Please Resist The Urge To Tell Me "Just Shut Up Already" In The Comments Section. (Remember The Thumper Rule)

If you can possibly stand it, I am going to blather on here and randomly dump all the Head Detritus that's clattering around in my cranium. It's terrible. Honestly, I think I'm at the mercy of so many awful cliches right now (and will someone, for the love of God, tell me how to put the little accent mark on the "e" in Blogger?) that I'm becoming somewhat sad and tragic. I believe I am pre-pre-menopausally hormonal; also that I am suffering from End-Of-Summer Angst; or that I am having a delayed Mid-Life Crisis; and, quite possibly, on the verge of becoming a Bit Of A Cat Lady if I'm not Very Very Careful.

(Some of you may have already noticed that, if I employ the Dash a bit more, I might also be in danger of becoming the Reincarnation of Emily Dickinson.) But--perhaps--I digress.

Next week, I go back to work at The Rock, such as it is. We are in the New Building, but let's face it: if you put leftover spaghetti in a silver bowl, it is still leftover spaghetti. Don't get me wrong, I teach with some of the best people ever and the students there can be a joy. But, realistically, a new building is not changing anything...for me. I can do my shtick in a cardboard box, if necessary. It will be lovely to have a floor with no holes, walls with no chipping plaster, air conditioning (provided that it works, for real), and an environment that speaks to learning rather than mere survival in some cases. But am I looking forward to The Grind again after three months off? No. Unpacking 33 boxes? No. Everything Else? I think you already know the answer.

I spoke about The West Wing in an earlier post, and I'm still watching and enjoying it. My sister used to have a big crush on Bradley Whitford, who played Josh Lyman. She said he had the sexiest walk. Same reason she had a brief thing for Travolta in his earliest days. ( Her big thing was for Patrick Swayze, though. Seriously.) Whitford is in a new show now, and when the previews came on, I didn't recognize him. He looks like some icky stereotype of a small-time PI or liquor store owner with a shady side. It makes me feel bad.

Also making me feel bad: my tomatoes this year are not producing; I'm not paying much attention to my herb garden; we did not mulch the back or front beds; I'm not seriously addressing my Marshmallowyness; I did not get ruthless and clean out the basement crap again this summer. Sigh. I guess this means I'm still not going to heaven.

Best things I did this summer: Get the Kittens. Learn to make refrigerator pickles. Completely relax. Give myself a break. Learn to use the digital camera. Get gently forceful with my stylist about layering my hair more around my face, please. Read the new Emily Dickinson biography. Take all the accumulated change to Coinstar. (Sidenote: How insane is it that BANKS DO NOT HAVE COIN-COUNTING MACHINES? I called both my banks, where I have banked for eleventy hundred years, and both of them said, "Oh, no, sorry. We do not have a coin-counting machine at any of our banks. It all has to be rolled and you have to put your name and phone number on every roll." FORGET THAT BULLSHIT. It was worth it to me to take my two hundred pounds of mixed change to a Coinstar machine and pay them a small percentage.) Go to my neurologist, talk things over, and get my migraine meds readjusted. Zip up to Niagara-on-the-Lake, stay at our favourite inn, visit our friends from Cattail Creek Winery, and also get some more great wines at other places we love. Spend afternoons at my sister Susan's where I swam in her pool and spent time with my mother and my other sister Patti. Take advantage of fresh produce from local farmstands.

Can we talk about My Kittens? Just a Little Bit? I will miss them terribly when I go back to work. I admit that I am a Little Bit Worried about how they will adapt. After all, they're used to having me around pretty much all the time, and we have a very nice routine. They have incredibly distinct personalities, as most pets do develop, and I enjoy them immensely. Naturally, they are The Most Wonderful Kittens In The Whole World, even when Marlowe (the adventurous diva one) can't seem to stay off the kitchen counter when we are not looking (despite being squirted from The Discipline Bottle), and Piper (the affectionate frisky one) plants himself on my or Rick's pillow at daybreak and proceeds to bite at our heads and try to claw our hair out (just playing, of course). They've both grown considerably since you've seen them last. They're healthy and happy and playful. I just happen to have a picture.

Sigh. I know. Despite the fact that he has to curl up about ten times, Piper (the Disembodied Head) loves to sleep in that shoebox. Those two are, as the old cliche goes, thick as thieves. (By the way, I got those shoes at Target--before the boycott--for way cheap on sale.) They're constantly together.

When Jared and Sam (now out and living on their own) come over, they love to spend time with Marlowe and Piper. They are, however, a little concerned that Mom is perhaps a little...er...overinvolved with All Things Kitten. Consider:

Scene opens in livingroom. Nance and Rick are sitting in easy chairs. Sam, 22, over for a visit and to retrieve some things, is observing the kittens playing in the dining room.

Sam: Does Piper like that old Matchbox car I gave him?

Nance: He loves it! And Marlowe never plays with it at all. Must be a Boy Thing.

Sam: I guess.

Nance: (face lights up) Oh! And did I tell you? I'm teaching The Kittens to be bilingual!

Sam: (staring) What?

Nance: Bilingual. I'm teaching The Kittens to be bilingual.

Sam: (slowly turns his gaze to Rick on opposite chair, then back to Nance) No. You didn't. What language?

Nance: Spanish. Watch this. (To Piper) Piper! Donde esta su carro verde?

(Piper looks at Nance briefly, then resumes what he was doing, which was not playing with the green Matchbox car.)

Sam: (shakes head, then, to Nance) You really need to go back to work.

Except, I really don't want to.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: If You Can Read This, Thank...?

Okay, so...WHAT, NOW?

Let's just for one moment--if we can--ignore that first sign (in all its Crazy-Peddling Glory). And the fact that she's got two impossibly wordy signs along the side of a road where, we assume, she is hoping that people driving by in cars going at least 30 miles per hour, will be reading her pithy messages.

What in the samholyhell is going on in that second sign? Thank heaven some part of its blathering lunacy is obliterated because, honestly, it was giving me a sick-headache. At first I thought that, just maybe, the two signs were supposed to be read across; perhaps they came apart in her transport of them from Dodge Caravan or Ford F-150 Extended Cab to streetside. But even then, the message made no more sense than it does when you read it as written: "My name is Hope not The Congress taxing Hope so stop using my name for your (insert paranoid government agenda here per teaparty propaganda)."

WTF, teaparty lady?

And why all the hate for scholiasts? I'm not too sure any are around anymore, in the strictest classical sense, but in my own way, I'm pretty much a scholiast myself, and I'm not aware of having any taxable policies, per se.

At least her hat matches her shirt.

Photo found here

The Dept. Is 5 And I Have A Little Something For You

In spite of dire predictions from Conventional Wisdom, right-wing pundits, Interpol, and several Celebrity Astrologers from all over the Interwebs, the Dept. of Nance is celebrating its Fifth Anniversary!

