Cars, Cattens, Contagion, and Critique--I Sacrifice My Health To Bring Them All To You (My Benevolence Knows No Bounds)

Hello? Is this thing on?

Sigh. I apologize for the Overlong Hiatus, I really do, but Things happen, and in the intervening time, I have also broken one of my own Sacrosanct Edicts and--insert dire sounding music here--gotten sick.

I know.

It is beyond horrid. I have a sinus infection, an ear infection, a...well, TMI already. It is hideous. I am snotful and coughing and miserable and I BLAME RICK. The people at his offices keep on passing around this Vile Contagion, and he has brought it home to me. Probably he should have stayed at a hotel or something until it finally died out or whatever. Suffice it to say that I am annoyed and feeling much put-upon, no--victimized at this point.

I have had to abandon my job for two days, abandon weekend plans, and abandon this blog. I am, however, fighting through the pain to be with all of you and bring you some of the cerebral scrap being edged out by all the mucus in my head.

{*}Rick and I bought a Prius last weekend. He finally got rid of his truck, which was traumatic. It made sense for us now, though, since he no longer needs a truck for his job and gas prices are what they are. The boys cannot believe their father does not have a truck; he's always been a Truck Guy their whole lives. Sam, who once sold cars, was quick to point out that we are the Cliche Prius Owners. "You're over fifty, empty nesters, Democrats, and already own a hybrid. You, Mom, are near retirement and fixed income status. It was your destiny."

{*}Piper and Marlowe had their First Birthday on March 10th. This means that they are officially Not Kittens any more. I have a hard time with this because I have referred to them collectively as The Kittens since they came to live with us in May. Just like Sam and Jared, who are soon to be 23 and 26 respectively, will always be The Boys, Piper and Marlowe will be kittens to me. I am trying out the transitional term "The Cattens" for now. They could not possibly care any less, believe me, as long as I fill their dish at 6:30 AM and 5:30 PM. Has Piper lost any weight? I like to think so, but everyone else will say No. They have gotten more active--yes they have, Sam and Jared; you are not here all the time!--but Piper still has a flabknot and eats so fast that he gets hiccups after every meal.

{*}Interesting critique session during Creative Writing II the other day. A student had a line in his poem about algae squishing around his feet. Several students took issue with the tone of the line in relation to the rest of his poem. He defended it vociferously. I offered a criticism as well. He responded with, "Well, Mrs. D., if you ever in your life had been in a lake..." Okay. Again I am confronted with student perception of my image. I immediately stopped and took a survey:

Mrs. D.: Okay. Show of hands. How many of you doubt that I have ever been in a lake?
(in a class of 14, more than half raise their hands--probably 10)
Mrs. D.: WHAT? You are serious. Why on earth would you think that?
Poet: Oh, come on. Look at you. There is no way you're getting into a lake. I mean...
Angela: You already told us you don't know how to swim. And, that you don't like to go in the water.
Dylan: Yeah, and lakes have mud on the bottom, and sand. And you hate the beach.
Poet: Don't even try it.
Mrs. D.: Give me a break. All of you. You forget one thing. I was not born at the age of 51. I had a childhood, remember? I have been in lakes, plenty of them. Geeze. You remember the craziest stuff.

That's all for now. I am overcome with sludginess. I am spraying stuff up my nose, cramming stuff down my throat, blowing junk out of my head, and in general, feeling like this:

And, why do things always get worse at night? By 5:30 or so, I end up feeling more like this:

It is such a Tragedy.

The Defender of The Language Returns, For Evil Never Sleeps In The Minds Of Those Bent Upon The Destruction Of English

Once again, the Defender of The Language will use this space to take questions from vexed readers residing all across this Great Land of Ours. She will try her best to repair these breaches in that Sacred Trust. First to share a concern is Reverend Nigel Ellsworth, from Maine.

Oh, Defender, cheers! I had the most embarrassing conversation with one of my parishioners. She wanted my guidance with regard to her teenaged son. He had started hanging around with a bad lot of friends, and she was worried about him starting up with drugs. She wanted my advice as to how to, in her words, "nip it in the butt." I almost wept with embarrassment! Surely that is not an accepted alternative to the idiom, is it? Isn't the proper saying still to "nip it in the bud?"

That must have been embarrassing, indeed, Reverend, for both of you, although your congregant was oblivious to her mangling of this common idiom. You are correct. The saying is "nip it in the bud," and if you visualize it, you can imagine exactly what the metaphor is behind it. It means to deal with a problem when it first appears, before it has a chance to grow larger. Now you, and even your hapless parishioner, can see why "nipping it in the butt" is both awkwardly embarrassing and nonsensical. Certainly it is painful for the problem at hand, but it's illogical: how would nipping anything in the...er, butt solve the problem?

Next, Chrystal from Providence has a question. Chrystal? Chrystal! You're up! DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION OR NOT?

Huh? You don't have to shout at me. God! Whatever. My question is this. My boyfriend has this big paper due tomorrow and I'm helping him with it. His grammar and stuff is terrible. We just had a humongous fight over two stupid words, everyday and a lot. He keeps pushing both of them together, no matter what. I told him like twenty times that he's totally wrong. He won't believe me. Can you tell him he's a big freaking idiot so that I'm not the one he's mad at and I can still go to Prom?

Well, Chrystal, tear the tags off that dress, my dear. You are going to the prom. Let's deal with everyday first. When written as one word, everyday is an adjective, and it means "commonplace, ordinary, usual." It would be describing a noun. You could use it thusly: These are my everyday shoes. If written as two distinct words, it then describes a time--"each day." You could then use it in this way: I eat cereal every day. Your second issue, a lot, is somewhat easier. As a skilled and careful writer, you should simply avoid it, especially in a lengthy, scholarly paper. It is inexact and flabby. You are, however, correct. It is always, always, always written as two words, whether describing a great deal of something or, more correctly, a parcel of land upon which you might place a building. I would prefer that you only use it for the latter.

Finally, we will hear from Felicia, stationed in Guam.

Hey, Defender! Memorias, everyone! I realize that I'm in a whole different country over here, but I still speak English, and the majority of the people I deal with on a daily basis do, too. I've noticed a disturbing trend, and I wondered if I missed something since I've been stationed here. Did "have went" suddenly become proper? Am I the wrong one?

Felicia, thank you for your service. The short answer to your question is a resounding NO. The perfect tense of the verb "go" is and always has been "gone," whether it is with the helping verb "has," "had," or "have." It is, therefore, correct to say I had gone to the gym rather than the horrid I had went to the gym. As to the reason why you are suddenly hearing such dismaying speech in Guam, I have no idea, but I am as distressed as you are. What a terrible ordeal for you so far from home. Buena Suette.

As always, if you have a question or concern for the Defender of The Language, leave it in Comments or email Nance here at the Dept. of Nance by clicking the email link in the sidebar. Questions and issues will be addressed in the next column.

