There Was Reading and Sunshine and Then A Lovely Jaunt. And Now I'm "Working" A Bit, So...

...I promise.  Just give me a few days.

In Which I--And Now You--Learn That It's Simply A Matter Of Perspective

Right now, Retirement just feels like Summer Vacation.  But we have Very Serious Discussions about it.  Like this one.

Scene opens on backyard deck.  Rick has just gotten home from work.  Nance greets him as he comes out of garage. 

Me: What if you come home now and find me on the patio every night with a drink in my hand?

Rick: That would be fine. I’d love it.

Me: No! You don’t want me to drink alone!

Rick: I don’t care.

Me: But what if I get drunk? What if I just drink and drink and drink?

Rick: Don’t worry. I’ll catch up.

End scene.

School's Out

Oh, Alice.  I can't say it any better myself, so I'll just borrow from you.  School's out for summer.  School's out forever!  Out for summer, out till fall.  We might not go back at all!

And I won't.  Go back ever, that is.  2011 is the year that Nance Finally Gets Out.  With my thirty years in, I'm retiring.  Or, retired, that is.  After doing the math, I can finish out my Illustrious Career by serving a little extra time (14 days) in July, thanks to the Nice People at HR. 

I have to say that I'm very comfortable with my decision for lots of reasons.  Thirty years is a long time to be in such a demanding, giving, calisthenic career.  I am confident that I am leaving while I'm still at the top of my game.  I had a good year with some terrific kids.  And I was fortunate to spend the vast majority of my teaching career at one school district, and one which afforded me an incredible amount of academic and professional freedom with colleagues whom I respected and had a good time with.

The only regret I leave with is that I had to mislead my students.  My decision to retire, once made, was a deeply personal and private one, and they did not know that this was my last year.  No one did. Many of them made plans to check in with me next year, either to be an aide for me or to contribute to the literary magazine for which I am the faculty adviser.  So many inquired about taking my creative writing class, knowing it was their only chance to have me again as a teacher.  I feel bad that I couldn't be entirely honest with them without making my personal life part of the public domain. 

Now, I will take some time to breathe.  I'm not sure what I'll do with all this English in my head.  Who will I share color symbolism and diction clues with in The Great Gatsby?  Who wants to talk about the Freudian elements in The Catcher in the Rye?  Anyone up for a discussion on the dynamic hero in Miller's The Crucible?  And whenever there's an impromptu forum on Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman, please let me know.  I'm all over that.  If only I could just Teach and do nothing else of it all.  That was always my most profound Joy.

In the meantime, allow me to leave you with this most apt conclusion, brought to you by a junior student of my dear friend and colleague Melanie.  I quote it verbatim:

In this novel The Great Gatsby, things got crazy but in the end there was an outcome and everyone was okay.  The End!

War Is Hell...Wait, I Feel Like Someone Already Said That (Even Though He Wasn't In Public Education. Does It Still Count?)

In what can only be termed a Hostage Crisis Of Horrific Proportions, I AM STILL IN SCHOOL.  Certainly, this is a massive and terrible breach of the Geneva Convention (specifically, the third), and I feel much put-upon, at the very least.  Why am I being punished this way?  What have I done to deserve this?

AND I STILL HAVE FINALS NEXT WEEK!  WILL IT NEVER END?

Today, the following scene occurred in my room as I manned the SmartBoard and staunchly explicated the infinitive phrase to a roomful of long-suffering sophomore honors students who are just as strung-out on this Marathon School Year as I am.

Mrs. D.:  Okay, so!  That's the last of the verbal phrases.  Go grab the green book and let's---

Selena:  (sassy Latina girl, interrupts)  Miss D.!  How much more grammar? 

Mrs. D.:  (pointedly, in an attempt to clarify) What kind of question is that, Selena?  Can you be more specific?  Can you, say, add a verb?

Selena:  (pauses, thinks, tries again) I mean, will we be taking more notes tomorrow?