It's true: the Dept. has been bringing you a fresh perspective on shoes, cows, polar bears, politics, bad fashion, and oh hell, just about everything for Five Whole Years now. Probably you cannot imagine Life Before The Dept., and it's best you not try. Instead, let's have a little revelry to commemorate this milestone.

As Longtime Reader Ortizzle once sagely commented to me: Without you, My Readers, this blog is nothing but an Internet Diary. Therefore, I'd like to include you in this celebration of 5 by asking you to be active participants. Choose any of the following 5 activities/questions to respond to in comments. Or, run with them on your own blog and link to them in comments. Ready? Let's celebrate 5!

1. Did anything of major cultural or historical significance happen when you were 5? In 1964 when I was 5, my older, cooler sister was already a Major Beatles Fan. On February 9, 1964, at 8 P.M., life at my house came to a standstill so that we could all sit around the black and white television and watch The Ed Sullivan Show. When The Beatles came on, Patti was enthralled and I, already in the throes of idol-worship, copied her every move. She was leaned forward, eyes glued on the screen. I didn't know I was watching history then, but I still remember every minute of it.

2. What are 5 things that really, really frost your cupcakes? My longtime readers know I have more than 5 of these, but here are 5 of my pet peeves: flip-flops in public, people dressing poorly in public, inappropriate cellphone usage in public, parents who don't control their children in restaurants, lateness, improper apostrophe usage on signage.

3. Are there ideas, topics, issues in the past 5 years that you wish I had written about but I never have? Maybe you have a great idea or maybe you're curious about something. Let's hear it. It's been 5 years. Why wait?

4. 5 Degrees of Separation? How did you find/hear about/get to the Dept. of Nance? Most of you are Longtime Readers; I have no way of knowing who my lurkers are (Come out, come out--5 years is long enough to hide! Give me a thrill). I'm curious. How did you find me amid the millions and millions of blogs out in the cyberworld?

5. Fab 5. I've got Favorite Posts, of course, and even I'm not vain enough to think that you remember enough of my Archive to have them too. But here are 5 of My Best Ones, in my opinion, should you care to browse:

1. Personal Jesus
2. The Dept. Presents "What Not To Wear" Meets "Hardball"
3. ...But Fear Itself
4. My Latest Obsession: I Stand Up For Mary Lincoln
5. Watching And Thinking About Blueberries

Finally, here's a photo of me standing in front of my grandmother's house, taken when I was 5. It's a bit prophetic, really. I'm blissfully holding a kitten. I have no idea whose it was, then or now. Oddly enough, it looks quite a bit like Piper, my new Boy Kitten, who I very much enjoy holding now. I was always finding stray animals to rescue in some way, baby birds who had fallen out of their nests, sad little wandering kittens, trapped butterflies or moths struggling in spider's webs. I'm sure that after my mother took this picture, she firmly impressed upon me that I was not taking that cat home. And I didn't. One of the few times that I listened to Mom about a pet.

But I digress. (Again.) If there's anything else you'd like to add to help celebrate the Dept.'s Fifth Anniversary, please do! It doesn't have to be 5 things. But it can...!

Oh my, where are my manners? Do have some cake.


(But just a little cake. Remember, I'm trying to cut back.)

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: The Three Stooges

Sigh.

Apparently, the following apply:

1. "Big Government" refers to standardized spelling.
2. The Government's version of medical care will even take away the letter H.
3. The dyslexic teaparty sign carrier's chair has insufficient back support.
4. The teapartier on the blanket in the background is even too embarrassed to sit with these morons.

Good call.

Rantings Confessions Of A Summertime Fatass

Summer is making me a fatass. Our unusual heatwave (double-digit days in the 90s here in my little corner of NEO just in July alone) coupled with rainforest humidity has turned me into a hermit. My slothfulness has reached Epic Proportion here at the Dept. as I putter around with Little Projects in my airconditioned inner sanctum. Along with the usual duties of light Domestic Goddessing, I do nothing more strenuous than water and garden, play and snuggle with the kittens, catalog the wines in the cellar, and concoct (and then eat) new recipes; all of this threatens to nudge me ever closer to needing a...more generous wardrobe.

It's awful. I feel...marshmallowy to myself. Like I should be wearing a toque and a kerchief and, if poked, should giggle amiably. Probably that would not happen. This exchange might be a bit illuminating:

(Scene opens on Rick and Nance in livingroom, watching television. An ad comes on for Red Lobster, announcing "Crabfest" for a limited time.)

Nance: Wow. Their Crabfest is only for a limited time.

Rick: I heard that.

Nance: Whereas the Crabfest around here goes on pretty much endlessly.

Rick: Lately, anyway.

Nance: Are you lucky, or what?

Rick: Umm...yes?

Voice from TV: We know what you want.

Nance: Sigh. How can that be? Even I don't know what I want half the time.

Rick: And the other half of the time, I don't.

Nance: It's when those times coincide that we're really in trouble.

Rick: Don't I know it.

And I am not one for The Exercise. Ugh. Don't even, as they say, "Go there." No, I prefer a Strict Regimen of Total Deprivation And Suffering. (Total Deprivation for me and Suffering for pretty much everyone who has the misfortune to come into contact with with me for however long it takes before I feel less...doughy to myself.) So save it. Spare us both the dewy-eyed yammering about "endorphins" during some pre-dawn 5K and increased energy and boosted metabolism and hyper mental acuity and all that other bullshit that just makes me batshit and urges me to grab one of my chef's knives and carve a roast out of my thigh.

Been there, done/heard that. Thanks.

Perhaps I should, as my Penance/Hair Shirt, start a new food blog and call it Fatass Food Blog. On it, I'll give the recipes (and post the requisite "food porn" pictures) of the Summertime Wonderfuls that are contributing to my Gustatory Shame Spiral, starting with:

1. Antipasto Pasta

2. Warm Brie with Fig, Onion, and Balsamic Compote

3. Guacamole Supreme

4. Grilled Flatbread Pizzas with Fresh Mozzarella and Homemade Pesto

5. Peanut Butter Banana Bread (chocolate chips optional)

6. Rhubarb Nectarine Crisp

7. Sweet Corn and Tomato Salad

Among others.

And the wine is not helping, I'm certain. Oh, and have you tried this? Very pleasant for an easy little patio refresher, sadly, and part of The Problem. (Once I located the missing cap to my good cocktail shaker. Who put it in the small teapot?)

