Again, I Offer My Expertise To Settle Matters Once And For All, And Pandas Are Involved

Apparently, we do have to worry about them after all.

Oh, I know that the President assured us that we don't, and even I didn't believe that Quitter From Alaska when she started frothing about them on her TwitFace page, but after reading this article on MSNBC.com, I am frantic!

I am, of course, talking about Death Panels.

Death Panels For Pandas.

British naturalist and BBC personality Chris Packham seems to think that preserving the panda, whose population numbers less than 2000 currently worldwide, is simply not worth the effort anymore. "It's not a strong species...and we pour millions of pounds into panda conservation," he said. "I reckon we should pull the plug. Let them go with a degree of dignity." Packham realizes that his Panda Plan will probably not catch on, however, because the panda is "big and cute and it's the symbol of the WWF." He would rather see funds allocated to other species which have a better chance at survival.

Wow, Mr. Chris Packham. Harsh. Let me just go on record here and state my overarching bias: I am pro-panda. And I am not ashamed to say it. I AM ALL ABOUT PANDAS. PRIMARILY BECAUSE THEY ARE CUTE.

And here is the deal, Mr. Chris Packham--and others--I will be more than happy to advocate for pandas based solely upon that reason. Period. So there. As a matter of fact, I will sit on your Endangered Species Death Panel right now and take a look at the entire freaking list of animals and decide who gets to stick around and who doesn't based entirely upon cuteness.
For those of you who wish to play along, here is the link, complete with pictures.

Okay, first of all, you can eliminate all bugs. That part is easy. No bugs. Bug Lovers out there, save your breath. You will never win me over. Butterflies do not count as a bug. Entomologists, please do not try to tell me the exact definition of "bug." Don't care.

Now, here is my list of animals that get to stay merely because of Cuteness. Oh, sure, there may be other reasons for animals to stay, but these are the ones I'm saving with my Expertise In The Field Of Cuteness.

CUTE ANIMALS TO SAVE

1. Black-eared mantella frog

2. Fergusson Island striped possum

3. Caspian seal

4. Banteng (because it looks like a cow!)

5. Red panda

6. Galapagos penguin

7. Shoebill

8. African penguin

9. Sun bear

10. Madagascan gecko

11. Nectophrynoides viviparus frog

12. Channel Islands fox

13. Corroborree Frog

14. Crowned sifaka lemur

15. Harlequin frog

16. Blue poison frog

17. Polar bear

18. Abbot's Booby

Okay. That last one is just because the name is cute. And I realized as I was looking through these poor, endangered critters that I am heavily Anti-Snake. And also not too Fish Sympathetic, either.

And that we are saving a lot of ugly animals.

Which is fine, really. Everything has its place in the Circle of Life. Even Mr. Chris Peckham, naturalist and BBC personality, who is also president of Britain's Bat Conservation Trust (and I am showing a ton of restraint here).

The Airing Of Grievances: An Early Festivus Celebration, Thanks To A Centipede In The Bathtub And David Gregory

Sunday nights are my traditional Soaky Bath Nights. I like to climb into a nice, hot tubby and just unwind and try not to think about another week at The Rock. Tonight, though, I pulled aside the shower curtain and got an unpleasant surprise. Skittering away from the light was a large, ugly thousand-legger. Uncharacteristically, I got all Girly and did one of those high-pitched in-the-throat screams that caused Jared to come running. He dispatched it immediately, and I got a quick idea for tonight's blogpost because seeing that hideous thing come crawling out from under its unknown hiding place made an immediate connection in my mind to another, one Rep. Joe Wilson (his poor mother!) on Wednesday evening, but I'll get to that.

It all started with yet another regrettable viewing of what passes for Meet the Press, but you and I know it is now just a thin shadow of that fine program. So, I'm channeling my inner Frank Costanza and invoking an early Festivus Tradition. To use his words: "The tradition of Festivus begins with the airing of grievances. I got a lot of problems with you people! And now you're gonna hear about it!"

I'm starting with David Gregory. I know. I already broke up with him once. But it apparently didn't take. I keep tuning in to MTP hoping that things will change and that he will come back to me. They haven't and he won't. So, David Gregory, listen up. I've had it with you, once and for all. You have single-handedly destroyed Meet the Press with your obvious bias and your badgering and your rudeness. You keep asking the same questions over and over and over again because you already have in your cocoon the answer you want to hear. Do you know why you have so many panels on your show, David? It's because NO ONE WANTS TO DO YOUR SHOW. Today on MTP, David said this, "I was talking to some people about their concerns...." Oh, David. You and I both know that has to be bullshit. You don't know any "people." And anyone you know who has "concerns" places them under the heading of Where to find good help these days or Get a pool guy who has papers or New Blackberry time? Please.

Next up is a guest on MTP today, some guy named Joshua Cooper Ramo who wrote a book. Please do not run out and buy it because if what this guy said is any indication of its content, you will be wasting your hard-earned cash. Here is a massive quote from Mr. Ramo: "You've got to have some really imaginative approach here that says we're going to change what it means to be unemployed in America." Okay. Mr. JC Ramo, it's your turn. What the HELL DOES THAT MEAN? Will that be like calling housewives "domestic goddesses?" Are we talking semantics here? Shall we just use new terminology for unemployment in order to make all the people without jobs feel better, like when we stopped calling people "handicapped" and started calling them disabled, or for a while there, "physically challenged?" Or, hey! Let's call this massive unemployment "National Vacation!" How about "Employment Hiatus?" Is that better? Mr. Ramo, being unemployed in America means what it always means: Americans do not have jobs. Ergo, American families do not have sufficient health care, sufficient money to pay for gas, food, insurance, and other bills. Lying on your back and looking at cloud shapes for duckies and bunnies isn't going to make it any better. Good luck with those book sales.

And, holy crap, do not get me started with Erin Burnett, who once said on MTP when asked how the stock market might react to President Obama's latest whatever, "It may go up or it may go down. It all depends." Wow. See above comments re: Panel Guests.

Remember, I told you I'd get back to Rep. Joe Wilson, aka The Face/Voice of The republican Party. Where do I even begin? No matter how hard they look--and they still are--the republicans will never find precedent for the disrespectful display put on by a member of their party during the President's speech last week. Newt (I'm Suddenly Everywhere) Gingrich tried lobbing a softball on MTP by mentioning "hearing boos" directed at The Angel of Death back in 2005 or something, but come on! Rep. Wilson, I have a few things to take up with you, and I hope your poor mother will forgive me. Did any Democrat ever call out any President a liar to his face on the floor of Congress, ever? Did anyone, ever? Until last week, the answer was no. You know, it's not lost on me (nor any other Thinking Individual, I'm sure) that it was you republicans who made a big effing deal about This President not being respectful enough of The Office to wear a suit coat in the Oval! Now we've got you, a republican who thinks it's just fine to call out the President of the United States as a liar in front of both Houses of Congress, not apologize until his party leadership told him to, and maintains that he is done apologizing, so there. Is this really what you envisioned for yourself?

Finally, it amazes me that so many people are, in a word, insane and completely inhabiting an Alternate Universe. They are screaming at town halls and sending psychotic emails and pretending to be patriots--er, excuse me--Patriots at so-called "tea party events" at which they say things that sound positively surreal. For example, in one poll 39% of respondents believed that the government should stay out of Medicare. Huh? These people are the same people who are forgetting that the current president inherited a big effing mess. To all of those people, I have to say this: "While Bush was in office, the median household income declined, poverty increased, childhood poverty increased even more, and the number of Americans without health insurance spiked. By contrast, the country's condition improved on each of those measures during Bill Clinton's two terms, often substantially." That's not Socialism, Nazism, or any other -ism. That's from the US Census Bureau. No one can fix everything in a few months, and it's obvious that you are nuts. Period. Now get back on your little scooters that the government is paying for, be careful that you don't shoot yourselves with your guns you bought at WalMart, and go home. Stop listening to the radio and go back to listening to your police scanner and looking for UFOs. Aren't you missing "Wheel of Fortune" or something?