Mrs. D.:  Yes.  We have one more phrase to cover, the appositive.  It's not a verbal, but it completes our study of phrases.  Then that's it.  As far as grammar next year, I'm not sure how much you do in junior honors, but--

Selena:  (interrupts) We didn't do no grammar last year in Miss Addison's class!

Mrs. D.:  That's any grammar.  You didn't do any grammar.

Selena:  (resolutely nods head) That's how you know!

And, just for fun, here are some more student vocabulary sentences.  These come from my colleague Melanie, who teaches junior regs:

By you blasting that music, you are disquieting.

When I wrestled, I had two gain ten ponds, but I went over, so I was offset.

My shirt was susceptible when I tried it on.

It was hard for the slaves to inevitable for what they were going through.

Small animals are inhabitable in the woods.

Send help. And hurry.

The Defender of The Language Returns To Bring Light To The Darkness Yet Again, For Someone Has To Do This Important Work. (Nance Has To Find Time To Take Care Of The Cattens, Too, After All!)

It is that time again, Dear Readers.  The Defender of The Language is back to...well, defend The Language!  In a world where poor grammar never ceases; where incorrect apostrophe usage is still, sadly, not an offense punishable by death or at least imprisonment (or hefty fine); where slack speech and mediocre writing are deemed acceptable and past redemption, the Defender can never rest.  She commandeers this space to bring light to the darkness for Dept. of Nance readers in particular.  Let's first take a query from RD, a sporadic Dept. commenter.  He's not forthcoming about his residential region, so I'll just assign him one.  RD, you're calling Intercourse, Pennsylvania, home.

Defender, could you comment on the (mis)use of "there's"? I hear it frequently these days, by both the well and poorly educated. "There's problems in Wisconsin these days." Or "There's things we'll never understand." It's driving me insane!

RD, I hear you.  As I mentioned in my answer previously, the examples you provided are really two annoyances.  Allow me to address them separately.  The first one is a simple lack of subject-verb agreement.  The contraction there's stands for there is.  Because the word there is functioning as an expletive, or in simpler terms, a garbage word, it has no value in the sentence and is not its subject. You must look past the verb to find the substantive subject of the sentence, problems, which is plural. The verb must therefore be plural, are.  The same holds true in the second sentence, as you can see.

I'd like to speak to the more important issue at hand, however, and it is the use of the word there in the first place.  As I mentioned, it is an expletive, or a garbage word/dummy subject. It has absolutely no adverbial power of location in the sentence.  Is it showing where something is? No.  It simply delays the action and actor of the sentence.  Why employ it?  Would not the sentences be far more precise and tighter if they were said or written thusly:  Wisconsin has problems these days  and  We'll never understand some things?  Naturally, I would further edit and eliminate/replace the egregious "these days" and "some things" but we cannot tackle everything at once.

Next, we will hear from the similarly location-reticent Nancy, who I have now made a resident of Lady Lake, Florida.

Hello, Defender.  I would appreciate your explaining the rule of "was" and "were".  For example, which one of these sentences would be correct?

"She looked at me as though I WAS crazy."
"She looked at me as though I WERE crazy."

Hi, Nancy!  I haven't been to Florida in a very long time. You must be taking care of The Language there for me. In any case, let me help you with your concern, which deals with an old grammar chestnut we call the subjunctive mood.  This is really a holdover from the 14th century, but picky grammarians love to lord this over the hoi polloi from time to time.  Soon, it will go the way of whom and double-spacing after the period, but some of us will still cling to it for civility's sake.  Basically, the subjunctive mood governs the use of verb tenses (most commonly was or were) when the context of the sentence states or describes a hypothetical situation.  Many times, this sentence will contain a clause that begins with the words as if, as though, suppose, or wish.  Some tightly-wound grammar enthusiasts would argue incessantly the finer points of whether or not the hypothetical might, in fact, be possible or might at one point come true, and whether or not that might change the subjunctive into the indicative mood, but life is too short for all of that, even for a Defender of The Language.  For a more exhaustive--yawn!--discussion of this vast topic, click here.  Because your example sentences include the adverbial subordinating conjunction as if, the subjunctive mood is called for, and you would use the verb were.