Tonight, we are going to a party. Luckily, it is Outdoors, and you all know how I feel about Eating Outside. Additionally, they are Beer People. Another benefit. Perhaps my Crabfest will be for a Limited Time Only as well.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: Somewhere A Village Is...Never Mind

There is no way in hell I can resist it when the teapartiers peddle their crazy so blatantly as this, on the back of a (Japanese) Nissan Frontier pickup truck. Allow me to assist you by bringing you the signs' message here, its spelling and punctuation intact:

Sign 1: NEW FORM OF SLAVERY "TAXATION" STATE &FEDERAL
Sign 2: PLEASE LISTEN TO THE PEOPLE THE BRITEAN's DID NOT USA IN GOD "

To which I can heartily reply, "You're goddam right they didn't! Uh...who didn't what now? And how long has it been since you took your medication?"

Listen, I am a creative writing teacher. I am all about Poetic License. But there is No Way that I am going to sit idly by and merely watch as some mouthbreathing heehaw uses USA as a verb. And I'm pretty sure that some deeply religious Christians--and Briteans, whomever they may be--may find that last sentiment a little offensive. Who is this yokel to say that they didn't whatever in God? Or, perhaps USA-ing is not the sort of activity lending itself to being done in His name.

But all sniding aside, a little history is a dangerous thing, and that's all this numbskull has rattling around in his airspace. I'm filled with questions, such as:

1. Just how new do you think state and federal taxes are?
2. Why did you use quotation marks around the word "taxation"?
3. Why is your spacing between words and random punctuation marks so erratic and random?
4. Exactly which "people" are we (or someone) to listen to? All people? Any people speaking about anything?
5. Why is only "Please" underlined? Is the rest of the message less pleading/emphatic?
6. Who is The Britean? What does he/she/it own and why did you leave it off the sign?
7. Why can't you seem to use an apostrophe correctly?
8. What didn't The Britean do in God since "USA" is not really a verb?
9. What is up with that last set of quotation marks hanging way off at the end, all alone?
10. What in bloody hell are you talking about?
11. Is it Patriotic of you to be driving a Japanese-made vehicle while displaying teaparty signs?

Finally, I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised by any of these Prodigies. After all, here are the Wise Words of one of their leaders in Washington, D.C. when speaking of the newly formed tea party caucus: "We are not the mouthpiece of the tea party. We are not taking and controlling the tea party from Washington. I am not the head of the tea party movement." Um. Okay, Michele Bachmann of Minnesota. Whatever. Good luck with all of that.

And them.


photo found here

If You Celebrate Christmas In July And Have A LOT Of Disposable Income, Put Me On Your Gift List. If Not, Help Cast The Latest Film!

Oh, where to begin? I am filled with longing and revulsion, nostalgia and anticipation, regret and satisfaction. How could these diametrically opposed sensations all coexist in me at once? I can answer you with one simple reply:

The West Wing.

Please tell me that you were a fan of this show, this Washington, D.C. politics-fest, walk-and-talk brainfood series of 154 episodes that won multiple Emmys and ran for 7 years (1999-2006). This show was Destination Television for me all of those years, and believe me, it took me probably three years to get my mother trained NOT TO CALL ME on Wednesday nights at 9:00, or she would hear me say this when she said Hello and right before I hung up: "Mom, are you kidding? It's time for The West Wing. Goodbye."

Yes, I am serious.

Watching The West Wing made me wistful for a Bartlet presidency. I wanted a President that smart, that passionate, and that much of a great US historian. I wanted that kind of a committed staff in the White House. And when that show went off the air, I was downright bereft. There's never been another show quite like it, and I haven't seen many of the cast members do much of note since. It's as if they know that anything after that would be quite a comedown.

I started thinking about The West Wing when my sister Patti casually mentioned that Bravo network was rerunning it weekday mornings. Not helpful for those of us who work every weekday morning, but this summer, I managed to catch a few episodes here and there in between KittenOlympics and other summertime things. Then it fell off my radar until I saw this little news tidbit regarding the movie treatment of (John Edwards campaign manager) Andrew Young's book The Politician. Aaron Sorkin--the writing genius behind The West Wing--has decided to adapt and possibly direct the film. As much as I hate to have Democratic Dirty Laundry aired on the page and/or silver screen, I am glad to have this slimeball's true nature exposed. I was one of the many who was blithely taken in by Candidate John Edwards, I'm ashamed to say, so I'll be interested to see the development of this movie as well as its final cut.

And, I am already starting to cast the lead. My first thought to play John "Rev. Dimmesdale" Edwards was Robert Sean Leonard (most recently Dr. James Wilson of the television drama House.) But today, after catching two episodes of The West Wing, and falling in love all over again with one of my Original Crushes, I'm not so sure that Rob "I Am So Pretty" Lowe can't do it. Here's a Casting Triptych of sorts, for your perusal. What do you think?

Or, failing either of those two, who would you cast? (I tried to find one of RSL looking suitably prayerful, but alas! Not successful.)

Now I am obsessing over The West Wing, and guess what? TFB, as they say. The price tag for 154 episodes is...well, pricey! And I broke up with Netflix last summer when, er...economics dictated a few changes around the Dept. Not being one to watch telly on the computer, (Rick had to get a new laptop, and it does not use the magic Hulu cable-to-tv-hookup that his other one did), I'll just have to suck it up and catch a few random episodes here and there to get My Fix.

Sigh. Another one of Life's Little Tragedies. How ever do I manage?

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: Stop Now, Before You Really Hurt Yourself

If only this man had just gone on to the NASCAR race instead--that's obviously what he is dressed for--but no. He had to stop real quick-like at the Make Yer Own Teaparty Sign Stand at a nearby Ford Aerostar and pop off a zinger on the way.

Impossible to tell, really, where he was headed with this sentiment, which starts off with the bold "Birth CERTiFicT", then degenerates into the completely befuddling "Where OBAMA" followed by what may be another "Where" or perhaps a "When".... Sigh. It's a Whe-something. No matter. Whatever it was going to be, it was going to stand little chance of making sense.

That much, we know.

If only we could all be sure that this poor unfortunate actually stopped right here, forever.

image found here

How MSNBC.com Made Me Think Of Underwear, My Past, And My Talent For Sleight-Of-Hand

Ever since CNN.com screwed around with its web page format, I have relied more on MSNBC.com as my go-to online News Source. (And do not get me started on how Google News has completely alienated me with its Utter Annihilation. I'm Just Not Over It.) MSNBC.com says it brings me "A Fuller Spectrum Of News."

Holy Crap. They are not kidding.

Today, MSNBC.com boldly proclaimed that I could view something newsworthy called "Biggest Bra Moments." Naturally, I was initially intrigued, as an English teacher and Defender Of The Language, by the ambiguous placement of the modifier. Would I be viewing Moments of the Biggest Bras? Or are these the Biggest Moments In Bras? Because, really, either way, as a woman whose antipathy of this Egregious Garment is well known, I couldn't imagine why MSNBC.com would deem either one newsy in the least. Oh, titillating for the male readership, certainly, but as for the average female readers, it would cause nary a ripple of interest.

