Cranial Casserole: It's What's For Dinner At The Dept.

This post will be sort of a Dept. of Nance mixtape (or mash-up, for my younger readers who are of A Generation who have no grasp of what "tapes" might be.)  It's like Leftover Night:  a dab of This-n-That, all odd assortments that don't really go together, but perhaps you might find something that you like.

Let's dish it up.

Once a week, I do floors in the house.  (I know:  how very June Cleaver of me.)  As I was Sharking the kitchen, I took a critical look at the front grill of the refrigerator and thought, I wonder if I should clean that someday.  In consulting the refrigerator's manual as to how to remove said grill in order to do so, I was shocked.  It told me not to clean it. There is no need for routine condenser cleaning in normal home operating environments, it said.  I was pretty excited.  There it was, in writing and everything.  I read further, however, because I know from experience that, if there is more writing, there is always a catch.  ...if there is significant pet traffic in the home, the condenser should be cleaned every 2 to 3 months....  What?  What does that mean--significant?  Of course my pets are significant!  My pets are extremely significant--to me!  Who in the hell has unimportant or insignificant pets?  ("Oh, my! What a nice dog. How long have you had him?"  "What dog?  Oh, that? That's just some animal that hangs around here to finish up our table scraps. It's a nothing. We haven't even named it.")  Needless to say, I cleaned that damn thing tout de suite. 

Speaking of language, we have a quick guest spot from the Defender of The Language.  A rather urgent missive arrived from California Math Teacher, and we wanted to address it right away.  He writes:

Dear Defender of The Language,  I'm a math teacher, and every time I teach my students the rules of solving equations, I have a question about grammar that I keep meaning to ask you. Two of the actions that are permissible when solving equations are adding the same quantity to both sides of an equation and subtracting the same quantity from both sides of an equation. These are generally presented as one rule and written as follows: "We can add or subtract the same quantity from both sides of an equation." This seems incorrect to me, as we subtract a quantity from an equation but we add a quantity to an equation, and this sentence uses the word "from" in both circumstances. On one hand I want to make this sentence more grammatically correct, but on the other hand I want to keep their notes as short and concise as possible. What should I do?

Oh, bless you, Math Teacher from California, for caring so deeply about grammar during a math lesson.  You are absolutely correct that the preposition "from" makes no sense after the verb "add" in that mathematical statement.  One way to test its grammatical logic is to remove the compound verb phrase, thusly:  We can add the same quantity from both sides of an equation simply does not pass the test of either English grammar or basic logic.  What to do for students who want to take short, efficient notes?  You can either heave a sigh of regret and press on, knowing that the basic understanding is still conveyed despite the grammatical misstep, or you can employ the slash in this manner:    "We can add or subtract the same quantity to/from both sides of an equation."  As a Defender of The Language, I naturally prefer the latter.

Thank you, Defender of The Language, for responding so quickly to this query.  As always, if you or anyone you know has a mechanics, usage, grammar, or spelling concern for the Defender, please send it to me here at the Dept.  My email link can be found in my sidebar.

Finally, the Cleveland Plain Dealer has again printed an intriguing obituary.  I must share it with you.  When I looked at the photo, I did a very cartoon-esque double-take.  I read the accompanying writeup with care, as I always do, and I smiled.  What a wonderful family this man must have.  What a great time he must have had with them all, and what memories they must have made together.  As I have often said when I share this sort of obituary picture, it would not be my style, but how I love that it was theirs.   

Legacy is a heady, serious thing to ponder.  Living one's Best Life each day...perhaps a little less so.  Tossing a little Fun in there obviously goes a long way.  I like that idea.  Always have.

Ah, Politics! I Hardly Knew Ye!

I'm seriously thinking of giving up The Politics completely.  Truly, I am.  The past couple of years I've removed myself gradually, anyway--with a few relapses here and there--because it has all gotten to be so much noise.