Finally, we come to this question from another Dept. reader.  Since it was submitted via email, I must again guess at geographical location.  So, let's hear from Deb, whose hometown is Gallipolis, Ohio.

Dear Defender, I am a middle school English teacher who is ready to throw in the red pen.  I mean, where do I start?  Students who eschew commas entirely, students who use apostrophes for plurals, and students who cannot tell the difference among there, their, and they're.  I am in pain every time I grade an essay.  If there were one single error you could choose to stamp out in "tween" writing, what would it be?

First of all, Dear Deb, thank you for your service.  As a teacher of English, you are a Guardian of The Language as well, and serving under sometimes the direst of circumstances.  On to your question.  I think an example of the most hurtful middle school error would have to be this:  If Justin Bieber would of cut his hair, he would still be cute.  Using of as a helping verb is such a continuing horror in middle school and high school writing that it has reached Domestic Terrorism status.  OF is not a verb, period. Ever.  This confusion is because of the contracted form of the helping verb have.  Students, and some adults, hear the 've as of and simply write the phonetic result.  The logic of what the word of is and does is lost, perhaps in laziness or disinterest, perhaps in something else.  Either way, it's discomfiting and disappointing.

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.

Saturday At Home: Some Gaming And Minimal Violence

Scene opens in living room. Rick is sitting on  the couch, in Cable Television Coma, watching a reality television show in which various drunken southerners are hauled into a drunk tank and then before a judge.  Nance is sitting in her bigass leather easy chair, playing Snood and waiting for her rhubarb crisp to be done in the oven.

Announcer's Voice:  (from television commercial)...some of the finest power punchers from the MMA ever assembled!

Nance:  As soon as I retire, I have to begin a strict training regimen, you know, because that's what I'm going to pursue as my second career.

Rick:  What?  The MMA?

Nance:  Well, yes.  As a power puncher, though.  At first, I thought I would be a submission fighter, but then I thought, "Well, hey.  After thirty years in public education, you know, Been There, Done That." 

Rick:  I hear you.

Nance:  I mean, teaching is nothing but endurance and beating them into submission.  Now, I want the quick hit.  The One-Off-And-It's-Over.  You know?

Rick:  Hey, I support you no matter what.  You know that.

Nance:  Good to know.

End scene.

In Which I Revisit Parallel Parking As Well As Visit With My Mother, Bash Social Networking, And Provide More Insight Into republicans, Royalty, And Fashion

My Spring Break is pretty much over, and while I am always glad to be At Home rather than At Work, the weather was rainy and awful most of the time, rendering me a Cat-hair covered mushbrain.  But, okay.  At least I have a few Cranial Clots to share, however chaotic they may be.

Dodging raindrops one day, I had to go to a Government Office.  As if that was not bad enough, I had to parallel park.  Which I failed when first taking my driver's test.  (About eleventy hundred years ago.) Verdict:  I still suck at it.  But this time, I find that I don't care.

My son Jared is still trying to get me to start a Twitter account.  (Oh, quelle horreur!)  "Mom!" he commanded earlier this week.  "Your Twitter feed would be amazing.  Seriously.  All my friends already said they would follow you."  Oh. Boy. Jared is in his twenties.  And...so are his friends.  This is pretty illustrative as to why I don't have a Twitter account and do not get me started on Facebook.  Also, I have now typed the word Twitter way more times than I have ever wanted to in my entire life; ditto Facebook.

I was not in the least bit surprised when browsing The Huffington Post's website and, coming across this headline Depression at Work:  10 Careers with High Rates of Depression, to find Number 6.  I didn't see Real Estate Developer/Mogul/Sideshow Barker/Closet Racist in there, nor did I see State Representative/Homophobe/History Revisionist/Clueless Idiot.  Among other things. They're just as happy as...well...they can be.  Ignorance is bliss, as Thomas Gray said.