I clicked on the link and saw the first few slides of outrageous brassieres: the requisite Madonna cone bra, Lady GaGa's firework-shooting bra, one of Cher's bikini-topped Bob Mackie creations. I was--and remain--largely unimpressed. Those aren't really "Bra Moments" as far as I'm concerned. Those are just costume bikini tops. Maybe when Lady GaGa's started to shoot the fireworks, then okay. But other than that, no Moments. And doesn't Janet Jackson's "Wardrobe Malfunction" at the Superbowl count? Or no, because it wasn't technically a "bra," per se, but more of a corset thingy?

All in all, kind of a disappointment, really. So, I'd like to offer you a brief rundown of some of my Personal Favorite Bra Moments. Because I'm here for You, My Readers.

1. Teenage Idiot Moment: Back when I was probably 17 or so, my friend Marci had a blue Mustang with a sunroof. We used to go joyriding in it on the weekends. We'd sometimes go into downtown Cleveland and just drive around and be Teenaged Idiots. Sadly, this was like 1976, and I would be sometimes--not often--a bit inebriated in this pre-MADD, pre-alcohol-awareness age. One of my favorite things to do was to perform the Take-Off-My-Bra-Under-My-Shirt Maneuver, then fling it triumphantly forth in my hand, stick it out of the sunroof, and wave it around as we drove through the streets of Downtown. Why? Why, indeed.

2. All Summer, No Bra: A few years ago I was pretty sick and then recovering. I lost a great deal of weight...everywhere. The downside was that I looked skeletal. The upside? Basically, no boobs. I spent the entire summer in those little shelf-bra camisoles, which were the only sleeveless things that fit me, and they doubled as bras. Total comfort. Let me tell you: When I can get away with it, I eschew the brassiere entirely for those camis. Bless whomever came up with those. I have about eleventy thousand of them in all different colors. Priceless.


3. Completely Inappropriate Parking Lot Maneuver: Hey, listen. We all have Those Days when a certain bra is nigh unto killing us, and when we have had enough, we Have Had ENOUGH. As soon as I can get into my car, I do the TOMBUMS Maneuver (See #1, above), and stick that Torture Device into my purse. Of course, I make sure that there is No One Around! And I have gotten so incredibly subtle at The Maneuver that it merely appears that I am scratching a spot on my back or adjusting my shoulder seatbelt. Do longsleeves deter me? Ha! It is to laugh.




4. Unfortunately Timed Maneuver: In case you did not click on the embedded link above, here is the story for Your Convenience. If you already did, well, skippity doo dah down. Several years ago, the neighbor women behind us moved away. They did not inform me of exactly when their last day of residency was. One day, as I was performing the ritualistic Removal of the Bra While Still Wearing the Shirt maneuver at my back kitchen window, and was at the Triumphant Flinging of the Brassiere from Under the Shirt move, I caught the eye of our new neighbor who was outside on his deck, inspecting his new backyard. Oops. Strangely, this must not have made much of an impression. He has since told my husband, "In all the years I've lived here, I've yet to even see your wife!" Hmmm.....I am re-reading #2.

It's my feeling that I've been far more edifying on the subject of "Biggest Moments In Bras" (note the cleaned-up grammar) than MSNBC.com. It would be lovely if you could add your Memory Moments as well. If not, I'm sure you can find something to chat about anyway.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: The Truth Hurts

And I am losing my mind.

Even though I am On Summer Vacation, the English teacher in me never rests, and right now every single fibre of my Being is reaching for a red pen (and a vodka martini, up, slightly dirty, two olives, thank you). And while the teaparty sign carrier felt it unnecessary to hide her cleavage, she wisely hid her face.

Aside from the obvious over-arching fallacy of her sign in toto, (how is it that we are losing our children, now?) let's just look at the rest of the crap that's making me want to start drinking at 1:24 PM, EST:

1. Spelling--Even the vast majority of my highschoolers can correctly spell the verb "LOSING," as in the act of getting rid of, misplacing, or failing to retain. "LOOSING," however, means to set free, and is rarely purposefully used in our modern vernacular. All these teapartiers are huge into FREEDOM, yet this yahoo can't even manage to put the correct number of E's into the word on her sign bearing three iconic symbols of it. What kind of moron spells it FREDOM? And doesn't it look like the S at the end was added later? Like she couldn't remember if the President/Democrats/Incumbents/Sane People were taking away just one or several? Finally, we all know that these wackadoos get all hepped up about The Family and Mortgaging Their Children's Futures, yet this doodah can't even sound out the word enough to put in the "R". What the hell is/are CHILDEN?

2. Punctuation--I suppose I should be placated by the proper use of the apostrophe. In a small way, I am. And I know that punctuation on signage follows broader, more forgiving rules, such as the lack of endmarks being acceptable. But can someone tell me why there is not one single comma in the first sentence, which consists of several descriptive phrases in a list, but there is one in the second sentence, which is a compound sentence consisting of two distinct sentences? Really, the second comma should be, in fact, a semicolon. Or, she could observe the forgiving rules of signage and merely place the two independent clauses on separate lines.

3. Basic Design--Oh, let's be nitpicky while we're at it. (I mean, it's not like I'm going to start in on the sign carrier herself, am I?) The orange Liberty Bell is awkward, isn't it? So big and commandeering there. And the two Statues of Liberty are facing the same way; I'd prefer they both face inward, toward each other. Finally, the flags in the shape of the USA--very obvious and overstated. And slapping them over Lady Liberty is just overkill. And why a pink handle to carry this sign? Urg.

Think of what all we could say if we just started in on the basic philosophy of the sign's sentiments. And because this is America, we have the fredom to do just that! We have nothing to loose, and even our childen can join the debate. What a country!

photo found here

Of Animals And Arizona And Abby (The Second)--And All Better Now!

Pardon me, but it's time to shake out a little Cerebral Residue. I've simply got to get rid of these little clutterbits and oddments that have been taking up the more...Intellectual Residences of my brain.

}*{ When I was watching the Preakness, a couple of thoughts occurred to me, and--obviously--I haven't been able to get rid of them. Firstly, why are the horses that escort the racehorses (I have no idea what the proper term for these Buddy Horses is) so much better-looking than the actual entrants? I mean, these are some gorgeous animals. They are vastly more interesting, for one thing: they are spotty or lovely grey or just much prettier. I prefer horses that come in different colors, not just brown or black. I always root for any grey horse, even if it looks like a brokendown old nag with its tongue tied off to the side or something. Secondly, what is up with Maryland's badass State Song? Holy crap, have you ever listened to that song's lyrics? Let me tell you, that is one Thug Anthem song. Talkin' 'bout "Avenge the patriotic gore" and "Remember Howard's warlike thrust" and even "She spurns the Northern scum!" Hey! That Maryland talks a helluva lot of trash! I used to want to retire to southern Maryland, but once I got deep into that State Song, believe you me, this is one Northern Scum that got totally spurned. Mission accomplished, Maryland!