Those of us in the Swing States (CNN currently lists them as Nevada, Colorado, Iowa, Ohio, Virginia, Florida, and New Hampshire; The NYT adds Wisconsin) are in a constant media maelstrom of Super PAC propaganda.  In the evening hours especially, political adverts are stacked one on top of the other in a relentless barrage of partisan garbage.  Every single commercial break in Ohio has at least one (and that number would be a blessing), but more often, there are three or four in a row.  I witnessed the same fusillade of campaign proselytizing in Virginia in June.  Virginians also have a Senate race to decide, as do Ohioans, so we both get an extra helping of PAC crap.

I don't even listen anymore.  Yes, I've read The Research:  I know that the reason the ads are so negative is because They Work.  And, yes, I was one of the ones who said that Pres. Obama needed to get tough and dirty with the republicans because that's how they played the game.  For the record, I still say that.

But, thanks to the Supreme Court decision in 2010, we're all on overload.  A modicum of relief is coming, however:  On September 11th, the official campaigns of both presidential candidates are suspending ads.  Additionally, the primary pro-Obama Super PAC has agreed to stop running commercials in deference to the day as well.  But I want more.

I want the ads to be confined to one political ad per candidate per commercial break.  I want the ads to run only three months before any election.  I want there to be Ad-Free Days during the week, decided by each network, and that can be decided locally or nationally; I don't care.  I think those parameters are more than fair.  I've stated no regulations here about positive or negative; none regarding the Super PAC's monies or whether or not they have to be traceable or local in origin.  That stuff is already a lost cause.

The Politics used to be Fun for me.  Now it's ugly and tedious and tiresome, like cleaning the basement or arguing with a friend.  Whenever I can, I get rid of anything that's not fulfilling me.  So, The Politics has to go.

Part of my disgust, I think, has been all my reading and research into President Lincoln.  He was far from perfect, but in his service to the country, he remained thoughtful and mindful of the country.  He knew that some of the advisers he had around him had personal agendas and personal animosity toward him, but he valued them for their common desire to preserve the Union and for the expertise they brought in achieving that outcome.  He was a man who faced many tribulations simultaneously in all facets of his life:  a country at war, the deaths of his sons, a mercurial wife, a rebellious Congress, an often melancholy spirit, a series of failures as General for his Army of the Potomac, the cruelty of a fickle public and press, but he worked tirelessly for the restoration of his country.

The irony that my favourite president is a republican is not lost on me.  Yet, one would have to search deeply and profoundly to find any similarity between the current republican party and the party of Abraham Lincoln.  I wonder if he would be able to call himself a republican were he to find himself alive today.

In the meantime, I'll absent myself from The Politics of today in favour of the politics of yesterday.   

Indulge Me. Remember What Mae West Said: "To Err Is Human, But It Feels Divine." The Dept. Is (Sinfully) Seven!



by Marc Petrovic and Tim Tate

 In 375 AD, Evagrius Ponticus, a teacher and writer also known as Evagrius the Solitary, decided to identify the most terrible sources of temptation for human beings.  He came up with eight and named them as the sources of all sinful behaviour.  Two hundred years later, Pope Gregory I revised the list down to seven, and we now know them more commonly as The Seven Deadly Sins:  Pride, Envy, Gluttony, Lust, Anger, Greed, and Sloth.

In August 2012 AD,  the Dept. of Nance, written by a former teacher, celebrates seven years of being a source of...well, something for human beings here on the Interwebs.  In its existence for the past seven years, no doubt it has encouraged and celebrated some sinfulness here and there.  In the spirit of Evagrius Ponticus and Sinners everywhere, I would like to 'fess up--in spirit--to seven each of the Seven Deadlies.

1.  Pride/Vanity:   I'm vain about everything, as Readers all know, but inordinately so about my shoes (which must match my outfit); my clothes (which must be impeccable ensembles); my reading glasses (which must match my shoes and outfit); my hair (which I am at war with constantly); my eyelashes (Bug, where is the Mascara Spreadsheet?); my cats, who remain overweight despite their pricey diet food (and getting no treats or table food--so embarrassing); and the appearance of each post in this blog (it's exhausting, really).