Okay, now here's a thing.  Imagine, just for the hell of it, that Alfred E. Newman and The Angel of Death could have a child.

Did you?  Because if you did, here's who it would be:               





That's Scotty McCreery from "American Idol"

Finally, even if you could try, there was no way to escape The! Royal! Wedding! What a bigass load of hoopla that all was. I just have two things to say. First, if I were the Queen of England, hell be damn sure I would announce way ahead of time what colour I was wearing and Officially Prevent everyone else from wearing it. I mean, I Am The Queen. OF ENGLAND. If I want to wear a buttercup yellow ensemble, no one else--sitting in close proximity of me, nonetheless!--is wearing that colour. Forget that.  Second, why does the Queen always carry that handbag around? What does she need a purse for at the wedding? Or ever, for that matter?  My mother was at my house yesterday morning, and we were watching a recap of The Royal Wedding, and we had this brief chat:

Me:  What is up with the Queen always carrying a purse?

Patsy:  I don't know, but she always does.

Me:  What does she need it for? Especially at a wedding. Just stick a hanky in her glove. Or have her husband carry one for her.

Patsy:  I know.

Me:  Holy crap, Mom. She's the queen! Whenever Rick and I go anywhere, the first thing I ask him is "do I have to take my purse?" What the heck does she have in there, the launch codes?"

Patsy:  Well, she's what, over 80, so maybe she carries her Poise pads in there. (laughs)

Oh, one last thing about the Royal Wedding.

Never.

I Need(ed) A Break! And After Reading All Of This, You Might, Too

It's SPRING BREAK, BABY!  And I could not be happier or more relieved.  It was a long slog to get here, believe me.  I thought March was bad, but these 20 days of April were brutal.  Brutal, I tell you.  But I made it, and now all that is left to do, really, is to clear out a few Occipital Oddments left clattering about in my cranium, and I'm good.  I can cross "put up a post at the Dept." off my list, move on to vacuuming, uncork a red, and figure out dinner.

I mentioned in Comments in the last post how awful our copiers are in our Brand! New! High! School! Well, this week we had yet another Epic Paper Jam, and because I had time, I set to work on it.  Under the watchful eye of Kathleen, I systematically began to clear the mangled copies out from the interior of the machine. "Damn it!" I exploded.  "It keeps lighting up the same error spot."  Kathleen calmly surveyed me kneeling next to the copier.  "Is it number 6?" she asked knowingly.  "I got stuck at number 6 forever last time. Forget it. There's no way to get in there."  I pulled out another drawer, undeterred.  "It says something about a conveyance in number 1.  Well, number 1 can go fuck itself at this point. I really don't...Holy shit!  Look at this!"  I withdrew a handful of tightly pleated copies.  "The Digestive System," I read aloud from the top copy, showing it to Kathleen.  "All this was stuck right in the middle drawer!"  Kathleen looked at it wryly.  "Oh, the irony," she said.

Another Workroom Diversion occurs when teachers read student work aloud.  Sometimes it's for entertainment purposes; sometimes it's out of frustration; sometimes it's because we are blown away by the high calibre of its quality and we're just plain impressed.  The best fun is Vocabulary Sentences.  Often, the nuances of usage escape students, regardless of their level.  My honors students, even, will misuse a word because they can't grasp the finer points of its usage.  For example, one of their words this week was schism.  A vast majority of them used it in this context:  The will left each of the children an equal schism of money.  See what I mean?  Here are two of my favourite vocabulary sentences shared by the team teachers Lisa and Karen this past week and a half:

*Amanda onslaught her boyfriend because he was messing with her car.

*The pizza was discernible from the living room.

You cannot put a price on entertainment like that.  Of course, we do not give points for Entertainment Value, but as we so often say, Life Is Not Fair.