One of the traditions of Festivus is the Festivus Miracle. I'd like to see one; I really would. Here is my idea of a Festivus Miracle: The republicans have styled themselves as the Christian/God Party, yet they seem almost phobic about the idea of helping those less fortunate. They cringe at the idea of a public option in health care; they become incensed that an "illegal" might sneak into an emergency room and get stitches. Don't they know that reference in Matthew where Jesus reminds them that what they do for the least of their brothers, they do unto Him? I'd like to see the republicans remember that. Just once. That's My Festivus Miracle.

Over-herd At The Most Recent Staff Meeting...

Friday was a teacher inservice day, and it started off with a big meeting for the entire staff. Our school is huge: my department alone has 18 teachers. Staff meetings, therefore, sometimes turn into impromptu social events wherein teachers whose schedules and the imposing physical plant of the building would normally prohibit it finally get an opportunity to reconnect. The result is a Delicious Irony. We teachers exhibit the undesirable classroom behaviors of our students. We talk during some presentations, we pass notes, we send text messages, we work on other things, we go hang out in the bathroom during the boring stuff.

And so it came to pass that on Friday, the following conversation occurred at my table during the General Staff Meeting:

Nance: Did you do anything over last weekend? Did you go to your lake condo?
Linda: Oh, god. I had so much crap to do. You know? Did you do anything?
Nance: We went to the Fair. Did you go? Oh my god. I saw the cutest cows. I had to be physically restrained. I mean it. I am more determined than ever to have one.
Linda: Have what? A cow? Are you serious? Like when? Are you being completely serious?
Roger: (leaning in, rolling eyes) Are you still talking about this? Linda, Nance is getting a cow for a pet when she retires.
Nance: (indignant) I don't know why you say it like that. I love cows. I always have. Rick is completely on board with getting a cow.
Roger: Somehow, I don't see cow maintenance coming from you.
Pam: Will you be going out to the barn in your heels?
Linda: You're serious about this. A cow. You've thought about this, I take it.
Nance: Oh, yes. And now that they've begun breeding mini-cows, it's even more ideal.

Roger: Cows are dirty. They roll around in mud, they crap a lot, they--

Nance: That's not true! They don't have to be dirty! Cows enjoy a nice bath; they do! Unlike dogs, cows can be bathed daily. I'll have a nice, clean little cow!

Pam: I like cows. But--

Nance: See! See! Oh, I do too!

Pam: --but I've never wanted to own one.

Linda: Why not just get a dog, Nance?

Nance: Dogs are too worky. You have to feed them, walk them, play with them. All that crap. Besides, we had Sam's dog with us for a while. Linda--it ate a door. Okay? NO DOGS.

Linda: Get a chihuahua. Like my dog. I swear, it's like a purse. You just sling it over your arm and carry it around. Really.

Nance: Huh? Then just get a purse. I want a cow.

Roger: There is no way you can sling around a bale of hay or straw and haul manure. No way. Look at you. Poor Rick. Rick is getting this cow. (shakes head.)

Nance: You know, Roger. I am so tired of this "poor Rick" crap from you all of the time. I'm not holding Rick hostage in this marriage, you know. There's no gun to his head. Like he has it so bad! Hmpf.

Linda: (squints at principal at lectern in front of room) What did he just say? What about semester finals?

Nance: He changed the days. Here, write this down...(recites new exam schedule) Will you email me that? I'll never remember it.

Linda: Sure. So you're serious about this whole cow thing, huh?

Nance: Of course.

Roger: Ask her the name. Go on.

Linda: Bossy? Elsie?

Pam: What is it? What's the cow name?

Nance: Velveeta.

Watching And Thinking About Blueberries

On Saturday and Sunday mornings I wake up relatively early, by about 8 A.M. I make my coffee, grab my beloved Plain Dealer from the front porch, and sit on the end of the couch to read it in the quiet. From my perch, I can also glance outside my front windows and survey the neighborhood, which is usually absent of any activity.

For the past several months, however, I have been on Tish Watch. I anxiously wait for her big silver Buick to pull up into her driveway across the street. I am hopeful that, this time when she climbs the front steps and goes into her house, it will be to stay. Thus far, I remain disappointed.

Tish and Barrington Cash--I am using aliases, of course--owned the white Georgian-styled house across the street from us when we moved in 25 years ago. We were at least half their age then: she had been Rick's kindergarten teacher! Members of our town's elite, they were part of the Country Club Set, "had money," and had standing golf dates every weekend. She never called her husband "Barry"--always referred to him as "Barrington." They wintered in Florida, the neighbor did their yardwork, and they always drove a huge Buick that almost skimmed the sides of their absurdly small garage.

When we moved in with Jared as a baby of four months old, Tish walked across the street at some point to welcome us. She carried in her hands two pints of fresh blueberries. "I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood!" she said brightly, and smiled brilliantly. "I know that a pie is customary, but I don't bake. But here are some lovely blueberries. You can bake your own!" And she laughed, made a fuss over the baby, and then talked about having had my husband in kindergarten--how very quiet and shy he had been. "He never, ever talked!" she said. "I had to call his mother and ask if he even knew how!" After a few more pleasantries, she stepped back across the street and that was pretty much it.

But we were cordial and neighborly. We waved, said hello, offered important information as needed about neighborhood things. She was kind to our children always. We watched in amusement the comings and goings of Tish and Barrington's high class friends and their many golf outings. We knew when they left each late fall for Florida, and we could tell by instinct each spring when they'd be back.

Then came the terrible summer when Barrington had his heart attack. Tish was back and forth to the hospital alone. And then she was all alone, period. We wondered what would happen. Would she stay at home in that big house? Would she move in with her married child, who lived nearby? We did not presume upon a relationship that we did not have. We worried from across the street, but if Tish had asked for our help, we would gladly have given it.

Little by little, Tish resumed her old life, but without Barrington. She lost weight dreadfully, but old friends showed up in her driveway to take her out to the golf course and to brunches and to dinner. The lights flickered on and off in her house across the street, and her big silver car began to pull in and out of the driveway regularly again. After a modest period, gentlemen even began to visit. Rick and I would smile and say, "Wonder if Tish is having a little spend-over tonight?" My heart would gladden every time I'd see her stroll around her yard and inspect her bushes and the flowerpots on her front steps. Pretty soon, I stopped glancing over across the street. Things were going to be all right.

But this past spring, our street had a major water project done on it and all of our driveways were affected. I suddenly noticed that I hadn't seen Tish pull in or out of hers for quite some time. Maybe she's stayed in Florida a while longer this year, I reasoned. The weather has been hideous. But May and June came and went, and there had been no activity across the street whatsoever. Our neighborhood has changed so much that there was no one on our street to ask, either. I started to keep my vigil.

Finally, one morning, a concrete crew showed up. Tish was getting a brand new driveway, it seemed. I despaired. Was her house going up for sale? What was happening? Is she okay? A few days later, her children showed up to inspect the work. A few days after that, Tish herself arrived. I anxiously watched as she pulled up, then got out of her car. She seemed to be moving about all right. She walked up the front steps without any difficulty, it looked to me. She went inside. After several moments she came outside, got into her car, and left. I was gratified that she was all right--that she seemed to be healthy and, since she was able to drive, still herself. But why isn't she at home?