}*{Speaking of relocating, I used to have Arizona on that list, too. Oh well--another one bites the dust! Hey, Arizona! You are just Ohio with better weather. I already live in the State Of Intolerance (aka OHIO)! We said no to gay marriage a long time ago, and now one of our downstate statesmen wants to adopt your model for an immigration law. "Get over yourself, Nance," Rick said. "There is no place that fits every requirement you have. Besides, Arizona is redder than Ohio. What were you thinking?" I don't know. Help!

}*{In today's Plain Dealer the second letter to Dear Abby was...startling. I read it aloud to Sam this morning. He laughed and said, "Better ask Dad if he wrote it." For the record, allow me to state the following: 1. My children are done with college; 2. Rick and I adopted the kittens together; 3. I have only photographed them a couple of times; 4. Rick and I have a lot of feline-free time together and not much of it is spent talking about the kittens. (Both of whom, however, are still pretty cute.)

}*{Finally, two more animal-related notes: one about bunnies and another about cows. Longtime readers of the Dept. (and even the now-defunct Stuff On Our List) will recall how I often bemoaned the fact that Bunnies Are Sadly Under-utilized In Advertising. I have noticed now that there are two commercials on television that use bunnies! Upsettingly, one includes a snake, but hey! We cannot have everything. My second Animal Newsnote deserves a little paragraph all its own.

}*{This exciting Cow Mention was brought to me by my Google News Cow Alert. There is a baseball team called the Delaware Cows! Here is their logo. Also known as the Battlin' Bovines, the Delaware Cows have, naturally, a website where you can get all kinds of gear bearing this baseball bossy. As you know, I am not On Board with animals wearing clothing, but the simple fact that there is a baseball team known as the Cows is good publicity for the herds, who have been taking the heat for global warming--wrongly, some environmentalists and scientists now claim.

I feel like we've been able to cover a lot of topics with this one, Readers. And I feel so very...refreshed! It's been lovely. Do shake out a bit yourself in Comments, should you feel so compelled.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: WTF?!?

Even if this sign were continued on the back, it still wouldn't make any sense. Even if the word "descent" was supposed to be "decent", it still defies comprehension using any stretch of the English syntax. Let's even add the proper comma after the admonition "Remember" for him, shall we? Remember, descent (is) the highest form of patriotic...WHAT? "Patriotic" is an adjective. It has to modify a NOUN.

Descent from what? Descent itself? I just don't get it.

Come on, teaparty sign makers! Let's at least TRY!





photo found here

Dept.'s Inferno: How I Survived A Circle Of Hell, And There Weren't Even republicans There!

Disaster averted at the Dept. yesterday.

NEO--for those of you who don't remember, that's the ubercool way to refer to NorthEast Ohio--is having a HeatWave currently, and even though I don't mind temperatures in the upper registers, I loathe our tropical humidity. I have no idea why we get such drippy humidity here in this state, but we do. And it's like walking through a tub of baby's bathwater. Urgh.

So. Naturally, on Monday morning our central air decided to perform its Swan Song. I heard a horrid metallic screaming sound as I stood at the kitchen sink preparing to load my coffee cup. Horrified, I turned to Sam. "Do you hear that?" I said. "Please tell me that is not coming from the air conditioner." I opened the window closest to the unit, and it confirmed my worst fear. "Oh no! It Is!" I said in doomed tones to Sam, who sat placidly on the couch. Wild-eyed, I repeated myself to him in a panicked wail, adding, "Do you realize how HUMID it's going to be the next few days?"

Sam looked up from his Blackberry. "Yep. It's gonna be brutal," he said unhelpfully. "Wow."

I flung on some shoes (which did not match my outfit, sadly) and ran out to the AC unit. Helplessly, I stood by while it screamed. I started banging on it with my fist then stopped, horrified. What if it simply...QUIT?!

As I turned to go back into the house, the machine suddenly quieted. The fan still spinning, it seemed to be back to normal. I exhaled audibly and reported the good news to Sam, who was moved not at all. "I have to get ready to go to work," he said. "Good luck with all of that."

Good luck? What is that? By the time Rick got home from work, I noticed that the indoor thermometer had been climbing, but the AC had not stopped running. The temperature in the house was at 80 degrees. I put my hand in front of one of the registers and felt the air coming out: not very cool.

And then Rick tried to prepare me for the worst: "That AC is 20 years old, Nance. We had to jerry-rig it last year to keep it running, and it needs to be replaced. This may be it. We may have to shut it down." He went outside to look at the unit.

Sadly, those words were prophetic. When he came inside, he flipped the switch and then tried to break it to me gently. "Holy shit! You should have smelled that thing! The motor has burned up. It's fried! IT'S OVER! THIS IS IT! We have to open up and put on some fans and I'll see what I can do tomorrow."

--Readers, I was so brave. I really was. It is part of my New Philosophy, which is "Try to be brave and, failing that, swear less." Or something like that. It's very Zen.

Okay. Anyway, I spent an entire day of Beastly Humidity without air. The kittens were even lethargic. We stayed under the ceiling fans, drank lots of water, and read. (Well, I read; Piper and Marlowe napped, mostly.) Last night, Rick brought home a Temporary Fix--a replacement motor, and he tried to Lower My Expectation. "I have this motor they said might work. But it might not, because if the (insert name of techy AC part I forgot here) is fried, then forget it. But we can try it." He went outside with some tools and a shaky sense of optimism to see what he could do.

VICTORY! Temporary motor is in, working, and my house became cool again. It took quite some time, however; it was 84 degrees inside. As soon as the AC kicked on, Piper scampered to the register, felt the cool air, and capered around the dining room. The lower the temperature dropped, the more playful the kittens became.

Obviously, they have a Different Philosophy.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: I'd Like To Buy A Vowel (Among Other Things), Vanna

I could go on and on with the "full of shit" metaphor here, but really, I'd rather let all of you.

In Which I Debate The Merits Of Being A Domestic Goddess

When Rick and I first married, we used to ruefully call our time spent doing any household cleaning "Marital Blissing." Our little one-bedroom apartment didn't have a dishwasher, and as much as I hate to admit it, we'd often go far too long before we finally did the dishes by hand. As a result, we'd stand for more than an hour at the double sink, one of us washing and the other drying and putting away. It was awful.

I still loathe housework. Sometimes I do get "in the mood," but not that often, and I go on a major tear, like I did yesterday. The weather was yucky and humid, so in the hormonal grip of a Cleaning Frenzy, I took advantage of the airconditioned environs of my house and got busy. The kittens did not appreciate it much since it involved more vacuuming than they have heretofore been used to in their now two-week residency, but they did like the dusting aspect.

("Dusting!? You were dusting? Call the doctor immediately!" longtime Dept. readers interject here, knowing my antipathy toward that activity, and that I do it as infrequently as possible, trying only for Christmastime and, perhaps, the odd Easter here and there.)