Not so long ago, Jared--the son who used to co-author a blog with me--grew weary of thinking of segues or polite ways to introduce new topics of conversation.  (Sam, my youngest, used to use a Five-Second Rule:  that is, he'd wait five seconds, and if no one continued the current conversation, would simply jump in and start a new topic.)  Now, Jared simply says, "Unrelated" and then carries on with Whatever He Wanted To Talk About.  So...

UNRELATED

1.  I contacted Garnier about the hair gel I loved. Turns out it's not discontinued, only unavailable in my area.  They pointed me to drugstore.com, where I ordered 7 tubes because I'm not convinced.

2.  I think my formerly favourite TV show House has jumped the shark.

3.  Why are there so many cake-themed shows on TV? And why are they so bellicose? Cake is a dessert, people! No one should be battling, warring, building, or sweating and injuring themselves over cake!  Stop it immediately...I was going to say "before someone gets hurt" but it seems a bit disingenuous to say that now, doesn't it?  How pathetically ridiculous to take all the fun out of cake. What is next?  Will they ruin cotton candy and Nutella?  (OH MY GOD DON'T YOU DARE!)

4.  In my spare time, I worry about Richard Engel, Middle East correspondent for NBC Nightly News. First of all, is he adorable, or what? Great teeth, great hair, so well-spoken...but he has no regard for his personal safety!  He is constantly in a war zone, speaking Farsi to the locals and playing dodgeball with missiles and anti-aircraft fire.  (All the while looking fantastic and somehow cuddly and dashing at the same time.)  If he doesn't knock it the hell off, I am writing an impassioned letter to his mother.

Now then!  I think that will hold you all through Easter.  Or whatever you may--or may not--celebrate.  I'm going to have a lovely Break. Do take Some Time for yourselves, won't you? 

I Make A Superhuman Effort To Return To The Interwebs And Make You Think About Your Own Superpower

Last week was one of The Longest Weeks In The History Of Education.  My colleagues and I put in two twelve-hour days, thanks to the dreaded Parent-Teacher Conferences, which are held from 3:30-7:00 pm.  We call them The Hostage Crisis--among other things.  As a result, on the days following, we are delirious and incoherent in the workroom, which begins to take on the atmosphere of the old lounge back at The Rock.   (Ah, those were the days!)

Scene opens in the teacher workroom.  It is crowded and, uncharacteristically, noisy.  Some teachers are at computer stations, others eat lunch at the long tables.

Sue:  (from computer station)  Remind me to go to the bathroom.

Kerrie:  (looks up from her lunch, wide-eyed) Oh!  Oh!  That reminds me!  Nance! Now I know why You-know-who is your arch-nemesis.  I was standing in front of the bathroom, with my hand practically on the door handle, and she just tottered right in front of me and went on in!  I was furious!  Just because she has that thing on her foot or whatever.

Nance:  (peers around from computer) She's horrid. And she would have done that without that plastic cast on her foot.  She's just rude.

Sue:  Remember Sharon?  She did that all the time with the bathroom.  You could be standing there at the door with your hand on the knob and she'd just sneak right past you.

Nance:  I know!  Angie called her "The Zephyr."  She blew past you like a breeze. Sometimes, you didn't even know you'd been Zephyred, and you'd walk on in, and there would be Sharon!  It was her superpower!

(everyone laughs)

Nance: That, and disdain.  Disdain was her other superpower.  Remember when she said to me at her retirement party last year, "Moving into a new school and doing all that unpacking and settling in to a new place just doesn't interest me. I don't know why anyone would do it."?  As if we all had a choice?!   Like the rest of us could just retire too and avoid it?  Gotta love Sharon.

Kerrie:  I know!  All year last year she kept barging into my desk in the bookroom and grabbing my three-hole punch and using it and calling it "The Department Three-Hole Punch."  I didn't have the heart to tell her No, it's MY THREE-HOLE PUNCH ON MY DESK THAT I BOUGHT WITH MY OWN MONEY AND I'M LETTING YOU USE IT.