2.  Envy:  This is a tough one.  I'm not generally an envious person, although I do wish I had the blogger book deal, the wherewithal to go on a world cruise, a warm-climate winter getaway home, the ability to eat and not get fat (like Sam's girlfriend seems to be able to!)...(See?  This is turning into what I wish, and not really a list of Envies.)  I'm envious of people who have a really good sense of direction, who like to take photos and have them organized, and who don't have the Worry Gene.  Because I do.

3.  Gluttony:  I don't eat like I used to be able to, and my food cravings change.  But we all have foods we love.  Seven of mine are:  Lobster, Avocados, Fresh-cut French Fries, Duck, Asparagus, Risotto, and Nutella.  Still Nutella.

4.  Lust:  Sometimes I find myself attracted to the oddest men.  Other times, they fit My Type exactly.  Here are seven men I find attractive, and a few are just big question marks, honestly:  Daniel Day-Lewis, Rob Lowe, Pau Gasol, Hugh Laurie, Robert Herjavec (from TV's Shark Tank), Anderson Varejao, and Richard Engel.

5.  Anger:  Lots of stuff makes me mad.  You and I both know that the short answer here could be "republicans" and I'd be done.  But that wouldn't be fair.  So, without getting too peevish, I'll say the USA's poor mentality about education funding in general; the way society bashes teachers; the downward spiral of quality in journalism, especially among broadcast/television media; the glorification of bad behavior in society, namely via so-called "reality programming"; the breathtaking sense of entitlement among people in the past 20 years; the astonishing attempt by some politicians to demote women to second-class citizens by abrogating their rights; and the unreasonable and inexplicable discrimination against gay citizens of our country.

6.  Greed:  This is the desire for material wealth or gain while ignoring the realm of the godly.  And while I pretty much observe the latter, I'm not the Quintessential Material Girl in that I don't wear jewelry or care about designer clothes or give a hoot about driving a Beemer and all that baloney.  Are there even seven materialistic things I want, say, before I die?  I would love a Viking range, a Kitchen Aid ice cream attachment for my mixer, a shopping spree in Sur la Table or Crate and Barrel, someone to come in and repaint the inside of my house for free, and oh hell!  While I'm at it, how about someone just gives me a summer home in Niagara-on-the-Lake? Wouldn't that be nice? Oh yeah, with a vineyard!

7.  Sloth:  According to everyone I meet, I have this one covered.  As soon as anyone hears I have Retired, the very next thing out of his or her mouth is, "Oh! And what are you doing now?"  It's become incredibly embarrassing to say "Nothing."  When did Retirement come to mean Moved On To Next Big Fucking Busy Work Thing?  Because I retired in order to Be Done Working. Here are seven things I'm NOT doing:  grading papers; calling parents of highschoolers; holding my pee for three hours because it's not my conference period or lunch period yet; having a 12-hour day because of parent conferences; buying my own supplies to the tune of a couple hundred bucks a year; pulling together a semester's worth of makeup work in one day for a kid who has been absent and failing but is entitled to his makeup work even though I know he will never turn it in; running to four different copy machines to find one that works in order to copy a test that I am giving that day since I tried to copy it all day yesterday to no avail.  Ahhh, yes.  Sloth.  I'm still, as far as Work Outside The Home Goes, diggin' the Sloth.

Now that I've suitably shocked and dishonored the memories of both Evagrius Ponticus and Gregory I, I invite you to help me celebrate my Blogiversary and do the same.  What are some of your Deadlies? (Or, if you don't want to share, you may merely comment upon mine.) And, oh, do have some cake.  But don't be Greedy and make a pig of yourself.