Back to vacuuming. I have a Problem With Vacuuming, and here it is: once I have begun to vacuum, I have trouble stopping. Is anyone else afflicted with this proclivity? It's just that it's such a bigass thing to haul out and fling around, I feel as if I may as well just vacuum the hell out of every single floor I own. And then I have to worry whatever little crudhunk is somehow able to elude my Dyson. "Why isn't that thingy getting sucked up?" I wonder aloud. So, I do what everyone does: I pick it up, look at it, THEN I FLICK IT BACK UPON THE FLOOR AND RUN IT OVER AGAIN WITH THE VACUUM! Honestly, it's a Sickness.

Oh, and dusting. I am a fan of the Pledge. Especially now when I have discovered that you can use it on leather. We have a nice set of leather furniture, and I spray the Pledge on the rag and wipe it on the leather furniture and voila! Lovely. It also provides satisfying entertainment when the kittens, who are unaware that the furniture has been Pledged, leap onto the ottoman and go sliding off of it. Do not, however, mistakenly assume that this means I will be dusting more in future. Oh, ha ha. It is to laugh.

Many years ago, I was suckered in by the Stainless Steel Appliance Craze. In other words, I was An Idiot. I hate my stove and refrigerator, both stainless steel. That brushed chrome-esque finish is a Royal Pain In My Ass. Those appliances are not for people who really cook and use their kitchens For Real. And you can't clean them with Just Anything. I have used approximately eleventy billion bottles of Windex on both of them, which I have found to be the Only Thing That Really Works and doesn't cost a fortune and isn't Worky To Use. Plus--no magnets. I know that some people really like the uncluttered look of a bare fridge door, but I like to use mine for notes and reminders and a calendar. I have a very small kitchen, and the fridge is still the Number One Place Where Everyone Is Sure To See Something. Magnets, remember Science Wizards, do not stick to stainless.

AND! If you are ever looking at a black cooktop--DO. NOT. BUY. IT. It is also not for anyone who Really Cooks. One would think, "Hey! Black will hide everything!" One would be Dead Wrong. Instead, it shows everything. My cooktop has made my Cooking Life miserable. And the minute I have cleaned it, it seems that the next meal I cook involves mashed potatoes or something else which spatters or boils over and the unrelenting sorrow begins anew.

Must we even discuss cleaning bathrooms? Let me just say this: I have covered this topic here, and little has changed. Sometimes I wish it were possible just to drag the garden hose in through the window, turn that sucker on, blast the place, and let it all...drain out...somehow. Wouldn't that be great?

Housecleaning, like grocery shopping, has very little Return On Investment. It Never Stays Done! Oh sure, when the house is first all clean, you can bask in the glory of a Clean House and that Feeling Of Accomplishment. Then someone takes a shower and someone else has a snack in the living room and someone else craps up the place. Sigh. What we need is the Perfect Solution. Like this:

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: "Mommy, Something Still Doesn't Look Right."

Absolutely everything in me wants so very much to believe that the little girl made her own sign, but you and I both know that she didn't. She's just a pawn in her teapartying mother's campaign here. It's also obvious that, after the "Stop" sign was originally completed, Mom stood back and realized that the R was missing. In her haste to get Rallied Up, she quickly worked to remedy her mistake. Oh well.

Also mystifying is the "Get" sign's use of the noun handout and the ellipsis punctuation mark. Is it, in fact, sarcastic in nature (i.e. the teaparty's belief that President Obama is merely giving everybody a handout, so, hey, "get your handout...ah, ah, ah...I meant of my pocket, buster!" ); therefore, it is a vastly clever play on words? I am skeptical of this, naturally, because I highly doubt that the Average Teaparty Member has this level of smarts and/or capacity for humor. Instead, I prefer to think that this woman--who could not spell "working", remember--merely stuck the two words together and added the dotdotdot for her own emphasis or misguided Punctuation Rule/Reason.

No matter. The "Stop" sign alone is priceless. Can't help feel sorry for the little girl, though.

Attribution: here.

The Dept. Adds Staff And A Further Appreciation For Irony

Meet Marlowe and Piper. They joined the Dept. on May 29th when we got them from the local APL. Yeah, yeah...I remember this post from last year. I also know that almost every single post that has a "cats" tag also has a "complaining" tag. But look:

They are brother and sister--littermates--yet they couldn't be more opposite. Piper, the orange striped one, is tiny, more timid, and very loving and cuddly. His sister Marlowe, the grey tortoiseshell, is bouncy and bold and fearless. When I got them, Piper weighed 1.7 pounds; Marlowe, 2.4. Let's just say that both of them are probably considerably more than that now. Piper ended up needing some pretty serious medical care, but thankfully everything turned out just fine.

I told my mother, who just turned 80, that I had adopted two new kittens. Keep in mind, please, that I turned 51 a month ago, and that my mother is fully aware of this fact.

Me: They're so cute, Mom.
Mom: (unsure) But two, Nance.
Me: I know. But you should see them. They're so little and adorable.
Mom: (in wise, advisory mother tone) Now you know, Nance, they won't stay little forever. They're going to get big. They'll grow up, you know.


Sigh.


Anyway, before they do grow up, I'm really enjoying this Kitten Time. When they do grow up, as my mother assures me they will, I probably won't get as much of this:


(that's my pajama leg there)

School's Out For Summer! (But Before We Leave, A Little Glimpse Into My World, And William Shakespeare's)

I'm postponing the Prodigy of the Week in order to bring you this worthy delight.

About a month ago a student research essay was left on the common printer in the lounge I frequent at The Rock. It was apparent that one of my colleagues who teaches a freshman repeater class had allowed the student writer to either type it on the computer in her classroom or send it as an attachment to her via email. In any case, she printed it a couple of times, I guess, because this one was left on the printer for a couple of days before I finally laid claim to it. I have no idea if it is a final draft or a first draft, but it is definitely student writing. Trust me, it brought untold joy to the English department for days and days. Now, I'm ready to share its bounty, just as it is, completely unedited:

Back in the day fashion was simple all they wore was dresses, and fencing acted as a sport and dance was very common in Elizabethan era. The three most common things in shakespearion era was fashion, fencing, and dancing.

Was Elizabethan dance common. Yes, Elizabethan dance was common. Elizabethan dance was highly sophisticated and stated with intricate steps and nuances. I don't think I could do that dance. What is a nuance? Many of the court dances were performed as couples. What if you didn't like your partner? How many different partners did you have? That is about how common dance was in the shakespear era.

Was fashion much different then it is today? Yes fashion was. I would of never wore that stuff. I'm glad fashion has changed. And there clothes had a lot of patterns on them. I think there clothes were ugly. At least there fashion was simple. That's how fashion was back in the day.