To Grandmother's House We Go

On nights that I can't sleep, I sometimes take a memory walk through my grandparents' house in Ashland, Ohio, on East Liberty Street. As soon as I enter the front door, I smile because of the couch: there it is in all its rose-pink glory. What a family scandal that davenport caused, and what a topic for conversation it became for years. I was so enamoured of that couch, and I couldn't wait to tell Grandma so. "Grandma, I love that couch! It's gorgeous!" I said to her as I walked in and hugged her. She looked up at me from her chair at her sewing machine--where she always was--and her eyes were positively sparking with orneriness. Holding my hands, she said, "Oh you do now, do you? Well, it's pink, anyway. There's some that don't like it so awful much. Supposed to be rose. The color, I mean." She looked a little thoughtful for a moment, then still holding both my hands, said, "Well, I'm glad you do. And the rest'll still sit on it, either way."

I don't remember who actually picked out that couch--maybe an aunt or even a decorator--but it was the boldest piece in the room. Even the red glass chandelier above the stairway (which one uncle once likened to something seen in a bordello) couldn't compare to it. As I linger in Grandma and Grandpa's living room, I am drawn to the serenity of one corner where her chair waits patiently each evening, the floor lamp hovering beside it. Here, at day's end, Grandma sits and reads her Bible like a devoted scholar of the Word. I used to watch her, quiet and careful, to see if she was getting comfort, peace, happiness, or enlightenment from this daily ritual. Each time I observed her, she seemed to be studying, learning, almost...girding. My grandmother, who saw the Reverend Billy Graham as a sort of ecclesiastical superhero, was gritty about her Bible.

As is the case with many homes, Grandma and Grandpa used their dining room for everything but dining. Theirs contained Grandpa's desk, a dark mahogany trove of drawers which seemed to contain something new and exciting every time we visited; an exquisitely carved tall writing secretary that would make an Antiques Roadshow host salivate; one of Grandma's several sewing machines (I think this is the one she won as a prize for something); an actual drop-leaf dining room table shoved up against the wall; an incredibly comfortable but noisy rocking chair which all the grandkids loved because it rocked so far back that it was almost dangerous; and a frosted glass light fixture hanging from the middle of the ceiling that all of us kids called The Wedding Cake. This light fixture was huge, looked handpainted, and did look exactly like a wedding cake. Sometimes, my little sister and I would lie on our backs just to look at it. And on one memorable visit, we found an ancient pack of cigarettes in the desk drawer.

In the kitchen is where the defining character of Grandma and Grandpa's marriage becomes clear. On any given day when we would come to visit them, we would be likely to find Grandpa washing dishes or setting out the lunch dishes (only, they called the afternoon meal "dinner"; the evening meal was "supper") or puttering at some chore or other. Grandma was invariably at her sewing machine--the primary one--in the kitchen. She had a couple of machines she used, and her Number One was a treadle machine. There it is, at the back of the kitchen behind the table, right under all the windows. Next to it is a little half-bath. Grandma's kitchen is, to me, huge. And the cupboards seem to go all the way up to the ceiling. How can they reach all the way up there? It isn't a big deal, though; all the everyday things are down low, and the Important Things For Grandchildren are stored in the lowest cabinet of all. Those things are the cookies. I can see them now: thick, brown molasses cookies and her "white" cookies made with sour cream, both soft and fat and as big around as a baby's head. Oh lord, those cookies. Some years, I was all about the brown cookies; other years, the white. And it didn't matter when we came to visit, there were always cookies! How did she do it?

It is a kitchen of Many Little Miracles. Horehound drops and pink wintergreen discs. Creamy homemade mints from my Uncle Marshall's candy shop. Pies with strange fruits like ground-cherries and elderberries and my all-time favorite, rhubarb. Pennsylvania Dutch pot pie, which isn't pie at all, but doughy dumplings and ham hocks and rich broth. Grandma and Grandpa canned everything, and we had corn that tasted like summertime, even in the grey doldrums of winter. Grandpa was famous for "cleaning up the last" of everything, leading to odd mixtures and creations on his plate. Once, Grandma scolded him for eating peanut butter and baloney, and he made a funny face at her behind her back to make us laugh.

It was decades before the idea of the Man Cave, but that's what Grandpa's basement and garage were. Downstairs, Grandpa had built himself a workshop for turning out whatever hardware was necessary for the latest of Grandma's sewing projects. For the longest time, it was fancy doll beds that Grandma was making skirts and sheets and coverlets for and selling at the Senior Citizens' Center. Grandpa made the actual beds for her to dress. Also downstairs was a sawhorse with a real saddle that we grandkids would ride to let off steam, the canning stove and equipment (perfect for playing house), and the door to the garage. We didn't go out in the garage without Grandpa, and my memory is very dim here. Stories abound, however, about Grandpa letting cider "go hard" out there. I'm not sure I believe them, partly because I can't imagine Grandpa ever being without full possession of his faculties, and partly because I can't imagine Grandma putting up with that behavior because, believe me, there was absolutely no way it could have occurred in secret.

Sometimes, if it's a particularly sleepless night, I even drift all the way up the steps with their comfortable, familiar creaks and pause in the bedroom where I used to sleep when we'd spend the night. The wallpaper is greyish blue with sprigs of dogwoods, and the bed is soft and springy. Outside, I hear the sounds of mourning doves and the occasional car as it travels the brick street, stops at the intersection, then continues up the slight hill on its way. I know the pictures on the skirted vanity--wedding pictures of my aunt, my mother, and all their attendants. I can hear the soft murmurs and laughter of the grownups down below as they talk about relatives, kids, the past, and the future. I can feel the crocheted fancywork on the end of the case as I turn my pillow to the cool side and fall asleep in the big, wide bed at Grandma's house.

How Can This Be Only February? My Tragi-Meter Points To At Least Late March, And Self-Pity Springs Eternal

Sorry to take issue with T.S. Eliot, but I'm here--barely--to tell you that it's February that is the Cruellest Month. When the weather chick gets breathless announcing that we'll climb into the mid-twenties (!!), you know things have reached Maximum Suckage And Holding.

As a result, I'm scattered and fragmented and In The Slough Of Despair, and even Walt Whitman can't lift me this time. (Especially to hear him droned and desecrated by disengaged juniors who, unless Walt has, like, a MyTwitFace presence, really, like, has, like, nothing to say, like, what page is it on again?)

Yet, I press on. Allow me to shake loose a few clingy clutterbits from my random-bin, and we'll see if anything entertains.

+:+The snow, my lord, the snow. There was absolutely nowhere else to put it, and the driveway had two inches of ice on it. Yesterday, the temperature skyrocketed to almost 40, and I was able to go outside and actually look around a little before getting into the car, which prompted this dialogue as I walked near the side of the garage:
Rick: (nonchalantly) Oh, by the way. I hit the garage over there with the snowblower.
Nance: (surveys damaged area, eyes widening, mouth agape) Oh my god! Why...well...what on earth did you expect me to...do with this...information?
Rick: (calmly, not looking at her) Process it and try to move on. And when it gets nicer out, remind me to replace those pieces of siding.
Nance: (staring at him as if he just landed on the planet) What?! Are you...? Do we even have those pieces of the siding?
Rick: (already in the car) Of course.