"Do You Like Big Tomatoes? Then Call This Number." My Sister's Cell Gets Down And Dirty

Probably there are times I shouldn't inflict my Sense Of Humor on other people.  Not everyone--even my own family--is able to appreciate it, especially without warning.  I feel like Susan deserved it, however, in the following text message exchange which began exactly as you see here:

As you can see, I was minding my own business at...4:37 PM when suddenly a photo of tomatoes appeared, accompanied by some home-canned sauce or salsa or other Tomato Product.  Then a call back number message (CB#), then another unsolicited closeup of tomatoes and another inexplicable reminder of my sister's cell number.  What choice did I have?

I felt it only fair to warn her.  There is a Law in Ohio against that sort of thing.  I was sitting out on the front porch, and I wasn't sure about jurisdiction.  It was for her own safety.  (I think the sheriff's deputy still lives one street over.)



(*Remember this guy? Susan gets fresh veggies--not tomatoes--from his stand, too.)

I called Susan('s phone) back today, and I have to wait until Friday to pick up some tomatoes.  But I did get a blogpost out of it today. 

The Defender Of The Language Returns And Threatens To Strap On Her Six-Gun--No More Ms. Nice Defender!

In a slight departure from our usual feature here at the Dept., the Defender of The Language has decided to use this space to air her own personal grievances regarding some linguistic faux pas she has encountered in the world of print media.  She will not, therefore, be answering Reader Mail in this installment.

Thank you, Nance.  Unfortunately, it would seem that the world at large and print journalism in particular either suffer from a sort of language laziness, or worse, a basic ignorance of English.  I have recently noticed no less than three abuses of homophonic words in professional print sources. 

They are:

1.  faze/phase:  "Faze" means to disturb or embarrass, usually a person.  For example, you might say, "The stuck teleprompter didn't even faze him; he continued his speech without a problem."  "Phase" indicates a stage or an aspect of something, as in "All children go through a finicky phase as toddlers."  It is astonishing to me that so many native speakers are not even aware that "faze" exists as a correct word.  (Yes, I am continually fazed by that fact.)

2.  pour/pore:  How I cringe at this error!  Truly, it is horrid.  When you "pour," you send a liquid flowing out of a vessel.  Metaphorically, you could even send a stream of words flowing forth.  When you "pore," however, you scrutinize or study something.  "Pore" used as a verb is generally accompanied by the modifier "over," as in "She pored over her notes before the exam."  (If she poured over her notes, she'd ruin them and fail the test.)

3.  palette/palate/pallet:  I have seen this error on menus in restaurants which pride themselves on being upscale.  Needless to say, they no longer enjoy my patronage (although I do find myself patronizing them).  An artist uses a "palette" upon which to hold and mix his/her colors.  This word can also refer to a range of colors, sometimes within a particular family of hues, such as a warm palette or a wintry palette.  A "palate," however, is one's sense of taste, aesthetics, or more concretely, the roof of the mouth.  One might say, "Burgers and beer are too ordinary for Fawn's refined palate."  Finally, a "pallet" is either a low wooden platform used in warehouses or a small, makeshift bed, usually of blankets and no mattress.  (It would be ridiculous to try to sleep upon a palette or palate, and with a bit of concentration and attention to basic spelling, one would never have to worry about such an arrangement.)

Simply put, all of these errors never should have happened.  Someone should have caught them before they appeared on materials disseminated to the public.  Perhaps the time of Grammatical Civility is over and the era of Grammar Vigilantism is at hand.  If that is what is necessary, so be it.  I hope I can rely on each of you to join in the struggle.

Thank you, Defender of The Language!  I know you can count on all DoN Readers.  For the Defender Fans, don't forget to submit your questions and/or Language Alerts to Nance here at the Dept. of Nance via email by using the clickable link in the sidebar.

Stupid Is And Stupid Does: Time Once Again For A Smackdown At The Dept. Of Nance!

What with my wine cellar and my Retirement, I find that I have strayed from one of my Original Missions here at the Dept., that being to Smack Down Some Stupid from time to time.  Let me assure you that This Time Has Come, and while I'm not nearly as viciously ready as I have been in the past (even though it is an Election Year), there is plenty of Abject Idiocy clamouring to be clobbered.  Here we go:

1.  Starting Small:  Yesterday was our wedding anniversary (#31) and Rick and I went to a wine bar for appetizers and drinks.  They have a nice atmosphere and some delicious lamb sliders.  Anyway, since I never eat sweets there, I never saw this on the menu, till last night:

Poor Mickey!