And so it has continued to this day although her visits to her home are more frequent. You probably wonder why I am so interested; wonder if I have too much time on my hands, or if I am one of those nosy neighbors who should mind her own damn business.

Quite simply, I have an awful lot invested in Tish. She is me. I am rooting for her because she is what I hope I would be like under those circumstances. That I would be able to come back home, live on my own, pick up my life, and go on. That I would live independently and well, and that I would be okay...or even better than okay.

I need her to come home soon. And when she does, I am taking her a fresh, homemade blueberry pie.

Is Anybody Out There? Anybody At All?

Let me just say one thing right off the bat: I am operating under a whole new Priority System here. Priority One--remain vertical. Priority Two--maintain coherence. Priority Three--remember how it used to be and use that for incentive.

I can no longer count higher than three, nor can I remember anything more complex than three things at a time.

It was...exhausting last week. Trying to teach in 90+ degree heat was taxing enough, but add the noise of heavy construction vehicles about thirty feet away; the fatal shootings of two students in the neighborhood after hours; constantly changing class rosters (which means that no gradebook or attendance can be accurately kept yet); schoolwide picture day (students are walked down to be photographed from English classes, of course); a fire drill; heightened alert because of widespread text messaging that there would be retaliatory shootings at the school; and we are running at over 2200 students with more adding every day.
Friday could not come soon enough. Today was the first day I could scrape myself into some sort of coalesced blob capable of cogent thought and return to this space to explain myself.

So...hello!

Having said all of that, let's not talk about it anymore. I'm all fired up about other stuff, and before I can't sit up straight any longer, I want to share.

But first, Thank You, Brian Williams, for taking a nice vacation this past week. Your timing is impeccable. There is no possible way I could have even focused on your tie, let alone verbally embroidered a Tie Report a single solitary day. Naturally, this made a severely negative impact upon my Sitemeter, but honestly, big effing deal. It's not like the Jay Leno Show ever called me back or that each hit means ten thousand dollars. Feh.

A bigger hero in my life right now is Barney Frank. If the Dept. Of Nance was a television show, I would be all over myself booking him as my sole guest. Period. Forever. Right now, I am declaring him as my Smackdown The Stupid Mascot. Please tell me that you saw this wonderful performance by Congressman Frank of Massachussetts, in which he did what every single intelligent human being should do when confronted by these moronic shills for the Party of No when they start obfuscating the issue of healthcare reform with their baseless scare tactics. Why even begin to talk to these people? As far as I'm concerned, no more "Town Halls." It's clear that the Lunatic Limbaughean Fringe have co-opted these once vibrant and legitimate venues for sane discourse and turned them into the equivalent of a coffee klatch for kooks and crazy-peddlers. Self-respecting public servants, republican and Democratic alike, should simply say, "That's it. I am no longer disrespecting my office and my true constituency by appearing at these media feeding frenzies. My people know how to reach me to air their concerns. I anxiously await their feedback regarding healthcare via letter, phonecall, or comments via my website. I am eager to serve them, as I was elected to do, without media interference in this important debate." What a lot of bullshit.

And while I'm at it, I have a little message for President Obama, and this it is: BE THE LEADER. This sort of laid-back, make-nice, No Drama Obama is exactly what I was afraid of. You don't take a bigass thing like Health Care Reform and a nest of Pit Vipers like the sore loser republicans and say, "Okay, everybody, take a whack at this and see what you come up with and get back to me later. I'll see what I think and take it from there." Are you kidding me? THE REPUBLICANS WANT YOU TO FAIL SO THAT THEY CAN TAKE BACK A MAJORITY IN THE MIDTERMS. They don't care what you fail at, as long as it's something big. They don't care if it fucks up the entire country, either. They already did that, remember? Do you see them caring? Dear Barack--Come back from vacation early and smack some people around. Call in the Blue Dogs and remind them who is the President. And you'd better call in Howard Dean and have a conversation that matters. It's way past time for Big Talking with Big People. --Signed, Me, One of Those Who Had the Audacity to Hope for Change. Now bring it!

Another reason I thought I was in Hell this week--Two people who are still in the news and I still don't understand why: the hapless woman with eleventy billion children, the Octomother and the revered singer who died two months ago, MJ. (Can you tell I'm trying not to actually mention their names and add to their google hits?) How slow is the news, really, that these individuals are still part of it?

And, finally, come on--Brett Favre. Again. This "I'm retired--just kidding" bullshit is getting old. I hated it with Magic Johnson and, as a Cleveland Cavaliers fan, you know I hated it with Michael Jordan. Add to that the fact that fans and sportscasters alike act as if Favre is, well, a deity in a facemask just makes me sick. So, for those of you who need a reminder one more time, here. And, just so you know: once I retire, I will stay retired!

My vow to you.

In Which I Pathetically Beg For Sympathy

Just a brief word to let you know that (insert heavy sigh) I've already started back at The Rock. I know--so early. Tell me about it. Not my choice, believe me. But we are all Victims Of The New School Construction Schedule. Pawns, as it were, of The Master Building Plan. I am surrounded by scaffolding, dust, noise, and hardhatters. What, didn't I tell you? The New School is being built on site around our existing school as we are conducting school.

Because That's How We Roll.

Oh, and the forecast for Monday, our first day with students? As usual, 91 degrees, sunny, high humidity. Whether or not I can even have windows open remains to be seen.

All of which is to say, this space may be static for a time. Pity me.

Oh, pity me.

Time Flies When You're Having A Super Time: The Dept. Turns 4 And Feels Fantastic

Dear readers, a few days ago An Auspicious Occasion sneaked right up and subsequently passed me by unnoticed and without commemoration by anyone, even the vast web of the Internets. On August 6th, the Dept. of Nance turned four!

And They said it wouldn't last. Ha!

Though I have not become a Blogging Success Story with a book deal and appearances on a myriad of television shows, my foray into the online writing world has been pretty much what I'd looked for when I set out on August 6th, 2005: I wanted to practice what I preach to my creative writing classes, that writers write. I wanted to see if I had the discipline to stick with writing on a pretty regular basis. I wanted to toss my views out there and see if anyone wanted to talk about them with me. I wanted to improve my own writing style and skills in order to keep my voice fresh.
It's been fun, and I've been happy with what I've published here.

In honor of the Dept.'s Fourth Birthday, I've settled on the theme of The Fantastic Four. I'll choose four representative posts from each of the four years and link back to them, based upon the character from the Marvel Comic series. Hope you enjoy this retrospective, and, if you're a new reader to the Dept., then you're getting...five posts in one!

Are you lucky, or what?

Mr. Fantastic--The leader and smartypants of the group, he can stretch his body into incredible lengths and shapes. In this post about Christmas falling on a Sunday in 2005, I took a big risk for a new blogger looking for a readership when I smacked around the hypocrisy of right-wing fundamentalist religious zealots. Honestly, I think it is smart. But it was a big stretch for me as I tried to find my niche.

Invisible Woman--She can bend light around her body, rendering herself invisible while generating powerful force fields. Boy oh boy, did I ever feel like my blog was doing this while I waited for comments to start appearing. So frustrating! But in 2006, I finally saw comments begin, and some posts' comments even broke into the double-digits. I have a feeling about why this post got so much traffic, though. The title and the illustration, though, may have rendered my actual writing...well, invisible. Sigh.