+:+ Somehow, Piper and Marlowe are...well, fat. On just dry cat food and water. Do not laugh. I am beyond distraught about this, and I have put them on A Diet. I bought diet cat food, and I only feed them twice a day, the recommended amount each time. No table food, and the treats they get are only 2 calories each, and they do not get them every day. Needless to say, they are Very Unhappy, and Marlowe lets me know. Often. Equally distressing is our daily session of Forced Active Play. Piper's idea of playing is to lie there and watch Marlowe play. "Wow," he seems to be saying, "that is a lot of moving around that you are doing over there." He might roll over if a toy comes near him and then bat it with his paws, and sometimes he might stroll interestedly after the laser dot, but not much beyond that. Marlowe is much more athletic, which is due, in part, to her constant and flagrant disregard for the No Cats On Counters rule. And now that she is STARVING, she is up there all the time. A couple of days ago, my brain now turned to mush by School And Snow, The Deadly Combination, I uttered this memorable admonition to her when I found her hungrily scrounging in the (clean) kitchen sink:
"Marlowe! Look at you! Get out of that sink! What are you, some kind of animal?"

+:+ Speaking of felines, Sam's new kitten Madden may have been misnamed. Kaeleigh, Sam's girlfriend, brought up the login screen for her online class and then left her laptop on the table to go get something she forgot. When she came back, Madden was waiting for her next to the computer. Kaeleigh picked up the computer, and in the login box was typed "ben." He still answers to Madden, though, so maybe it's his middle name.

+:+ Politicians have to stop saying that they trust or have faith in the wisdom of the American people. What in the hell gives them this sort of confidence when there is so much proof to the contrary? I can show you, real quick-like, 6 reasons not to have any faith at all in the collective wisdom of the average American: US Representative Michele Bachmann, Candidate Sarah Palin, television show Jersey Shore, spray cheese in a can, the re-election of Bush 43, tea party sign carriers. I could also add reality television and TLC network, really. Birthers. Kardashians. Comme des Garcons toe shoes. Make me stop. Hurry.

The winter is Endless. I can't concentrate on anything, and I have been reading the same book for eleventy weeks. It's good, but I can't read and comprehend right now. I have adult ADD. Or Seasonal ADD. Or, I am just crabby and fussy. Either way, I need...oh, crud. I don't know what I need. Be wonderful for me in Comments.

The Defender of The Language Never Rests, And She Takes Questions

This week, the Defender of The Language will be answering questions posed by irritated readers from across the globe. Let's start with Jill, from Oregon.

Hi, Defender. Like you, I find myself physically sickened by these morons who can't use the apostrophe correctly. Can you talk about the signs I see on people's houses that say things like The Taylor's and The Smith's? That's not right, is it?

Certainly I can comment regarding that. Those signs are not displaying the correct usage of the apostrophe and are, in fact, both egregious and upsetting. Unless the residents of those properties are known by a nickname like Donald Trump, who goes by "The Donald," those signs should have their apostrophes relocated. The houses are owned or occupied by all of the Taylors and Smiths; therefore, the apostrophe should reflect that and be placed at the end, thusly: The Taylors' and The Smiths'. The fact that commercial signage cannot be trusted shows in what a sad state we find Our Language. How abysmal, really.

Now let's hear from Costa in New Mexico.

Thanks, Defender, for being there and for taking my question. I know idioms are sometimes regional, but why are some people so stupid about them? For example, the idiom "cut and dried." If I hear one more person say "cut and dry," I think I'll shoot someone. Or am I the one who's wrong?

Oh, believe me when I say that I share your vast frustration. There is even a blog out there in the ether with the erroneous version of this idiom in its title. The correct idiom is indeed "cut-and-dried," and complicating matters further for lazy writers is the necessity of hyphenating it when it is used as a plain, not predicate, adjective. Sometimes, simple common sense can be useful in understanding some idioms. To say something is "cut and dry" just sounds awkward, both in tense and parallel structure. Makes me shudder.

Finally, someone calling himself ZuuZuuu in Pennsylvania writes:

Yo, Defendah! You're cool and all, but what's the big deal with spelling everything so perfect all the time and whatnot? Plus, English doesn't make sense, the way its spelling is, like, so random! Like, a double-o in "moon" is pronounced "ooh," right? So why is this sentence wrong? That girl is fat, so she needs to loose a few. Later, Big D.

It is with great restraint that the Defender of The Language will address only the issue germane to your last query and leave the myriad concerns of your...commentary for another time. Now, then. What you are really bringing to bear is the age-old Lose Vs. Loose battle that is, in a word, never-ending for those of us on the Front Lines of Language Defense. Let me just say this: In the English language, we already have a word spelled "L-O-O-S-E." It is an adjective meaning "free from restraint; unfettered, unbound" and it rhymes with other words spelled similarly, such as goose, moose, and caboose. Occasionally, the word loose can also be used as a verb, but it still means to set something free, to unfetter it, to release it from its restraints. Most usages of this are archaic or poetic. "L-O-S-E" is an active verb, and it means to fail to retain something; to come to be without an object. If you become confused because these words don't follow some sort of rules, simply accept that fact and resign yourself to the fact that part of being a mature writer is remembering a few important things on your own. Certainly that cannot be too terribly taxing, can it?

If you have a question for the Defender of the Language, leave it in Comments, or contact Nance here at the Dept. of Nance by clicking the email link in the sidebar. The Defender of the Language will respond weekly.

I Wish Everyone Would Get This Passionate About, Say, The Proper Use Of The Apostrophe...

Let's just go ahead and stipulate that I watch an inordinate amount of television/read a great deal of information regarding Food. It's one of my interests, along with Politics and Shoes. (And Cows. Let's not forget Cows.) Having said all of that--and digressing shamefully, as is my wont--I've become increasingly aware of downright ridiculous fawning over a particular food lately. It's completely absurd.

It's not like this is a trendy, foreign, newish food, either, like sushi, although sushi is all of a sudden a bigass deal too, even among teenagers in Podunk, Ohio, where I live. No, this is a humble, everyday food that most of us grew up with and ate at least once a week here in the Midwest. But now it's a Celebrated Star in the Culinary Galaxy. It is swooned over, idolized, and has even been called a danger to certain groups because of its incredible, sexy allure. What is this mighty foodstuff, you ask?

It's bacon.

I know, right?

But everyone I know waxes poetic about bacon. Hell, one of comedian Jim Gaffigan's most popular bits on You Tube, with over a million hits, is the one about bacon, in which he calls it the "most beautiful thing on earth." "Even the frying of bacon," he points out with the air of interpreting prophecy, "sounds like applause."