I don't want to give up on this place, but you know my policy.  Plus, how do you spell words like "caramel" and "chevre" and "arugula" correctly, but not "mousse?"  Especially when it's another thing entirely, like a small, furry animal? Someone should at least be smacking himself...on the forehead.

2.  Giving The Rest Of Us A Bad Name:  It's bad enough that the word "blogger" is ugly to say, hear, and even look at.  It sounds like swampy old oatmeal or something. And thanks to the stereotype of ruthless and/or jobless Internet addicts who sit hunched over a screen in a basement while launching scurrilous rumours worthy of Faux News personalities intent on damning the Democrats or finding evidence of Jesus/Ronald Reagan in an order of Clams Casino, we all get the bad rap.  Case in point:  NEO's own Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Connie Schultz was contacted via email by a conservative blogger who was "doing an expose on journalists in the elite media who socialize with elected officials they are assigned to cover" and wanted her comment regarding how she seemed to be cozying up to Ohio's Senator Sherrod Brown, who is running for re-election. 

(Brief digression here:  Look, given the chance, I would cozy up to Sen. Brown in a heartbeat. I adore Sherrod Brown.  Back many years ago, my sister Patti and I considered a campaign wherein we would offer to sleep with Sherrod Brown in order to convince him to run for Governor.  I am not kidding.  Then, Patti told me...well, wait a minute...)

Ms. Schultz emailed back, and I quote: "I am surprised you did not find a photo of me kissing U.S. Sen. Sherrod Brown so hard he passes out from lack of oxygen. He's really cute.  He's also my husband.  You know that, right?"

(...and that's why Patti and I ended our campaign.  As an avid reader and admirer of Connie Schultz, we could not, in good conscience, pursue our strategy. I still love Sherrod Brown.  When ads for his opponent come on and urge me to call Sen. Brown's office to bitch about something he purportedly did, I instead call and say wonderful things. I really do.  EVERY TIME.  And I tell them why.)

Back to The Stupid.  The only scandal here, Conservative Blogger, is that you are too damn dumb to USE THE GOOGLE.  Now put down that Starbucks, wipe those Cheeto crumbs off your face, and let me smack ya.  ;)

3.  Le Bullshit.  Holy crap, could you not be any more nauseated by the sophomoric petulance of...oh, pretty much everyone when they saw that Our Sacred American Olympians would be wearing OhMyGOD a BERET!?  I mean, what on earth was Ralph Lauren thinking?  That is a French Hat!  A Goddamned chapeau!  This is AMERICA last time I checked!  We wear HATS.  NO ONE IN THIS WHOLE EFFING COUNTRY WEARS SOME FRENCH-FRIED WUSS HAT LIKE

US Army Special Forces

Oh.

But those hats were made in CHINA!  WE EXPECT OUR OLYMPIANS TO WEAR OLYMPIC UNIFORMS MADE IN AMERICA.  WE ARE AMERICANS.  WE WANT OLYMPIC UNIFORMS MADE IN...



2002 US Team Uniforms

Oh, yeah.  Canada.  Well, at least they're in North America. 

Point is, What a bigass lot of grandstanding over something that, in the final analysis, means little.  (How about the fact that ONE beret costs 55 bucks and ONE men's blazer $795?)  If the American People want to get jazzed about something Of Vast Importance, certainly there are a myriad of things far more worthy of their distress.  I know I can think of about, oh, eleventy hundred of them, not the least of which is the fact that the republicans keep bitching about Jobs Jobs Jobs, yet they keep trying to legislatively crawl up my vagina and into my uterus as if they are going to somehow find them there.  Take it from me, Speaker Boehner and Candidate Mittens, many people, including my husband and several Medical Professionals have been there both officially and recreationally, (not in that order), and THERE ARE NO JOBS THERE.