Human Torch--This superhero can fly while surrounded by self-generated flames. In the words of that great 21st century philosopher and heiress, P. Hilton, "That's hot." (Sorry. That hurt me just as much as it did you. What I do for laughs....) Anyway, in 2007, I got all fired up about what, exactly, the Dept. of Nance would do if it were, in fact, an actual Government Department. This post outlined very clearly what I would require and where my agenda would begin. It is my strenuous opinion that I am still greatly needed in Washington, D.C. I can start immediately.

Thing--this is the odd-looking being who possesses superhuman strength and endurance, due mostly to his organic stone-encrusted flesh. (Okay, yuck. Isn't there a really good lab-created moisturizer for that? I'm just saying.) Longtime readers here know that I routinely explore/exploit a few themes, those things which consistently irk and irritate me. This post is representative of those bothersome bugbears which I am doomed to perpetually endure and thereby lament every so often in this forum.

A word: I think the downside of being a Longevity Blogger is that perhaps newer readers never see some fun, good stuff I wrote back in the earlier days. That's one of the reasons I included the LinkWithin widget at the end of each post although it doesn't crawl very deeply into my archives, and to be honest, I'm befuddled at the so-called relationship it finds between the existing post and the past three it suggests.

So to celebrate my own 4th birthday, I'm going to start randomly grabbing an archival post from other bloggers' sites and read something from their Time Troves. I think it could be...well, Fantastic.

...And Don't Say, "Blueberries" Because They Really Aren't Blue, They're Purple. Think About It.

What is with all this blue crap around to eat and drink? Blue Kool-Aid, blue cotton candy, blue gum, blue Jell-O, even. It's hideous. The final straw for me in this whole Blue Coup was the introduction of the blue M&M. I blogged about that indignity back in 2006, and I still hate how the blue M&M has screwed up the aesthetics of the basic M&M collection.

It's not that I have anything inherently against blue. In general, I'm cool with blue. (I used to have a nice blue bathroom.) But when it comes to food and drink, let's leave blue out of it. It's just not natural. There is no organically blue food.

Tons of weightloss research (now there's a pun!) has been done regarding the effect of blue; it's no accident that blue is off-putting to the appetite. Of grownups. Kids and teens, however, go ga-ga over blue stuff. Witness how popular blue sports drinks are. I've noticed in my own classroom how often students bring in blue drinks, even when there is the aftereffect of a blue tongue. Years ago, I started my own campaign with a very dire warning:

Me: Hey. You need to stop drinking that blue crap. All blue crap.
Kid: Why?
Me: What if someone switched it up and gave you Windex? You wouldn't know it until it was too late. Then you'd really be in trouble.
Kid: Wha--Oh, Mrs. D. You so crazy.

Whatever! Guess what happened?

Oh, just this, and I quote from the lead paragraph: "Ten children at a day care center drank windshield wiper fluid after a staffer served it from a container mistaken for Kool-Aid and placed in a refrigerator." Guess what color it was? BLUE! Each of the tots drank about an ounce of the toxin before realizing that it "tasted funny," according to another source.

An isolated incident of sheer stupidity that could never, ever happen again? HA! If only! Guess what is now banned at the Sedgwick County Zoo in Kansas. Blue Sno-Cones. Now guess why. Because an employee put blue degreaser on the treats instead of blue sugar syrup. According to the story, "A Sedgwick County Zoo employee could not tell the difference between the two and it nearly made four people sick."

I have, I believe, more than made my point.

Only to be foiled by my boyfriend, CNN.com. Fie on you, CNN.com. Fie on you for posting this story--and its adorable accompanying photo.
If you look closely at this little mousie, you will notice something unusual about it. Its tiny ears and paws are...blue. Blue from its Miracle Drug Treatment of...M&M Blue. Sigh. Yep. Scientists have found that the same dye that makes blue Gatorade and M&Ms (Brilliant Blue G) has a valuable therapeutic effect in the treatment of spinal cord injury when tested on laboratory mice. So far, the only side effect is the temporary blue discoloration. Which is, dammit, cute. On a mouse, at least, although if a person were to turn blue, then probably not cute. At all.

But let's leave blue in the science labs and cleaning products where it belongs. Let's not mix it in with the groceries and candy stores and concession stands, okay? Can we agree on that?

I'm Not A Fan Of Blue Food. Blue Medicine, of course. And Blue Pets...now that might be a Blue Innovation I can get behind. Temporarily.

If You Are Ever Invited To Dinner At The Dept., You May Want To Read This First

Research on the benefits of the Family Dinner is exhaustive and well-known. I don't need the facts, thank you. I live them. I've always insisted on all of us eating together; even now, when everyone's work schedules permit, my boys are seated with us at the table for food and chatter.

Dinner at the Dept. is a family affair and the topics discussed are...well, depending upon the events of the day and the moods of the attendees, wide-ranging. If wine is served, there is a good chance that, as the conviviality increases, so does the absurdity or the grandiosity of the discourse. The veracity of The Baked Potato Incident may or may not be examined. Again.

It is not uncommon for us to hammer out the NBA's mid-level exception and how it applies to the Cleveland Cavaliers this season (or whose Bird rights we have) and then switch to our favorite Agree To Disagreement over the Merits Of The Semicolon.

Perhaps fueled by our academic differences, Jared will fire his second-favorite salvo which has become this:
Jared: American History is boring and stupid.
Me: How can you say that? You are an idiot.
Jared: Mom. Look at the American Revolution.
Me: What about it? What a stupid, broad, idiotic statement that says absolutely nothing.
Jared: Mom. In the French Revolution, people lost their fucking HEADS! In the American Revolution, some tea got wet.
Me: Jared, now you're just picking a fight, and you know it. Way more than that happened. Look at--
Jared: Mom. Take Vlad the Impaler in 15th century Romania. He impaled 20,000 people. That's some serious shit right there.
Me: Oh shut up. Give me a napkin. Rick?
Rick: Jared, shut up and give your mother a napkin.
Sam: I bet I can fit the end of the pepper grinder in my nose-hole.
Me: Okay, go ahead! Just make sure you wipe it off.

Sadly, that last part is one of the more intriguing little diversions we have at the Dept. Dinner Table. None of us is entirely sure when Sam started testing the boundaries and flexibility of his nostrils or why it was that he decided to do it at dinner, but it makes for some pretty impressive entertainment. Usually, Jared prompts it, either by talking about something that bores Sam or by spying something he thinks will or will not fit in Sam's "nose-hole." Yes, it's borderline gross; yes, it's pretty inappropriate for Most People At The Dinner Table. But, no, he's never gotten anything stuck "in there" and no, we are not Most People.

Not too long ago, Jared offered up this topic for discussion: If you could have dinner with 3 people, who would they be? We all had a few minutes to think, and Rick went first. He promptly stole two of my three people, and I wanted to smack him really, really hard. He chose President Bill Clinton, Tom Brokaw and Warren Buffett. I did what any other sore loser would do in that situation. I changed the rules. I said, "Okay. What three people now dead would you choose? Me first!" I immediately chose President Lincoln, Mary Lincoln...and then I was temporarily stumped. Jared and Rick started jeering at me, but I kept my face immobile and inscrutable as I gave the appearance of merely pausing for a coup de grace. I took a deep breath and delivered it: "Edgar Allan Poe." And then I waited for the Laurels Of Admiration to flutter upon me.

"Wow. Solid pick," said Jared admiringly. As well he should. When will he--all of them, really--learn Not To Screw With Me?

"A" Is For Avocado, "B" Is For BFF, "C" Is For Cellphone, And "F" Is For Effing Favicon And "DE" Bane Of My Existence Lately

Sigh. You all deserve so very much better, but I'm mired in Malaise and stuck for a post. If you let me knock out some of the Mind Mould, I promise that I'll deliver up better very soon. If not, then skip over to V's place where there is doubtless something far more cerebral and wonderful and come back later.