Vegetarians everywhere are on High Alert around it! And well they should be, for bacon is The Gateway Meat for vegetarians. Scientist Johan Lundstrom, who once had a girlfriend who eschewed her own vegetarianism thanks to bacon, posits that bacon's double whammy of "odor and emotion, and odor and memory"...is the culprit. "When you pair that with the social atmosphere of weekend breakfast and hunger, bacon is in the perfect position to take advantage of how the brain is wired." Bacon is one-third to two-thirds fat and contains protein; it speaks to our evolutionary needs. We are, in short, powerless against it.

With this in mind, certainly, this website was born. Who doesn't need "Daily News On The World Of Sweet, Sweet Bacon"? Or Bacon Events, Bacon News, Bacon Recipes, Bacon Reviews, Bacon Desserts, and heaven help us, Bacon Books. (I searched in vain for any of Sir Francis' writings, but found instead a mildly humorous warning against reading A Day no Pigs Would Die.) Noteworthy, I think, is the article at the bottom of the site: Headline reads "People in Canada Choose Bacon Over Sex." (Note to self: Google birthrate stats in Canada, also per capita consumption of bacon, also email friends in Canada for info on same.) Next to the Popular Articles are Hot Bacony Deals. If you are Hot for Bacon Lip Balm, though, too bad. Baconfreak.com is sold out!

But never let it be said that the Dept. of Nance is not here for you! Thanks to the 2011 Ubiquity Of Bacon, we have Options. Just look! Have you ever seen so much Bacon Shit in your Whole Damn Life? And I'm even behind the curve on bacon: Back in October 2010 in NYC, a bunch of hightoned society types threw an autism fundraiser called Bacon-Palooza. Bacon was chosen as the theme of this three-day gala because not only did they believe it was "the hippest food", but that it "crossed all social lines. If there's one thing that everyone can agree on, it's bacon."

Okay, but...no.

And I'm not even going to "go there" with regard to the obvious PETA or vegan/vegetarian issues, neither of which are my personal concerns.
I just...don't get excited about bacon.

As a matter of fact, I don't care if I never eat bacon again. Bacon is...overrated. Except for the occasional BLT in the summertime, I assiduously avoid bacon. It's too overpowering. Once you put bacon on something, it's over. That food has been BACONIZED. You can't taste anything else but BACON. Why ruin a perfectly lovely cheeseburger with bacon? Why put bacon on a chicken sandwich? It has now become a BACON sandwich. If you wanted a bacon sandwich to begin with, then you should have made/ordered it.

Bacon is bossy and obnoxious. It shows up and takes all the credit. It's the kid in the class who hogs (sigh, a pun) the discussion. It's the John Hancock on the Declaration of Independence. It's the "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" part of the Beatles song. (Do you even know there are any other lyrics? Do you??) It's just too much. I don't like the over-the-top flavor of it. It's not interesting or complex to me. Bacon just doesn't have a lot going on for me. It's too in-your-face smoky and strong. It tastes like my livingroom fireplace when Rick can't get it to draw right away and the trails and puffs of woodsmoke start escaping into the room and I have to worry about the smoke alarm going off and the kittens getting upset. I don't like that.

And I don't like bacon.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: The teaparty Diary Entry

How hard is it, teaparty teeshirt maker, to spell the same word the same way twice? Correctly? And then to omit, simply, the S? Just what was your thought process here? Allow me to hypothesize:

teapartier 1: How do you spell "lose"?
teapartier 2: L-O-O-S-E. I think.
teapartier 1: That don't look right. And we want to put "loses" on here, too.
teapartier 2: Oh. Right. In that case, it's L-O-S-S-E-S.
teapartier 1: You sure? Well, shoot. Now I'm all confused. And we need to get these here shirt orders done in time for the rally on Monday. I have to hurry and pick up a few things at the Wal*Mart before it's time to get Earl at his NRA meeting. Our truck is in the shop.
teapartier 2: Oh, let's just put one of each. It's not like anyone'll say anything. Everyone'll know what it means, and that's the important thing. It's the picture that I don't get. Is that how Obama looked in college or something? I just don't get it. Is it a gay thing?
teapartier 1: I think it's about being soft on the Mexicans and immigrations. Or maybe it's about his birth certificate. Anyway, let's just get this done so's I can get on to Wal*Mart. We're outa dog food and I think I'll just get a frozen pizza for dinner now.

picture found here

Et Tu, Teachers? The Ides Of Education (It's All Here In Black And White)

Scene opens in teacher workroom. Some teachers are at computer stations, others are at long tables either eating lunch or grading papers. All would rather be someplace else, so no real names will be used here, except for mine.

Elaine: (tiredly) I may not even show the movie. I mean, it's in black and white. The regular kids just make such a big deal over it. I can't deal with their comments. (whiny, mocking voice) This is in black and white? Is the whole movie like this? How old is this movie? ( deep sigh.) Ugh. It's just not worth it.

Nance: You know...(leans over conspiriatorially) you might want to do what I did when I used to show the original Julius Caesar with Brando, James Mason, and Sir John Gielgud. The newer color version is crap, as you know--

Elaine:--Oh, God. That thing is such a piece of shit. Jason Robards is asleep during the whole entire thing. Anything is better than that. Has to be!

Nance: Exactly. Well, the original is wonderful, but it's ancient and in black and white. So, I used to tell the kids that some now-famous stars or celebrities were in the crowd scenes--you know, as extras. They'd sit there, eyes glued to that film, waiting to spot that person. Now, this was back in the early 80s, so I think I said, like, the actor who played Greg Brady or maybe, oh, I don't know, some hair band singer or someone. I used to even offer bonus points, and--

Jennifer: (rubbernecking from behind her monitor) Now that is so mean! Are you serious?

Nance: Absolutely I am! I'd even stop the film and the kid would walk up to the screen, all proud and authoritative, and point out the person. A lot of the time, I'd say, "Yep! Good eye! You got it!" And I'd give him five points. Why the hell not?

Tina: I love it. But didn't anyone ever figure it out?

Nance: Oh, once or twice I'd catch the eye of one of the brighter kids who could do the math and realize that there was no effing way that the Mystery Celebrity could have been in that movie. But they were always satisfied with being "in the know" and just sort of rolled their eyes and smiled.

Elaine: I should try that. I really should. I have this one kid who is such a complete and total jerk. I'm talking all the time. No, wait. I take that back. Actually, he's been really quiet lately. A relative who moved in with them is really sick and is dying. Or died. Either way, he's completely different. Is it awful of me to wish that he had other relatives in a bad way so that he stays quiet and does all of his work?

Lori: (suddenly piping up from the back table where she's been smothered by a stack of literary analysis papers) Maybe he could foster elderly pets. Then, everybody wins!

End scene.

Happy New Year And Watch Your Back

It is New Year's Day. Rick, Nance, and eldest son Jared are gathered in the living room. Nance is tucked into the corner of her huge easy chair, encased in fleece. Rick is similarly relaxing in his chair and Jared, sprawled on the couch, is drinking Diet Pepsi and eating...something...again. On the television is a Lockup RAW marathon.

