after several minutes, one of them would say, "Mom, how much longer?" I would say, "Oh, I forgot to tell you! A little bit ago, a big dog sneaked into the kitchen and ate up your dinner! They have to start all over." Or, if I heard a loud noise, I'd immediately turn to one of them and say, "Sounds like they dropped your dinner and now they have to start all over!" After a while, naturally, that would get old, so I'd have to be more inventive. I would excuse myself and go to the restroom or wander over to another area of the restaurant, then return and tell one of them that I'd overheard one of the waiters talking about how they'd run out of whatever one of the boys had ordered and that they'd had to send a member of the kitchen staff to the grocery store to get more. I know it sounds mean, but really, after they'd look very tragic, I'd assure them I was kidding, and then they were so grateful that they'd be thrilled when their dinner was out sooner.

And you'd be surprised how often and how long they fell for it.

Then, there's a whole other genre of lying that's kind of gender-based. You know, Chick Lying. Don't make me flash my Feminist Card! You know what I'm talking about, and you know I'm telling the truth! Women lie about Certain Things, and that's just The Way It Is.

1. Weight. I will always tell the truth about my pants size and my dress size and my shoe size, but there is no effin' way I will ever tell you my weight. When I was heavy, I lied. Now that I'm a size 2, I will still lie if anyone dares ask me. And when I was in trouble with Dr. Doogie for being way too thin, I lied the other way and told people I was heavier than I was. It's a thing.

2. Recipes. Oh, sure, I'll give you the recipe. But not The Real Recipe The Way I Actually Make It. Because I don't really follow it. Because I don't really measure. And because if I give you The Recipe, then you can make it too and mine won't be special and wonderful and in demand and then maybe I won't be, either.

Those are the two Chick Things I lie about. There are other Chick Things to lie about, I know. Some women lie about age; I don't. Hey, I'm in public education--every year is a victory. I am often accused of lying about coloring my hair. I don't. I'm fortunate enough to have inherited the Slow-Greying Gene from my dad. If you are close to me, you can see the grey hairs; they are definitely there. Will I ever dye my hair? I'm vain enough to know better than to say no. I'm hoping to grey in a very stylish way so that I won't have to because A) I'm cheap and B) I'm lazy. The upkeep would kill me. But my natural color is very, very dark. Grey hair is not. Sigh.

Do I have to even mention Guy Lying? They're just not good at it. They're all over the place, too. No specialization. Reminds me of the republicans.

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.