Having a...well...let's just say more sedentary summer has made me OCD, I think. I get a little Project Worm in my head and I work it and work it and work it until it makes me insane. Case In Point: this goddam favicon bullshit. I currently have eleventy bits of code in my template that are supposed to put a little martini in the address bar rather than that hideous orange "B" emblem when you bring up the dept. But none of them works. I have read eleventy billion websites, all trumpeting that they are The One with the Easy Foolproof Way. Then I find techy websites that tell me that Internet Explorer 7 (aka "The Great Satan") has a glitch that effs around with favicons and that I have to include a workaround. Yet...there are tons of favicons on tons of sites that I, who employ IE7, see just fine. I have tried Everything. Nothing works. I keep saying, "That's it. Forget it. Just walk away from the keyboard and delete all the sites you have added to your favorites that discuss it. STOP TORTURING YOURSELF OVER SOMETHING SO MEANINGLESS." But I keep screwing around with it. Why? I wish someone would just whisk into my life, do it easily, and put me out of my misery. Failing that, just shoot me.

Last week, the Sunday adverts started already with their Back to S-word sales. ALREADY! Now, it's not that I'm having such a wonderful summer. But it's still summer. It's bad enough that our school is starting back two weeks earlier than every other school in the district due to construction scheduling. Why rub it in, Target and Walgreens and, well...you all know who you are!

Right now, I am wearing fleece pants and my Wigwam socks. The calendar says summer but the weather says, "Screw you, Nance. Your nose is still as cold as a big old Labrador's." These cool nights and days are not so good for my tomatoes, either. As in, what tomatoes?

Another summer obsession--besides endlessly and fruitlessly tweaking my blogs--making and eating guacamole. Why was I never informed of the existence of this wonderful food during my earlier years? The only "avocado" I was aware of was the hideous shade of green during the 1970s that my mother, a fan of the Early American decor craze, insisted upon using to a fault in our living room. My only bitch about avocados (besides their cost) is that they zip through the perfect ripeness stage far too quickly. The Window Of Opportunity with avocados is painfully brief. Please refrain from telling me the caloric damage I am incurring with guacamole. My butt already did.

Rick renewed our cellphone plan which upgraded our phones. This caused me a considerable amount of stress. As you may recall, I am not a fan of cellphones, even my own, and rarely use it. I therefore had a difficult time realizing when it was my own that was ringing. To simplify my life, I set my ringtone to a Christmas carol (Joy to the World) year-round. Upsettingly, my new cellphone does not come with this ringtone, and no one has been able to find a way to install it. One ameliorating factor: Sam was able to put a picture of a cute bunny as the background on this new phone. But I doubt if I will ever know it when it rings. Perhaps it already has.

If you called me and I did not pick up, I'm sorry. I'm not sure I even know how to get your message on this phone, either. Please just email me. Believe me, it's much easier. And you'd be my New Best Friend Forever if you could get my favicon to work, too.

Thanks!

It's Called "Priorities," America. Look Into It. And Our Media...It May Be Too Late.

All right. Fair warning. I'm about to unpack the Snark. You know, I've really been Holding It In lately because I cannot tell anymore if it's Hormones or Generalized Malaise or The Lousy Economy or what, so I've just kind of tried to rein in my Irk and release it harmlessly in traffic or by randomly venting at Jared here and there or by taking a few feeble smacks at Sam when he's home (which is about 3.2 minutes a week).

But really, why have a blog if not for cheap therapy? Duh.

Okay. So. WTF has happened to The Concept of JOURNALISM in this country? Has the so-called Mainstream Media just tossed in the towel and become the effing National Enquirer/Weekly World News now? First, we were all held hostage by the goddam OctoMom for eleventy months. Now, I cannot turn on CNN or MSNBC or pick up a previously respected piece of newsprint without encountering yet another lurid piece of reportage on the (I thought) deceased "King of Pop." Despite his arguably sizeable contributions to a myriad of charities, this tragic figure was, first and foremost, an entertainer. One of considerable and vast stature, yes. One whose indelible mark will be left upon the music world, yes. But good heavens. Enough already.

Buried beneath the garish and sensational heap of details surrounding each and every minute bit of this story is the real news of the day: Nevada's Senator John Ensign, whose self-righteous condemnation of President Clinton is now laughable, had his parents buy off his mistress like a common prostitute; security lapses allowed covert investigators to sneak bomb components into 10 federal government buildings and reassemble them in restrooms; Washington, D. C. recognized same-sex unions, just to name a few. Did you miss any of these stories? If you did, don't feel bad. How could you find them? All the major networks, including the music networks, cable news networks, and entertainment networks ran nothing but stories covering the life, death, and more indelicate details of the pop icon. It was inescapable. In 1980 John Lennon, member of the Beatles, another major force in American pop music (and the peace movement, and the anti-war movement), was brutally murdered. I remember it. What I don't remember is this kind of media saturation. In September 2008, major American cinema icon and million dollar philanthropist Paul Newman died. There was nothing near this kind of broadcast coverage.

To be fair, in 1980, there was no Twitter, no TMZ, no Google. There was no burgeoning Internet; CNN had only been broadcasting for 6 months. And let's face it; like the Octomom story, if there wasn't an appetite for it, the media wouldn't give it to the American People.

What the hell is happening out there?

The news media gives more coverage to President Obama's ability to take out a fly than his ability to be a dignified statesman and tackle the problems facing the nation. On MSNBC.com a couple of days ago, I had the surreal experience of watching a panel discussion of whether or not the new Sacha Baron Cohen film "Bruno" would further damage the standing of homosexuals while a second reporter broke in with updates on President Obama's visit with Pope Benedict; at the same time the crawl trumpeted a death during the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona and something about a cervical cancer drug.

Really?

Right now, on three news sites, (CNN.com, MSNBC.com, and ABCNews.com), there are, respectively, 4, 4, and 10 news stories on The Gloved One. This, eighteen days after his death.

Is anyone talking about North Korea? The two female journalists who were sentenced to 12 years hard labor in prison there? How about the fact that there are two senators (Baucus D-Montana; Grassley R-Iowa) already working hard in a bi-partisan fashion on a health care compromise, but both parties are trying to get them to quit?

Sigh.

The press took a Major Vacation during The Angel Of Death's administration because they didn't want to seem unpatriotic. They let him have a Free Pass and look What Happened. Now the press is just getting like a lazy parent who doesn't want to hear his/her kid whine and bitch and so feeds the brat a steady diet of junk food: Happy Meals, soda, Skittles, chips, cheezdoodles, and chocolate doughnuts. We're getting exactly what we want and we'll end up like that greasy-mouthed brat--sitting around in a fat-assed daze, not knowing what happened and looking for a quick fix.

Haven't we learned? There isn't one.

I Was On The Road Again, But Didn't See Willie Nelson, Just Some Other Puzzling Stuff We Can Chat About

Had a bit of a Hiatus there; contrary to Some Popular Belief, I am not nearly as Indestructably Valiant as I might appear. Quite simply, I ran away for a few days. Had to...re-centre. And now, to paraphrase Gloria Gaynor, I'm back from "outer space," and am ready to press on.

So...onward.