Me: Is this really all that's on?
Jared: (rolls eyes at me; speaks only to his father) Dad, if you were in prison, what gang would you join?
Rick: Wow. I don't know. Hmm. Let me think about it.
Me: Seriously? This is our New Year's Discussion?
Jared: (ignoring me completely) I'd probably join the Latin Kings. Yeah, that's the one.
Me: No way. They cut people too much. That's all they do is cut people.
Rick: Yeah, that's true. They're always in knife fights in these prisons.
Jared: (authoritatively) That's just the way they operate. Sometimes you have to cut you some bitches to show 'em you mean business.
Rick: They cut, like, five people a day.
Me: I get up early anyway. If I was in prison, I'd cut five bitches before breakfast.
That way, everybody would know to leave me the hell alone.
Jared: That's what I'm talkin' about, Mom!

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: History 101 (D-) Design 101 (F)

Can we deal with the smaller sign on the left first? It contains an oft-repeated misquote attributed to Founding Father Thomas Jefferson that has been co-opted by foam-at-the-mouth teapartiers everywhere, and I'm pretty sick of it. Jefferson's actual quote is, "if we can but prevent the government from wasting the labours of the people, under the pretence of taking care of them, they must become happy." You can find the quote, in its proper context, here. The original document, even, is here. Interestingly, the aforementioned letter is a peek into Jefferson's brain and ranges into his opinions regarding a strong free press and his distinctly anti-Federalist views. You know those Federalists--the ones who opposed a little document near and dear to the teapartiers--The Constitution.
Also, that sign breaks my Big Rule: Not Succinct.

Now to The Main Event: What a disappointment that sign is, even to the teaparty. It is So Bad on So Many Levels that I might wear out my caps lock key. But humiliate it I must. Onward.

Firstly, from a solely Construction Standpoint, this "sign" is a travesty. Do you see that it is a sign ON a sign? Was this a Take-Home Project, and it still looks this terribly shlocky? I think it's even four sheets of 8 1/2 x 11 copy paper gluestik'd onto the posterboard. What's more, I think it is taped onto a snow shovel or some other implement. Look at the size of that handle and the two strips of broad, strapping Scotch tape that are straining to hold it all together. Yikes.

Now let's consider the Graphics on this sign. They are just hurtful to look at. There is a haphazard mix of upper and lower case letters. The positioning of the words is chaotic and thoughtless. The interrogative punctuation mark is, astonishingly, pleasantly wrought, but sags below the word line. And there is the egregiously unnecessary use of three exclamation points. Perhaps this may be acceptable if the teapartier in question is, possibly a seventh-grader discussing Justin Bieber on Instant Messenger, but if not, and if the teapartier is attempting to be Taken Seriously In His Outrage, then he has failed. And I digress. More befuddling is the overall color/design--or lack thereof. The observer is led to believe that the theme is blue & green, yet suddenly a bloody swath is cut by the S in "STOP." But not entirely! Either the red marker (and the blue and green ones, apparently) ran out and the signmaker did not have sufficient saliva to keep it going, or, like so many teapartiers, it had the perseverance of Governor Palin and quit halfway.

Finally, what teaparty sign would be complete without Inept Spelling? Homonyms are such a challenge for this group, ourn't they? There just sew dumb. And they don't have a handle on plurals either. At least they didn't spell it tax's. Then we'd all have to grab our axs and go over their and teach them a thing or too.

One More Gift--But This One Is Already Wrapped

Somewhere amid the noise and cacophany of conversations, under the cookies and wrapping, away from the clutter and tangle of responsibilities, I hope you find One Special Moment For You.

My best wishes for a Happiest Of Holidays--whatever you may celebrate--from all of us at the Dept. of Nance.

Perhaps If You Are Out There Still, You'd Like To Read This, In Which I Simply Chat A Bit About Things In General, And There Are Secondary Characters

This time of year, when most people add to the General Clutter of their lives, I now take the opportunity to get rid of some of my Cranial Clutter by dumping it out here at the Dept. So, ready your Virtual Dustpans and Dustbins and press on.

Today I finally put up all the Festivity on my fireplace mantel. I had to replenish my supply of Overpriced And Classy Candles, courtesy Pier 1. The nice thing about getting my candles there is that they last about eleventeen years since I only use them at Christmastime, the scents are long-lasting and comforting without being cloying, and they come in designery colors other than Rudolph Red and Pine Green. As I was unwrapping them, I happened to read the label on the bottom: Burn within sight, it says direly. Keep away from things that catch fire. Keep away from children. Hm. Seems to me that last part is redundant. I feel like "things that catch fire" sort of says it all. Most children I know do burn.

Continuing with candles, one of the ones I bought was a sort of seaweed color scented with patchouli. I bought it for the color and the size, mainly. I gave it to Rick to smell and said, "This one is patchouli, that typical hippie incense scent. Here, smell and tell me what you think." He said, "It smells like marijuana and protest rallies and--" At that point I just grabbed the candle.

My Creative Writing I students are writing their one act plays. One of them came up to conference with me about a possible idea. He has a propensity for writing horror and always wants a twist ending. Also, everyone has to die at the end. Everyone. The plot is really not important, the machinations are endless, the characters incidental: everything is invested in the twist at the end. The conferences are exhausting, but I find this student delightful in every way. On Friday we had a Typical Nick Conference and, in the middle of it, when I was feeling like a limp dishrag and desperate for a double vodka martini, I stopped him. "Nick," I said. "A conference with you is like eating crablegs. At first it's like a fun adventure, and you love the delicious little chunks you get as you work away. But after a while, you start wondering if it's all worth it for the payoff at the end. You start feeling like you've invested a lot more effort than what you're getting out of it. I adore you, but you are absolutely wearing me out right now. Don't make your play do the same thing to your audience. Know what I mean?" And he absolutely did.

On Friday Rick and I decided to go and bang out the bulk of our Christmas Shopping and then get some dinner. Part of that plan was a Good Idea. The other part was A Nightmare. Shopping went well, but we decided to eat at A Certain Restaurant , and it was rather late for NEO diners, 8:45. Let's just say that the service was...nonexistent, my Cosmopolitan never saw a drop of real cranberry juice, our meals were definitely the tail-end of the cook's pantry, and we left hungry and with everything still on our plates and the meal comped--at well past 10. But one of the most horrifying parts was the buxom blond girl who, left over from a huge party, stood for almost an hour with her two friends directly in the aisleway and in front of another table of diners, talking and laughing loudly and, at one point, dragging a hairbrush through her long hair. It was at that point that I wished I were carrying a licensed firearm and had no moral upbringing. Seriously.

It is snowing profusely right now, and we are under A! WINTER! WEATHER! ADVISORY! Can you possibly imagine that getting a snowstorm in Northeast Ohio is incredibly newsworthy and amazing? It is the lead story on all the Cleveland newschannels. What really kills me is that lots of snow and bitterly cold temperatures in Minnesota led the national news this morning. Really? My sister lived a year in Minnesota, and believe me, we heard all about how much snow they got (lots) and how cold it was there (bitterly). Geeze. Bring me some real news or shut the hell up already, NBC.