Was a real way of fighting? Yes, it was they have used it for centuries. Fencing is one of the first forms or sword fighting. Back in the day it wasn't just a art form, it was also the most protection you can get. There is a whole bunch of weapons to use while fencing. They figured wearying a cage on there face would be enough protection. They also used the cage so they don't see each others faces. It is hard to get use to seeing threw the cage. Fencing was a real way of fighting and still is, thanks to back in the day in shakespear and era.

These are three important topics to the Elizabethan era. The Elizabethan era was long ago but we still learn about it today. We still do celebrate parties that closely resembles an Elizabethan partie.

There is, of course, an attached page of "Work Cited" that contains the obligatory Wikipedia reference along with another website.

I suppose you could look at it and be dismayed and horrified, but I consider the source: Freshman Repeater. And because I don't know if this is a first draft or a final, I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. Finally, just reading it is hilarious. I love its conversational tone, rhetorical questions, and use of "back in the day."

And now that I'm on Summer Vacation, hell, everything is funnier.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: When Wall Street And Whitney Houston Collide And No One Thought To Run Spell-Check

Not only are a spelling error and a punctuation error here, I am also mystified by the addition of the two red stars bracketing the imperative DON'T. Are they a design element or some sort of teabag punctuation mark? And doesn't the bow seem a bit like it's muddling the Message? It's like tacking on a little Tweety Bird-voiced "please?" or "okay?" at the end of the sign's directive.

Come on, tea party sign carrier! Go Hard Or Go Home!

found here: http://blogs.seattleweekly.com/dailyweekly/2010/03/the_10_funniest_teabonics_sign.php

In Which I Confess, Digress, And Then Mess With A Victorian Novelist Because I Really Hate The Whole Irony Thing Anymore

In a cruel twist of Irony, I found a paperback copy of The Mill on the Floss as I was cleaning out my storage cabinet at school. I first read it approximately one hundred years ago--in my junior year of college--while taking a class called The Victorian Novel. It was taught by a professor named Dr. Robb, who I promptly fell deeply and madly in love with for no apparent reason other than the fact that he was profoundly intelligent and I loved the Victorian novel. (I didn't find him physically attractive; he looked exactly like Mike Farrell, who played BJ Hunnicutt in the TV series M*A*S*H.) Here is a perfect likeness.

But I digress.

As you can see by my sidebar, I started rereading the book. Big mistake. In the intervening hundred years, I had forgotten what a downer those Victorian novels were. And this one, written by George Eliot (a pseudonym for Mary Ann Evans) is really, really laborious and unrelenting.

So, I feel as if I have to vent a little bit in this, a sort of open letter/rant to George Eliot/Mary Ann Evans:

Oh, George Eliot. Were you and Thomas Hardy and maybe a Bronte or two sitting around one night in a damp, draughty house with nothing to do but deprive yourselves of creature comforts? And once that got old, did one of you say, (a la Percy and Mary Shelley and Lord Byron), "Let's each of us write a really sad, sorrowful, unrelentingly grim tale, the heroine of which will be a dark-haired girl whose life is nothing but tragic irony"? And all of you did?

And you know me: I had to read that whole damn book until the very end, even now, when I am feeling just a little bit like a dark-haired Victorian heroine myself.

Luckily, I found this. It puts everything into a little bit better perspective. Enjoy it!

New Feature: teaparty Prodigy Of The Week

While I attempt to locate my sanity amid the boxes, I've decided to take it easy on myself and start a New Feature here at the Dept. Each week, I will find an illustrative photo of a teaparty (remember, I refuse to capitalize, and thus legitimize, this organization) member and post it here for your perusal and judgment. I consider it a Public Service.

Here, then, for your consideration, I present Exhibit #1:

Wow. Where do I begin? I'm going to not be too terribly nitpicky and just count 6 basic errors in what my students and I term "MUGS"--Mechanics, Usage, Grammar, Spelling. I'll allow the rest of you to take Points Off for lack of coherence and no central theme.

Begin.

attribution:http://www.flickr.com/photos/pargon/ / CC BY 2.0

Feeling A Little Boxed In At The Moment

It's so near the End Of The School Year that I'm feeling stressed out and relieved at the same time. In addition to Teen Wrangling and attempting to cram a little more academics into unwilling minds, we have to pack every single bit of the content of our rooms--including all of our textbooks--because about two days after we leave on 27 May, the demolition crews arrive and knock our building down. The Collateral Damage is that I'm fragmented and distracted at home. I find that I want to just sit down--alone--in silence; I don't want to make decisions, talk, or even listen. I get massive headaches at night that are still there when I wake up as my body tries to deal with the tension.

As I look at the piles of boxes in my classroom, I wonder aloud how hoarders live the way they do, habitually surrounded by clutter. I can barely stand the orderly wall of boxes that mark a pathway to my door, or the stack of boxes-yet-to-be-made leaning neatly against the wall. Every spare minute I can, I devote to packing. It makes for a hectic day. Luckily, I have wonderful students who offer to help--and they are a big help. But I still have to direct, inventory, label, and double-check. In the back of my mind looms the reverse--the unpacking when school starts.

You know, it's almost enough to make me start wearing flats to work. Almost. If I had any.

This stress, this fatigue, this...whatever (look! the writing teacher can't even come up with A Good Word!) is making my perspective skewed. I have a dim view of everything, and I busy myself with making up Horrid Lists, like "People Who Need To Be Publicly Slapped" (1. Palin 2. Limbaugh 3. Mike Brown 4. Glenn Beck 5. Octowomb{she's no mom}, oh I could go on and on); "Things I Must Accept Will Never Happen" (1. Crocs will be outlawed 2. the tea party will be declared a domestic terrorist organization 3. saying "irregardless" will be punishable by death 4. sweatpant wearing in public will be a misdemeanor 5. the republicans will finally be called out on their shit). Those are the very mild ones. Believe me, there are some that are far more dire.

So, while I'm in this Dark Place, I'd better take a little break. I'll be back when things clear up a bit...when I've "packed up my troubles," so to speak. I hope it's not too long; I'm sick of boxes.

Being A Mom Is Not All FTD And Brunches, You Know: The Dept. Takes A Walk on The Romero/Hitchcock Side Of Motherhood (Again)

*this is previously posted material from long, long ago when my blog was just a newborn; it contains minor edits*

If the producers and directors of horror films were smart, they'd have their test audiences comprised solely of moms. Because we know scary. We confront it every day; moreover, we stare it down and kick its ass. It is part of our on-the-job training, and even playing with dollies does little to ready us for when it rears its ugly head.

Consider the labor and delivery room: Not only do we propel, through sheer brute force, a human being averaging 8 pounds and 20 inches out of our bodies, but while we are attempting to do so, someone is sticking his/her fingers inside us, strapping machinery to us, and, in my case, leading in a pack of student nurses to interview us and observe us, taking notes during the entire event and then admonishing us when we are a teensy weensy bit less than polite.