Musings from the Road Trip:

Passed a few Fireworks Places, and am once again struck by the signage for these retail outlets. So very...eclectic. FIREWORKS! they blare on the first line. Then, in rapid succession: KARATE SUPPLIES, SWORDS, KNIVES, STUN GUNS, PEPPER SPRAY! What the hell is going on at these places, anyway? I can just imagine the dialog going on inside: "Hey, uh, can I git me a box of them Roman candles and a pair-a those there nunchucks? And I'd like mebbe that taser, but I ain't sure about it." The counter guy says, "Why, go on out back with it, then! I think my nephew or his Rottweiler is out thar somewhars--jes' try it on one-a them!" Sigh.

Saw this thought-provoking sign on a church--can't recall the denomination--and I can't stop pondering it. It said: What you do is not as important as who you are. How do you feel about that? The odd thing is that I've seen the exact opposite sentiment (Who you are is not as important as what you do) on church signs as well. So I'm thinking and thinking about that sign. It kind of irks me. It really does. It gives all these Fake Christians carte blanche, as far as I'm concerned. You know what I mean, right? These holier-than-thou people who say that they're Christians, but then discriminate against gay people, kill doctors, and picket the funerals of soldiers who died in Afghanistan and Iraq to further their gaybashing agendas. Yikes.

Finally, on a lighter--much--note, upon returning home and finally sleeping soundly in our own bed, Rick forgot (again, it must be noted), to turn off the now-unnecessary alarm. We were rudely and annoyingly awakened by its cacophany. The following scene ensued:

Nance: Oh my God. Is that THE ALARM?

Rick: (turning to shut it off. Finally.) Yeah. Sorry.

Nance: Why the heck is it going off?

Rick: I thought I shut it off.

Nance: Well, apparently, you didn't.

Rick: I said I was sorry. You could have checked and shut it off, too, you know.

Nance: That's not my job.

Rick: I see. And nagging and hollering at me is?

Nance: Yes.

Rick: You're fired.

I've Got A Few Proposals (As Usual), But Still The Government Refuses To Let Me Make Americans' Lives Better.

Wow. This has not been The Summer of Nance as I had planned and hoped and wished it would be. After last summer being tres crappy due a frustrating litany of pain-therapy-pseudo-rotator cuff surgery-that wasn't, and having to put EmilyCat down, I vowed that the Summer of 2009 would be a self-indulgent Seasonal Romp Of Nanceness. Forget it. The lousy economy has hit the dept. as it has many other NE Ohio households, let's just put it that way.

I spend an inordinate time puttering around the yard, and when that's done, I plop in front of the television.

Are all of you aware that there is, literally, nothing on television during the summer?

Clearly, this is the next problem that the dept. of nance is needed to tackle. Despite changing my blog's tagline, I am still ready and willing to become a nonpartisan government department that will take on Any Urgent Issue and solve it with all alacrity, civility, and common sense. I firmly believe that American Television has become just such an Issue.

I already have a very simple plan that has been motivated, in part, by recent events. (And by "events," I mean, of course, "celebrity deaths.") Certainly I am sympathetic to the delicate nature of these passings. It would seem, however, that I am in the minority, judging by the barrage of news reports, "in memoriam specials," re-airing of past interviews, and constant on-the-spot reporter segments from hospitals, mansions, impound lots, you-name-its since Thursday, 25 June. It has clogged the airwaves and pre-empted what little programming there is. And, not to be crass, but celebrities just keep dying. That phenomenon, plus some other television proclivities I've noticed, have led me to make the following Proposals.

PROPOSAL I. The All Tribute Channel. (I was going to call it "The All Death Channel", but that was a bit much, I realized, even for me.) This channel could be reserved for all the celebrity memorial documentaries, interviews, autopsy report tracking, custody battle information, funeral red carpets, etcetera. That way, it doesn't dominate the rest of the channels, and the morbid amongst us can get their fill.

PROPOSAL II. The All Law and Order Channel. Okay. You all know how I feel about Mariska Hargitay. And I fell in love with Sam Waterston back when he played Nick Carraway in the film version of The Great Gatsby, and I love him still. But there are now approximately, by my last count, eleventy hundred spinoffs of Law and Order. And they are on thirty-five cable channels at virtually any hour of every day. Let's get organized, people! Put them on one channel, period. Sheesh! Not. That. Hard!

PROPOSAL III. Stick To A Schedule. How hard is this? There is absolutely no rhyme nor reason to what is going on, ever, on any given night on television. Last Tuesday, there may have been one show on; this Tuesday, there may be a feature-length film in that very same time slot. Perhaps the newspaper's television grid is correct; more often, it is not even close to being accurate. In despair, I flip to the Cleveland Indians baseball game to watch this last-place team lose yet another game. Or, to the Chicago affiliate to watch the Cubs destroy my life.

Are there any GLIMMERS OF HOPE? Yes. We here at the dept. love to indulge in what we term The Smartest Shows On Television. In no particular order they are:
1. Wipeout
2. I Survived A Japanese Game Show
3. The Big Bang Theory

(Sadly, watching Meet the Press makes me sad now. David Gregory is just terrible. Terrible. And have you noticed his awful, awful tie and shirt combinations? What happened, David Gregory? Why did you do this to me after I championed your cause so fervently? )

Anyway, present your Proposals in comments, and I'll see what I can do. Oh, and if you've got any good new nonfiction titles to pass along, do. I'm completely without reading material as well. There's just nothing to read out there! (When will Doris Kearns Goodwin write the definitive Mary Lincoln biography for me? When?)

Ladies And Gentlemen, Have I Got A Deal For You! The Dept. Tries To Jog Its Memory And Be A Little Reasonable

Scene opens in a brightly lit television studio. Audience is seated, and the stage is decorated to look like a living room with dark carpeting, dark floor-length draperies. Adjoining the "living room" is a counter area.

Applause sign lights; audience applauds and cheers wildly. TV product pitchman Billy Mays bounds in energetically, waves at audience. Cheers and applause intensify.

Billy: (incredibly loudly) Hi, everyone!

Audience: Hi, Billy!

Billy: (with the volume of an onrushing freight train) Do you want a box of shit in your house?

Audience: Yeah!

Billy: (with the decibel level of a U2 concert in your basement) Do you want to be self-conscious every single time you wear navy or black?

Audience: Yes! Yes!

Billy: (as if a tornado set off a gas main explosion in your utility room) Do you want to step in piles of regurgitated kibble and hair in your bare feet because you are the only one who can see them in the entire world?

Audience: PLEASE! RIGHT NOW!

Billy: Do you want to add hundreds of dollars to your budget for medical bills not covered by your health insurance just now when you can't really afford it?

Audience: WHAT A DEAL!

Billy: Then have I got the deal for you! Get a kitten! Right now, for a limited time offer, you can get a kitten--and all of the great features I just outlined can be yours, with these added bonuses. Stay tuned.

Audience writhes in their seats as Mays takes a break. While he is hosed down and shot with tranquilizers, the living room set is prepared. Several fluffy, cute kittens are released onto the couch.

Mays leaps into living room set. Audience releases one long, sustained "awwww" as he grabs up one adorable kitty.

Billy: These kittens have been on set for only three minutes, and look at the hair they've already left behind!

(Camera pans at swaths of cat hair on couch, carpeting, and along hem of draperies.)

Audience: (ad libs) Wow! Awesome! Incredible! Amazing! Never seen anything like it, etc.

Billy: (chuckling volubly) You'll be vacuuming two, three, maybe four times a day! And good luck on those draperies! Once those little cuties start walking along the back of the couch, they can leave a path of hair so thick that even an industrial Dyson can't suck it off.

Audience Member: (pointing) Ooops!

Billy: Yikes! Little Fluffy there isn't quite litterbox trained yet, is he? That's gonna go right down to the pad and maybe leave a stain. Well, just move a table or get a big plant to put over it!
Audience Member: (pointing) Ick!