You sound like a blog.

Send Me Your Pictures Of A Sane, Warm Hanukkah

Welcome to the Dept., where The Holidays are in full swing. How will you know this? The recycle bin is full of empty wine bottles, I am suffering from alternating bouts of Intense Malaise and Ninjalike Snarkiness, Rick is stopping at Home Depot today to get me a space heater, and I have to keep reminding myself that ringing sound is just Salvation Army volunteers.

Sigh.


After a mild and sinisterly pleasant November, we turned the page to December and Winter immediately slammed into NEO. I'm constantly freezing, it's snowing, I hate it, and naturally, my freshman homeroom has never seen snow before and oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god! "It's only X-number days until Christmas, Mrs. D!" a couple of students chirp out to me daily. Hey, you students. I don't take kindly to threats, and I don't appreciate your tone. Shut up.



How many Loyal Readers remember this post just last year in which I swore, yet again, to downsize Christmas, starting with the tree? So, this year Rick and I go to the tree place and again, I charge him with the responsibility of helping me to choose a smaller tree, since I have no perception of size. He is on board with this. Soon, he is standing trees up and steering me around the tree farm (in, yet again, temperatures of, oh, about eleventy below zero--every year!), and we find a nice tree. We take it home, he puts it in the stand, and...it is another bigass tree! I ask him, "How on earth did you let this happen? AGAIN?" He says, "But it was so light! I could carry it with one arm! I carried it on my shoulder!" WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?! Then he tries to blame me! I can sum this whole argument up by listing jobs we have had: Me, bank teller and teacher; Rick, carpenter and estimator. Case closed.

(actual tree, with Kittens!)

Jared and Sam came over to help decorate the tree. Also under their purview is the nativity scene. As with many family nativity scenes, it has grown over the years to include several, er, characters that were likely not present at the Original Event but have now taken their Places Of Distinction, for one reason or another, in its re-creation at the Dept.


Sigh. I know. I can't even begin to tell you the Origins or the Symbolism behind each and every Individual In Attendance here. All I can tell you is: Baby Jesus is being held by Larry Hughes (left), Zydrunas Ilgauskas is riding the camel, LeBron James is face down in shame under the camel's derriere, yes, that is Pluto (front left), and Satchmo Armstrong is playing the part of the angel Gabriel (right). Oh, and there are, indeed, two Zydrunases (Zydruni?). Think of it as a sort of Cirque du Soleil nativity scene...thingy.

Or maybe it's best not to Think Too Much Of It At All. Any of it.

It's A Cat Thing: But It's Also A Psychological And Gender-Bias Discussion, Really. And There's A Short Film!

Marlowe

A few truths about Cat Ownership:

1. There is no such thing as a Free Cat.
2. Anything and Everything becomes a Cat Toy...
3. Yet, cat owners will still browse the aisles of and purchase Cat Toys.
4. There is a strenuous and pervasive bias in favour of dogs over cats.
5. No one wants to hear your Cat Story.
6. Cat hair and Cat yak: goes without saying.

Piper

Let's take these Realities one by one and shine the Harsh Light Of Truth upon them.

1. Unless you are an eight-year-old who has a paper route and finds a stray in a vacant lot and then "makes a little house for it" and brings it scraps from your school lunch every day and pretends it is "Your Very Own Cat", then responsibly adopting a cat means getting it checked out by a vet, vaccinated, spayed or neutered, and giving it regular meals of decent chow and taking it to the vet when it inevitably needs medical care (and it will). Piper and Marlowe were adopted at the end of May from a no-kill rescue shelter. They were already fixed and had their first round of shots. As of today, the bill on my Deed Of Kindness is up to about $1200. This is only as of May. OF THIS YEAR.

2. Cats will play with boxes, paper bags, milk lids, crumpled paper, string, and Marlowe's all-time favourite, the twist-tie, which she will play endless games of Fetch with. Also strewn about the Dept. are plastic spoons, a Matchbox car, prescription bottle lids, a stick-on bow, a tiny stuffed animal, a large button, some ribbons I tied onto a plastic scarf ring, and some plastic pull-rings from Coffeemate. If I use Aveda shampoo, Piper plays with my hair.

3. This does not stop me from dillydallying in the Cat Toy Aisle at any store that has one. Why? Because I am an idiot, apparently. How many balls can they lose down the basement? "As many as they can bat under the huge, heavy furniture" would be the answer to that. Jared is infinitely amused by the fact that I say that the kittens are "playing soccer" or "playing tennis" merely because that is what the ball is made to look like. The "game" is always the same: they bat the ball around until it goes someplace where they cannot get to it. Sigh. And Piper always carries his fake mouse directly to the water dish where he deposits it to decompose into a sodden, unmouselike mess.

4. How many sinister Urban Legends about dogs are there? When you open up a Sunday advert, count how many more ads there are for Dog Things vs. Cat Things. Does Brian Williams ever praise cats the way he smiles and lauds, "Now that's a good dog!" about a story? Did he cover this great Cat Story? Even President Clinton knew he had to adopt a dog in order to appear more American and stereotypically Family Man-esque. How many men do you see in cat food commercials? In a nutshell, using Studentspeak: Why all the Hating On Cats? or Why Cats can't get No Love?

5. Because of this bias, no one wants to hear your Cat Story. Really. Women who talk about their cats get the polite smiles and then, later, the listeners nod and tsk about how she is Becoming, Perhaps, A Cat Lady. Or, if she is young, she is One Of Those Single Girls Alone With Just Her Cat. You know. One Of Those. Now, if the same person waxes enthusiastically about a beagle or German shepherd, then of course, that is different. Perhaps it has to do with going outdoors to clean up the animal shit. No idea. In one case, you follow along with a little bag in public, and, like a postal carrier, must do it in rain or snow or dead of night. In the other, you stay nice and warm and can do it in the privacy of your own home. Hmmm....

6. Part of The Territory, yet so unwelcome. Honestly, in the case of the hair at least, can they not...hold it in? At least Marlowe, in an incredible display of Innate Politeness, vomits only on linoleum. You cannot teach that. That is just inbred. This trait balances out her persistent and annoying proclivity for leaping onto the counter, despite repeated admonition.

One final note: Last night in an attempt to avoid watching the Cleveland Cavaliers get decimated by the San Antonio Spurs, I happened across a television show on Animal Planet entitled "America's Cutest Cat." It turned out to be a mind-numbing parade of a bunch of kitten/cat YouTube videos, so I abandoned it pretty quickly, even though my kittens started watching it, drawn by the sound of the meowing. One video stood out, though, merely because the kitten was so perfectly named. I'm embedding it here so that you can catch a glimpse of Allen the tabby kitten enjoying his food. (His name is absolutely right for him, isn't it? And it's obvious the owner is a Poe fan; Allen's brother is Edgar. I've decided to overlook the misspelling because it's a touching tribute.)

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: Pot, Meet Kettle

And this guy has the nerve to look askance at the other person's sign?