Then, at various times throughout Momhood, we are vomited on, snotted on, peed on, diarrhea-ed on, and forced to deal with "boo-boos," some of which require a trip to the Emergency Room--also known as "The Department of Motor Vehicles Medical Center"--where we see people who look like extras from Central Casting for The Night of the Living Dead. After we get home, we get to clean all these bodily fluids up, while retching upon our own.

And, because of our supernatural diagnostic powers, we are subjected to a barrage of horrific encounters almost continually if we have teenagers, a species well-known for its low grossness threshhold.

Teen: Mom, taste this.

Mom: Why?

Teen: Just taste it.

Mom: But I don't want any.

Teen: You don't have to eat it, just taste it.

Mom: Good God! Okay, fine! (tastes it) There. It's good. Why?

Teen: It smelled funny. I thought it might be rotten and I wasn't sure.

And it's not just our palates that are assailed. Our vision is assaulted as well:

Teen: (in bathroom, calling): Mom! (pauses imperceptibly) MOM!!!!!

Mom: (rushes in) What?! What's the matter?

Teen: Is there something on my back?

Mom: What? Is that all? You sounded like you were bleeding to death.

Teen: I can feel something gross on my back but I can't get it.

Mom: Let me see....Eeew! It's a huge zit. Just leave it alone.

Teen: Mom! I know it's back there. It's gross. You have to get it.

Mom: I don't want to touch it. Yuck.

Teen: Mom! Please. You have to. I don't want my new American Eagle shirt to even touch it.

Mom: I'll put a band-aid on it, then.

Teen: Mom, come on! You have to. Just squeeze it real quick.

Mom: (Sighs) Okay. Brace yourself. (Squeezes) Ugh!

Teen: Ouch! Oh my God! Mom! Geeze! What the Heck!!!!

And this is the same child who, upon entering and seeing that I am watching "Dr 90210", the plastic surgery show on the Style Network, says, "Oh my God, Mom, how can you watch all that blood and guts and crap?".

If Moms wrote the script for a horror movie, can you imagine what it would be? Mine, now that my kids are 22 and 25, would be one in which the boys never left home but got some low-life trashy Tea Party wenches from the Fundamentalist Right "in trouble" and tried to live here with their babies, played country music at top volume, spoke with bad grammar, and brought yappy dogs into my house. Seriously scary stuff, that.

I'll be back soon with Something New. In the meantime, Happy Mother's Day to all the Moms, Moms-to-Be, and Those With Moms.

The Dept. Of Nance: Your One-Stop News Source. We Follow The News So That You Don't Have To

As you know, there is no better place to keep up with All Animal News than here at the Dept. Also, I feel confident that I keep you abreast of All Things Important Politically as they occur. Allow me to assure you that, should anything else of Major Importance occur in the World Of News In General, I will bring it to you here. Really, there is no need to look anywhere else for your news needs.

Could I be any more Wonderful and Informative? (Not to mention well-dressed and with an impeccable footwear wardrobe?) But I digress.

Item! Citizens of the Boston Metro Area are under a boil alert after a water main break occurred in their area. Here is Valuable News Commentary from the Dept. News Desk:

Nance: Ha! That's what they get for sending their bullshit basketball team to Cleveland.
Rick: Is that what it is?
Nance: Of course. You see what one of their thugs did to Shaquille O'Neal. And they tried to hurt LeBron last night.
Rick: True.
Nance: And! They elected a republican to the US Senate to replace Ted Kennedy! KARMA.
Rick: And wasn't Mitt Romney just here?
Nance: That's right! He spoke at Ashland University's commencement this weekend. Holy crap. So, oh well, Boston. You can suck it.

Item! I grew up as the daughter of a union steelworker and I belong to our local teachers' association. I am constantly fighting for the rights of the worker. That's why this item caught my eye immediately, even though its dateline is Copenhagen, Denmark. I don't care where it is, when The Worker is being oppressed, I am on it, that is my vow to you. Workers at the Carlsberg brewery were forced to walk off the job in protest last month when Man den (translation from the Danish: "The Man") suddenly changed policy on them and changed a rule that had been in practice since 1847. (Hey! What would you do?) Here's the deal: Brewery management removed all the beer coolers and demanded that employees limit their beer consumption to their 30-minute lunch period only. What is up with THAT? I mean, how is a hardworking brewery employee supposed to make it through the day? Just to show you how sympathetic others are to the plight of these workers, Carlsberg's truck drivers joined the strike in sympathy — even though they are exempt from the new rules, a spokesman from the brewery said. "The truck drivers are permitted to bring three beers from the canteen because they often don't have time to have lunch there." I'm going to let you think about the Irony of that while I ponder the value (for both me and my students) of having a Martini Bar in the second-floor lounge at The Rock. PS--There is a coffeepot in there as well, so no worries.

Item! File this under "Duh." Stephen Hawking, major Smartypants on all things in the Universe--literally--is advising caution to all those other science eggheads who are all fired up about making contact with alien beings. Hawking, who appears in a new documentary for Discovery, reminds us that the vastness of the universe makes it highly likely that life exists outside our galaxy although most of it is probably microbial or in the form of single-celled or very simple animals. On the chance that other civilizations do exist, however, Dr. Hawking thinks we might not want to extend an open invitation to just anyone. "Reaching out to the stars with our messages of curiosity and peace may only make it easier for an advanced alien mining operation to stake a claim on Earth," Hawking warns. He also makes the analogy to the Native Americans being visited by white European settlers, claiming it "didn't turn out brilliantly for them." To summarize, Discovery comments, "it might be better if we kept our location a secret rather than being so anxious to make contact." I'm with you, Stephen (if I may call you Stephen; you, of course, may call me Nance). I saw "V" the first time around. And "Geronimo."

Item! Allow me just one Cow News Story, and you will be well rewarded. In a deal brokered last year but which just became finalized recently, three-year old Holstein milker Missy Gold was sold for the staggering sum of $1,238,508. This was For A Cow. Missy, described as "long and leggy with perfectly shaped teats for efficient milking...has a big chest that indicates a healthy heart" and can calve as many as 75 offspring and produce 50% more milk than the average cow in her lifetime. If any of those calves are males, each one could sell for upwards of $550,448 US. Now, this article was found in a Kenyan press, so consider the source, but its tone is so admiring and its style is so endearing that you just know they love their cows. Especially wonderful and...informative is this excerpt: "Maybe at one time Kenyan farmers will enjoy a piece of Missy, described by a farm spokesman as having an ego and big personality, since the country is a major consumer of semen from the US." Really, now, after that, what more is there to say?

This has been A Dept. of Nance News Update. Remember to check back here often for Late-Breaking Developments as they occur. Or when I feel like it.