Billy: What? I don't see anything. Let's move on.

Audience: Screech!

Billy: Ha ha! Yes, aren't they cute, folks? Look at the little sherpas, hooking onto those draperies with those talons and climbing all the way up! Wow! You've just gotta watch 'em every minute! And it's not like you can just put up a barrier, is it? Those guys can jump! Okay, moving on!

Billy moves over to counter area and takes a kitten with him. He puts it up onto the counter and wads up a paper ball, playing with the kitten as he chats with the audience. The kitten plays and looks vastly adorable the entire time.

Billy: Now, folks, (loud enough to be heard in Uzbekistan) HOW MUCH WOULD YOU PAY TO BE ABLE TO HAVE THIS KIND OF EXPERIENCE IN YOUR VERY OWN HOME?

Audience: (ad libs) Seven hundred! A million! Ten thousand! My whole fucking life! My kids!

Billy: BUT WAIT! REMEMBER: THE HAIR EVERYWHERE, THE YAK-UPS, THE LITTERBOX DUTY, THE TRAINING, THE LIFETIME COMMITMENT, THE DESTRUCTION OF YOUR HOME DECOR, FINDING SOMEONE TO TAKE CARE OF IT WHEN YOU GO AWAY, THE VETERINARY BILLS, THE YOWLING AND MEOWING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!

Female Audience Member With Two College Degrees And Really, Plenty Of Common Sense, Honest: But they're so cute and furry! And cuddly. And I miss having a pet. Sometimes. Crap. Sigh. Oh, I know. Shit.

Female Audience Member's Husband: (takes out bottle of Captain Morgan, drinks entire contents then proceeds to stand up, take folding chair and hit self in head until unconscious)

Audience: WE WANT ONE!!

End scene.

Either Houseplants Are Like A Relationship, Or My Deck Is Like A Marriage Counselor...Maybe

Let me see if I can work through something here with all of you. Bear with me.

I've got these three houseplants: a Christmas cactus, a spiky Sago palm, and a newly acquired "lucky bamboo." Of the three, the cactus is the oldest; it's probably around seven or eight years old. Now let me be perfectly frank here, my track record with houseplants is consistent.

Consistently poor, that is. Oh, I mean well. Early in my life I tried to cultivate the Green Thumb and bought fertilizer, a plant mister...all that crap. People gave me plants with the assurance "Oh, trust me. No one can kill this plant!"

And I killed them all. Spider plants, asparagus ferns, African violets, you name it. Dead, deader, deadest.

But I digress. Back to my three plants.

All three of these plants, the cactus, the palm, the bamboo...well, you guessed it. All three were at Death's Door. The palm was a crown of brown fronds, the cactus was withered and red, and the lucky bamboo? Yellow-leafed and not so fortunate-looking. "Just junk 'em," said Rick.

"I'm going to repot the cactus," I said, "and give it one last try. See how it does outside for another summer. The palm, I'm just going to cut off all the dead fronds and sit it outside in the sun. If it sends up new shoots, then okay. If not, then it's over. The bamboo, same deal. I'll cut off the dead stuff and sit it on the patio table. If it dies, it dies. That's it. They're all on their own. I kind of hope they all give up because I don't want to have to bring them in over the winter and go through all this again. I don't have the space for them from October through May."

"Then just junk 'em and say the hell with it!" repeated Rick, the old softie. "I don't get it."

"Boy, oh boy," I said. "You'd better hope I never have to make a decision about putting you in a Home."

Fast Forward. Today I went out on the deck for a little sun and visited my thriving Sago palm which has four new uncurling fronds. A few steps away is my succulent Christmas cactus, greening up at the center and chubby with life. On the patio table is the Luckiest little Bamboo plant, already grown about a half inch. I made sure not to say a word to any of them, nor to let them see me look at them. My plan of Completely Ignoring Them seems to be working wonderfully.

Which makes me wonder.

Is this the Key To A Successful Relationship?

The School Year Ends With A Finale, Of Sorts, As We At The Rock Put It All Into Perspective...Sort Of

Scene. Interior of Teachers' Lounge. Three teachers are sitting and chatting aimlessly with not much to do because it is the last full day of classes before final exam week.

Nance: (surveying supply of coffee) Wow. We have a lot of coffee left. I'm going to put it in the freezer for the start of next year.

Sue: Well, I don't drink coffee here. I stop at Convenient and get coffee every morning.

Dawn: And I don't drink much because of being pregnant.

Nance: Have you noticed the people at our Convenient lately? I absolutely hate going in there anymore. It's just depressing and terrible. I mean, if those people are in our neighborhood...ugh.

Sue: You mean the new employees? I know! I am about ready to speak to Sam, the owner. I hate the one cashier in there.

Nance: No, I'm talking about the clientele. I walk in there, and it's like walking into the *DMV. Who are these people? They're like the dregs of society! One time I saw a guy fish in the garbage outside and pull out a box of someone's chicken dinner refuse. And cigarette butts. I don't recognize anyone there anymore. (*Department of Motor Vehicles)

Sue: Well, I'm talking about the one cashier. I almost said something the other day. Every time I go in there for my extra large coffee, she hands me my change and says, "There ya go, darlin'."

Dawn: Oh, I hate that! I hate waitresses and cashiers and anyone who calls me "honey" or "sweetie" or "darlin'!" It's terribly demeaning. And now that I'm pregnant, it happens all the time!

Sue: I'm really this close to speaking to Sam about her. I mean it. After all, I'm 57 years old. She...is not. There is no earthly reason for her to call me "darlin'." Don't call me darlin' when you give me my change!

Dawn: "Don't call me darlin' when you give me my change!" That sounds like the title of a really bad country song!

Sue: (begins to improvise) Don't ca-all me darlin' when you gi-ive me mah cha-ange. Ah'm--

Nance: You're right. It is bad.

End scene.

What Do The Lagoon Nebula, Subordinating Conjunctions, Scantron, And I All Have In Common? Ask George Bailey!

Man.
This "job" thing is really cutting into my free time.
And you know me...I hate to bitch.

But it's kept us apart, really. My brain has developed more than a passing resemblance to that illustration above, which is an actual photograph of chaos. Celestial chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

You'd think that, after 28 years of this gig, the end of the year would be like folding laundry: something I can do without thinking about it, something that's a familiar and easy routine. But teenagers aren't as compliant as terrycloth and teeshirts, and administrators aren't warm and fluffy like clothes from the dryer. Sigh.

There have been a couple bright spots, however; my junior regulars--dangerously close to wallowing in ennui and D's and F's--decided to "get their grammar on" and became experts in subordinate clauses and sentence structure. It was incredible to hear them admonish each other using insults such as, "Are you crazy? That sentence has an elliptical adverbial clause, fool!" Or, "Can't you see that subordinating conjunction right there? It's "after!" I know it's also a preposition, dummy, but look at the subject and verb after it! DUUUUH!" These kids begged me to grade the test over compound, complex, compound-complex, and simple sentences today immediately after they took it. Not one student scored below a C.

The other ray of light was a little more selfish. I dreaded giving a final essay test today over The Catcher in the Rye for my sophomore honors students. There is only one more class day left--Monday--and then we have exam days. I didn't want to be stuck with almost 70 essays to grade, along with final exams and everything else that constitutes the Last Days work. I pulled my folders and found--oh joy oh rapture--a gorgeous, AP-level analysis based, totally objective test that I had created a few years previous. It is designed to be answered on sheets for and graded by The Scantron Machine. How did I forget about this Wonderful Test? I almost wept. I wanted to fall at my own feet and worship myself. Not only is this a really great test, I won't have to touch a single red pen and it will take a total of 5 minutes to "grade."