Buddy, that sign epitomizes "intoleable acts." To paraphrase an old axiom: Idiot, heal thyself.

(And while you're at it, put the missing syllable back into Constitution, that document you teapartiers pretend to know so well and revere so highly. Maybe that beer you're holding has something to do with your inept spelling and lack of basic subject-verb agreement, but I doubt it.)

photo found here

Letters From The Front (But Don't Get Used To It)

I'm not writing about work very much, as you may have noticed. Things are...well, let's just say it's One Of Those Years. For a Variety Of Reasons. But when you teach at a huge (enrollment, 2000) urban high school, it's hard to overlook such a rich source of blog fodder.

Just a couple of pebbles from The Rock:

This, from a student essay: John Proctor's character has changed dramastically from Act I.

And another mystifying response, also describing John Proctor, the hero of The Crucible: One of his faults that will cause him problems later in the play is that he can't keep his mouth shut when he is speaking.


Add this to the Lame Excuses File:

Jessica: Mrs. D., I'm here to make up my two missing quizzes.
Mrs. D.: Jessica, those quizzes were given over two weeks ago. You're no longer eligible to make them up. Why have you waited until now? You have only two days after each quiz is given. That's standard make-up policy.
Jessica: But I just now got off my crutches!

And this, which was related to me by my buddy Teresa, who teaches Spanish:

Teresa: Okay, class, now that we all know our numbers in Spanish, we're going to learn how to tell time!
Student: What? Why?
Teresa: Because you need to be able to tell time in Spanish.
Student: No, I mean what do numbers got to do with tellin' the time? Numbers don't got nothin' to do with tellin' the time.

But it's not all Desperate. Creative Writing usually brings me back. Here's a nugget from one of my writers, who hit me with this observation the other day:

Gifted Writer: You know, if Irrelevance were money, the United States would be the richest country in the world.

I can think of at least 10 reality show "stars" alone to illustrate that theory.

So, I Get This Email, And Now You Can Buy Brian Williams' Ties. And They're Autographed!

The Dept. of Nance is pleased and proud to host this guest post today. The interwebs have allowed me to use my powers for Good, and they have brought to me, via The Brian Williams Tie Report Archives, the opportunity to help promote a very worthy cause. If you've ever wanted to own a Bri Tie, or have his autograph for your Celebrity Collection, or if you've lost anyone to cancer, please read with interest the post below about a silent auction benefit for lung cancer research. Who knew that writing little fluffs of frivolity about cravats would put me on such a Kevin Baconesque odyssey?

NIGHTLY NEWS ANCHOR GIVES CLOTHES OFF HIS BACK (NECK) TO HONOR FORMER NBC COLLEAGUE JOAN SCARANGELLO OF "JOAN'S LEGACY"

In a gesture that illustrates his respect and care for his colleagues, NBC Nightly News anchor Brian Williams is donating six of his ties--to be auctioned off as one lot--to this November’s silent auction to benefit Joan’s Legacy: Uniting Against Lung Cancer. The ties – all worn on air and signed on the back – will raise money for innovative lung cancer research in memory of Joan Scarangello, a Nightly writer who died of lung cancer in 2001 at 47 and a never-smoker.

Brian, along with Tom Brokaw, will co-chair the foundation’s benefit on November 17 at New York’s Gotham Hall. The party, called the “Strolling Supper with Blues & News” will also feature a performance by blues great Delbert McClinton, the awarding of 14 new lung cancer research grants, the announcement of the winner of the foundation’s journalism award (the “Joanie”) and a remarkable silent auction. Tickets for the benefit start at $300 and can be purchased at http://www.unitingagainstlungcancer.org/ and by calling 212-627-5500. Bids on Brian’s ties and all other silent auction items can also be made online or by phone up until November 17 at noon.

Joan’s Legacy: Uniting Against Lung Cancer is the largest private funder of lung cancer research grants. The non-profit has given more than $7.5 million in individual $100,000 grants to more than 60 institutions in 22 states. In addition, the foundation has committed an addition $5 million to North America’s premier early detection research “dream team” project, Canary Lung.

Lung cancer kills more Americans than any other cancer – and more women every year than breast, uterine and ovarian cancers combined. Yet it receives less funding than any other major cancer because of the stigma of smoking. Today, 60 percent of all lung cancer patients never smoked or had already quit smoking before their diagnosis – and only 1 in 9 of them is likely to live five years or more from the day they find out.

Brian’s donation to Uniting Against Lung Cancer includes the cravat he wore on the October 8 broadcast of Nightly News from Los Angeles, reviewed by The Brian Williams Tie Report Archives as “A Misbegotten Choice from the Underbelly of Fashion.” He is choosing the others more carefully!

Brian’s ties are just one of the amazing silent auction lots. Others include:

· Having your name as a character in the next David Baldacchi best-seller
· Guitars autographed by Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, Bon Jovi, Counting Crows and the Black Crowes
· Front row seats at any Times Square concert from “Good Morning America”
· In-Studio viewing of any NBC “Meet the Press” broadcast in the network’s Washington, DC closed set
· Set visits and cast meetings at “House” and “Two and A Half Men” and “Parenthood” in LA
· Tickets to the “Daily Show” “Colbert Report” “Saturday Night Live” and “The View”
· Fantastic seats for Jets, Giants, Yankees, Mets and Nets games
· Vacations (Napa, Italy, Palm Beach, Nantucket, New York)

...and much more

To see the full list of silent auction items, please visit http://www.unitingagainstlungcancer.org/events/SS2010

TO BID ON BRI'S TIES--call Uniting Against Lung Cancer at 212-627-5500

In Which I Mourn Not Only The Future Of Television Advertising, But A Grizzly And A Really Good Place For Dinner (We Are Nothing If Not Eclectic)

I feel as if it's been a while since I've had a good Brain Cleanse, although I have to admit that I've not been shy about just flinging forth most of my Cerebral Bother at Whomever Is In Its Line Of Fire. My Inner Curmudgeon is pretty much Out, brought to the fore by job stress, omnipresent political ads, clueless dog owner neighbors who, since they cannot control the one yappy dog they already own, have naturellement purchased another, and an ongoing feud with my hair.

But, since it would be Selfish Of Me not to keep you informed, dear readers, let's see what's left for me to nudge out of my grey matter's nooks and crannies.

One continual source of irritation and confusion to me is the commercials for Cialis. You know the ones: a married couple of a certain age are performing a rather mundane household chore like laundry or painting or meal prep. Suddenly, they happen to catch each other's gaze or touch each other's hand. They smile a bit knowingly. The narrator intones: "An everyday moment can turn romantic at a moment's notice." Then, the confines of the house move away magically and they are transformed into an outdoor scene like a beach, forest, or waterfall's edge. The couple are sitting together, caressing. The narrator continues, "With Cialis, you can be ready anytime the moment is right." Okay, how many of you, really, equate outdoors with sex? What was the thought process here, and who did the marketing research for this campaign, The United States Department of the Interior? The U.S. National Parks Service? Smokey the Bear? I don't know about you, but making love at the beach or in the woods presents a set of issues that...well, are not optimal (sand, pine needles, dirt, leaves, etc. Ouch. ). And exactly what kind of exhibitionists are these Middle-Agers anyway that they can't just Do It in the house? Weirdos.