Nance:  Hey.  It's getting awfully cold in here.  Why is it belching ice-cold air all of a sudden?  Sue!  Did you turn down the thermostat over there?

Sue:  Huh?  No.  I haven't touched it.

Nance:  (sighs loudly)  I bet.  You know, you menopausal women in here...

Sue: (interrupts and shakes finger at Nance) Watch it, now. Watch what you say! I have the thermostat over here!  I have it right above my desk.  That's my superpower!

End Scene.

Why Is My Life So Hard? How Corporations Have Ignored My Loyalty And Stolen From Me (Shamelessly, No Less!)

Boy oh boy, there is nothing that frosts my cupcakes like finding a product that works for me and staying loyal to it for years and years, only to have the Geniuses At Corporate decide--on a whim--to yank it out from under me with no warning whatsoever. Here is a brief sampling of specific items that have been capriciously and callously stolen from me:

1. Reynolds Plastic Wrap

2. Bath & Body Lavender Vanilla Body Spray

3. Flex Extra Body Shampoo

4. Fructis Body Boost Styling Gel

5. PurinaOne Healthy Weight Formula Cat Food

Allow me to bitch...er...elaborate:

1.Reynolds Plastic Wrap was the most brilliantly conceived product ever in the history of kitchen conveniences. This food wrap came in a box with a sliding cutter attachment, which completely rendered obsolete the treacherous and hazardous metal serrated cutting Edge Of Death. It also allowed you to avoid wrangling the plastic film, which automatically sticks to itself rather than the surface you are trying to cover. I actually emailed and called Reynolds, and begged them to find me a Secret Stash in a warehouse someplace in Area 51. They informed me that they had no more and had no plans to revive this product, for which there had been "insufficient sales overall." My heart is still broken.

2. Every single fragrance I have ever loved from this store has been discontinued. Every single one. Now, I know that they constantly add new ones and "retire" scents. But their Lavender Vanilla "Sleep" fragrance was an all-time fave that was almost immediately pulled as a body spray. It stuck around as a candle, lotion, and some idiotic thing called a "pillow spray," but within the space of several months was gonzo as a perfume. I wanted to smack someone. I don't like strong perfumes or ridiculously expensive colognes. What a racket. But so much for having a "signature scent." Mine is always discontinued.

3. Did you know that Flex is no longer? Me, either! Like many products, it simply disappeared. Rick used this shampoo for eleventy years, and it smelled wonderful and did great things for his hair. Tough shit. It's gone now, and forever.

4. Longtime Dept. readers know that My Hair is an epic battle/journey, and that I prefer to spend my money on shoes. I had finally found an inexpensive and reliable styling gel that was not sticky but gave my hair nice volume. About a month ago, I noticed that I was having trouble finding it. I began buying two or three tubes at a time. Now, it's nowhere, and I've discovered why. Fructis has gone all pseudo-natural and organic and is making hair gel with some tree sap. I'm screwed again. Can I go back to Pantene Volumizing Gel? No, I cannot because they no longer make THAT, either.

5. Piper's flabknot is an ongoing source of concern and mortification for me. Marlowe, less so, but I am having success with Purina's Healthy Weight formula. Both cattens are friskier and it has 15% fewer calories. The last time I went to buy some, I had to go to three stores to find it. This weekend, I went to SIX and none of them had it. Apparently, Purina is discontinuing it and I have to figure out something else. Those of you with pets know that you cannot just fill the bowl with a new food and move on. Especially with cats. And have any of you seen the price of pet food lately? It's all premium unless you just sling in an off-brand and call it a day. The cattens will, in effect, be eating prime rib and filet, so to speak. It's ridiculous.

Let me just say this: I am resentful and irked. Who the hell do these people think they are? Why did they not consult with Me first? Why can't stuff I like be left alone? Is that too much to ask? And I bet you've had things stolen out from under you as well. Go ahead; vent in Comments.

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.