I cannot begin to impress upon you HOW WONDERFUL THIS FACT TRULY IS.

SO. VERY. EFFING. WONDERFUL. THAT MY FACE IS SLIDING OFF OF THE FRONT OF MY HEAD. RIGHT NOW.

Maybe you get me.

Anyway. Things are about to get even better really soon.

See you in June.

Of David Gregory, Blah Blahs, Irksome Things, And Wait... What Was I Talking About Now?

At one point my friend Sue was all wrapped up in her perimenopause and then saw something on Oprah or Dr. Phil or read something about adult ADD, which she was also convinced she had. I was immediately envious of her on two fronts. She had legitimate reasons for being completely batshit. Two of them, as a matter of fact. I had basically...none. At least none that anyone could do a show on, unless that show was Women Who Just Don't Frikking Care Anymore And Can't Seem To Keep Anything In Their Heads For More Than, Say, A Minute And A Half.

Would you watch that episode of Dr. Phil or Oprah?

Okay, maybe I would. Maybe you would, too. After all, you're still reading this post.

Anyway.

I'm feeling kinda like that again right now. But I am bravely soldiering on. It's past time for a post, and you shall have one. It will be a meandering snarkfest perhaps, but oh well. Here goes.

It pains me to announce this, but announce it I must: I am breaking up with David Gregory. I know. But I've had it. He's just beyond irritating as the new host of Meet the Press. Yes, he had enormous shoes to fill, coming in after the esteemed and beloved Tim Russert. Yes, anyone would take some getting used to. But he is just terrible. He's combative, mean, shows his bias, and interrupts everyone. And, unlike Tim Russert, employs the "gotcha." You know, I used to love David Gregory. He's tall, kinda cute in a boyish charm sort of way, and he is an Unabashed Pink Tie Wearer. But forget you, David Gregory. It's over.

Speaking of the news (sort of, anyway), have you become sort of inured to it all, as I have? I mean, lately, here's what the national news sounds like to me: "stocks took a tumble blah blah blah the economy blah blah blah the nation's automakers blah blah blah in Washington today blah blah blah the Dow Jones Industrial blah blah blah the Federal Reserve blah blah blah life sucks." I used to be a huge news junkie, especially during the Election Rotation, but now I'm sort of watching the news purely out of habit. Don't tell anyone, but if it wasn't for Brian Williams' tie, I probably wouldn't watch the national news at all anymore. I just don't care. Not a whit. (I just reread that last part and actually felt a little guilty. Wait....I re-reread it, and now I don't.)

Here's a thing. I first saw this story on video under the headline Purple Garage Irks Neighbors. What a great headline. Seems that in Oregon, out in a country setting, absentee landowners built a massive garage--no house yet, just a bigass garage--and painted it lavender and purple in Victorian gingerbread style. The owners live in California and admire the San Francisco row houses done that way. Needless to say, the residents already in Sequim are...well, irked. Well, Sequim residents, I feel your pain. There could be a headline in my daily paper that says Stupid Window Clings Irk Neighbor. Or, perhaps, Inexplicably Placed Lawn Chair In Mulch Irks Neighbor. Or this: Awful Plywood Cutout Of Betty Boop Irks Neighbor. Sigh. Most of the time, however, I just sit in my backyard to avoid being irked.

That last part made me start caring a little bit. And not in a good way, either. Is that a symptom of perimenopause or Adult ADD? Feh. I don't know.

Who cares?

This One Goes Out To All My Amply-Endowed Sisterfriends Out There: You Fought, You Won, And I Got To Laugh (While I Was Envious)

In what galaxy do you ever think a woman would be correct when she says this about a boardroom--and I'm quoting here--"They didn't want a lot of big-breasted women storming their meeting"?

I know. I'll give you a minute or two.

(Certainly I would be a bit intimidated if this were to happen at a meeting and my company were, say, The Small-Breasted Women's Bitching Society, Inc. Of which I might just be an enthusiastic board member. But I digress.)

Anyway.

Just such a nightmare scenario, described by a co-founder of the group Busts 4 Justice, is what caused a re-evaluation of a brassiere pricing policy by British retailer Marks & Spencer. You can read all about it here. But, really, as you know from past experience, I will be bringing the best of it to you right here.

But first I want to laud Gregory Katz, the AP writer who I'm positive must also write for The Onion or National Lampoon or Mad Magazine or some other similar publication because, honestly, no phrase was left unturned; no chance for punning was left untaken.

It seems that Marks & Spencer (M&S) had begun adding a $3 surcharge on all bras that were size DD or larger, which resulted in a "spreading consumer revolt." (The grammarian in me absolutely revelled in that ambiguous modifier. I so want to believe that Gregory did it on purpose!)

Naturally, the company, confronted by Busts 4 Justice and its co-founder...wait for it, and I could not make this up if I wanted to...Becky MOUNT, soon saw the error of its ways. There was an entire Facebook campaign of 14000 women behind this effort! M&S took out a full page ad to apologize. But of course. They also offered a 25% reduction on all bras for two weeks. Oh, word choice!

May I just offer this next paragraph up without comment to you? "We are just overwhelmed," said Becky Mount, a co-founder of the Busts 4 Justice group that brought retailing icon M&S to its knees.... "We've won, and we never thought it would happen so quickly."

Oh dear lord. Where are my pills?

Finally, victory came...er...arrived when the group "which grew exponentially" made their threat to appear in force at the company's annual meeting. Ms. Mount also said of her group's triumph that it was likely M&S realized that "they were dealing with a much bigger force than they thought originally."

Indeed.

Of Fate, Fifty, Daniel Day-Lewis, And The Vagaries Of Faith

Every once in a while, the Fates conspire in a vast...conspiracy against me. "Ha ha," they chortle gleefully. "Let's remind Nance that Life is far beyond her silly, futile, grasping efforts at Control! Does she really think that at age fifty she can sail along with no gales of difficulty? That she can look forward to a sunny horizon with calm seas and starry nights, her course clearly charted ahead? If she does, she would be very sadly mistaken."

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Daniel Day-Lewis. Or what is left of him. I know. I'll give you a minute.

...

This is one of the most painful moments of my Life. I hardly know where to begin. It's not like I haven't been through this before, you know. I've discussed Daniel Day-Lewis's...appearance issues ad nauseum. He's so Hard To Love/Be Obsessed With, you know? Oh, sure, he's had his moments, and I've stuck by him. Yet...geeze. I mean, look at him. He's only 52. I have no problem with anyone embracing his grey hair; I applaud anyone for defying the movie star pressures of the Youth Movement, but can he not find a decent hairstylist? That haircut looks downright institutional. And as my Readers can undoubtedly surmise, what cuts deepest is that tie. What a horror it is. It looks like something made from a remnant of fabric from a transvestite parody of Spamalot. Aqua shirt, black sportcoat, purple chainmail tie...what a complete and total devastation compared to the sexy splendor that was this:

I'm just saying.

Oh, that's not fair, you say. That picture is of a character in a movie. And it's almost 20 years ago. Give the guy a break!

Shut up. I most certainly will not. This man has the wherewithal to look eleventy times better than he does. There is no reason for that tie. Or that haircut. And certainly no reason for continually disappointing me. I have had it with you, Daniel Day-Lewis. From now on, I am going to be shallow and vapid. I am going to chase pretty little dilettantes instead of you and your towering talent. You leave me no choice.

DoN readers, proffer me a new Candidate for Obsession in comments. I'm ready to chase after someone pretty who is worthy of my love. Besides, DD-L's newest film is a musical. Ugh.