I'll be brief with this one and try not to rant overmuch here about the First Christmas Commercial appearing on OCTOBER 8TH. Which, for those of you scoring at home, is before even HALLOWEEN. The winner this year is KMart, who was hawking their layaway program. (And no, they do not get a pass because technically "layaway" is, by nature, an early Christmas shopping program. There were obvious Christmassy things in the commercial. Verboten!) To say that I was/still am outraged is to vastly understate it. That opened the floodgates, and we have since been deluged with "Holiday Season" ads from eleventy thousand retailers. I received this morning with my Sunday Plain Dealer the Toys *R* Us Big Christmas Toy Book. Pardon me while I projectile vomit all over everything in protest.

On a sad note, my Cleveland Metroparks Zoo recently announced the death of one of its grizzly bears. We had two male grizzlies at our zoo, a father and son, and the one who died, the parent, had been ill for a while. He had already lived a long 35 years, reaching well beyond the uppermost end of the average life cycle of a grizzly in captivity. I mention this story mainly because of the names of these two grizzlies, which I think are absolutely perfect. Please pause a moment with me to mourn the loss of Lester and to wish the best for his son, Warren.

Also sad for me, but in a different way is the loss of Bar Symon, owned by Cleveland's own Iron Chef, Michael Symon. Rick and I liked this nearby restaurant where I could get an incredible marrow bone appetizer, perfect with an ice cold vodka martini. We didn't have to drive into downtown Cleveland or wait forever for a table to get Cheffy Food. Now it's closed--it was in a dying strip mall in a so-so location--and we're back to the Dinner Conundrum every Friday night. (Quick story: Once, a particularly cute waiter at Bar Symon was dancing to the music between table-waiting for most of our dinner stay. He was really getting into it, busting some serious moves. When we left, I sought him out and tucked a couple bucks into his apron. "Thanks for making my dinner so enjoyable," I told him. He laughed and said, "Hey, you're welcome! I'll be here all week!")

And so will I. Please show your appreciation in the usual way. Thank you. Thank you very much. ;-)

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: Brevity Is The Soul Of Signage

Yikes.

Listen, teaparty Sign Carrier. Key word here: SIGN. If you have to explain all that crap, then it's just way too busy. Save it for when you all go out later and get drunk on Bud Lites and you're standing around the pickup trucks and you can say, "You know what the Obama Presidency is like? It's like this bigass wall that Obama built between us and the gubmint. And it's all fortified-like, and its mortar is made up of Obamacare's health plan that he forced on us! YEAH! That's the ticket! And, and, and...we need a Superhero, like Ronald Reagan again to come and say...what was that now? Um...buuuurp!...no, not that. Um, Mr. Obama, tear down that wall! We the people have been taxdeded enough already. Yeah. What? Oh, yeah. Gimme me another Bud Lite."

Even On A Getaway Weekend, There Are Some Things From Which One Can Never Get Away...

Scene opens in room of Canadian inn. Rick and Nance are snuggled in bed. It is early morning. The room is slightly chilly.

Nance: (stretches, then quickly huddles back under covers) This is the worst part of the morning. I hate getting out of bed and washing my hair. Too cold. I get chilled. It's why I don't take a whole shower in the morning and take a bath at night.

Rick: (with a sleepy attempt at being comforting) I know.

Nance: (brightly) What if I could snap off my head and give it to you? Then you could just wash my hair for me. Let's say it could be done. Would you do it? Let's break it down into a percentage. What percent of the time would you wash my hair for me?

Rick: (wary; looks at Nance from the corners of his eyes) What, now?

Nance: Would it make a difference if I took away the talking part? If my head couldn't talk?

Rick: You mean it couldn't boss me around and tell me what I was doing wrong or what shampoo to use and all that?

Nance: Yes. The head snaps off and it can't talk. What percentage of the time would you take my head and wash my hair?

Rick: Ten percent.

Nance: (shocked; incredulous; dismissive at this point) Ten percent!? You have got to be kidding! I took the talking part out! I take out the talking and you give me a lousy ten percent?

Rick: Well, how often would you wash my snapped-off head?

Nance: Never.

Rick: Well, then!

Nance: But, come on! You knew that! Look at your head! It's so big and cumbersome. And your hair is so thick. And I take tub baths. When would I shampoo it? No one shampoos in the tub! TEN PERCENT! That's insulting to me, really, when you come right down to it. Ten percent. There are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year. You're talking about a lousy thirty-six days that you would shampoo my silent head for me. That's it. Ridiculous.

Rick: (calmly) I really didn't think you would take the time to do the math.

Nance: Apparently. But I did. I did the math and that's ten percent. I cannot believe that you wouldn't take my silent, snapped-off head into the shower with you more often than that to spare me the discomfort that you know I endure when it's so cold in the morning. My silent head!

Rick: I wish it was silent right now.

End scene.

Is It Just Me? Or...

I had Sam take this picture for me at the mall where he works. It's at a pretzel place. Apparently, one owned by or represented by...wait for it...teaparty interests.

Couldn't resist. Be back soon with a proper post.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: $tupid Is As Stupid Do

Naturally, there's so much to chat about in this picture, it's all I can do to restrain myself.

Yet, I shall.

Let's confine ourselves to merely discussing/dissecting the obviously inept attempt by the woman on our far right (in the ill-fitting and inappropriate white V-neck teeshirt) at making a coherent sign.

We all know that when someone begins with the disclaimer, "I'm not a racist" that we are due in short order to hear something most certainly racist, or at the very least, racially insensitive or culturally ignorant. And here in front of us is a mob of Caucasian individuals--albeit bored and disengaged-looking ones--clustered around, carrying signs aimed at what is surely a non-Caucasian group of people, telling them all that they need to be forcibly removed.

Our next talking point has to be the use of the dollar sign for the "S" in the word "racists." I don't get it. What's the message there? "We're not mercenary and we're not racists, so there's that, too"? "Hey! We could be money-hungry racists, but we're just the regular old middle-class kind of racists who give to charity, so give us a break here"? Is it some sort of Racists' Code? Help me out here. Am I just stupid?

Finally, for those of you who are sitting at your computers/mobile devices incredulously, shouting, "HOLY CRAP! COULD NANCE NOT HAVE NOTICED THAT RACISTS IS SPELLED INCORRECTLY!?": patience is a virtue. I'm getting there.

What would a Prodigy Of The Week post be without misspelling? And this one has two errors to taunt us: the egregious "RA$CISTS" as well as the ever-so cringeworthy misuse of "your," which is so awful, so execrable, so horrifying that I'm not even sure it is a spelling error as much as it is a usage error or just a donkeyheaded mistake by yet another doodah hepped up on Fox and WalMart two-liters.

Hey, you ersatz raci$t lady. Your are idiotic.