Glad I could clear that up for you.  Consider yourselves both enlightened and smacked.

My!  That was invigorating!  Why oh why did I wait so long?  What do you think?  Or who has been languishing on your list?

I'm Back--Again--And I Might Shave My Head (But Not In Honor Of The Pseudo-Druids)



 It's like all I do is pack, unpack, and repack my suitcase. 

Rick and I have just returned from an extended holiday at Niagara-on-the-Lake in Wonderful Canada.  We thought we'd be escaping from the searing heatwave here in NEO, but The Canadians, who are everso polite at all times, kindly provided identical climatalogical conditions there so that we would not miss it.

Sigh.

But why should I bitch?  Our car has airconditioning and so did all of the wineries.  Suffering was minimal.

(Allow me for a moment, however, to digress here and Be A Stereotypical Woman and say this:  My hair looked like crap and gave me fits the entire six days of this vacation as well as the preceding one in Virginia.  So much so that, in Virginia, I called my stylist from the resort in order to book an appointment for the day I returned, and my hair still looked like hell during my Canadian vacation.  Honestly, I've just had it.  I've switched shampoos four times, styling gel three times, tried something called a "root volumizer", and used a round brush while I blow dry.  I've spent more time with my hair in the past month than I did with my kids during most of their babyhoods.  At the age of fifty-three, I want to let go of My Hair as an Issue.  I know my Vanity is an enormous Part Of My Pathology--I KNOW THAT.  But every single woman in the world knows that, even if you have a mustard stain on your shirt, if your Hair Looks Great, nothing else matters.  Even your mascara and do not get me started on that.)

Heavy Sigh.  Anyway.

On one of the days when it was not terribly torrid, we went to The Niagara Horticultural College grounds and walked all over for hours, looking at all the various plants and trees and gorgeous vegetable and herb plantings.  It took all my restraint not to raid some incredible onions, ruffly lettuces, perfectly chubby and charming cabbages, and grab some other interesting things I knew would be much happier in my yard.  They have so many lovely trees there, too, and I am fascinated by the variety and placement of some of them, and the striking black squirrels they attract.

Near a large pond area was a Dawn Redwood, one of my favorite trees.  As we approached it, we noticed these little...figures assembling all around its base.  Here, look:

Can you see them?  I took the photo with my iPhone as I walked nearer and nearer.  I thought that perhaps they were a student project because they look like little carvings--like little Druids or something, and they were all converging to the right, like they were headed to worship or something.  We moved closer to get a better look and another shot:



I soon discovered that these are, in fact, the upraised roots of this Dawn Redwood tree.  They are very sturdy and some are covered in bark.  There were other Dawn Redwoods on the grounds, and none but this had the little Druid Root People.  This tree, though, was the only one near the water.

Here's a little clutch standing by the shore, like a family.  Aren't they just fascinating?  It's unfortunate that there is no one on the grounds or anyplace to ask about the interesting things you see at the College.  I would have loved to know anything about this phenomenon.  It's not something I recall from my reading of The Wild Trees, the terrific book that inspired my love of redwoods.  But it was a long time ago that I read it; I think it's time to visit it again.

Once we were done wandering, we sat on a bench near the entrance to have a cold drink and do a little people-watching. The Niagara area is always great for that because it draws so many international visitors.  We sat near a very lovely, very patient horse hitched to a carriage-for-hire.  Nearby, its companion also waited, just as beautiful, but not nearly as patient, for it stamped its rear hoof whenever a child came near.  Soon, we heard a lot of screaming.  Not pained or frightened, just some kid who felt like screaming.  It was a black-haired boy of about four with obviously a lot of energy.  His parents were completely indifferent.  He approached the cranky horse, who stamped his rear hoof several times.  The driver skillfully intercepted the boy and stood at the horse's head.  The patient horse was not so lucky.  At least the boy settled somewhat for the following scene:

Boy approaches horse.  Mother and father rush over.  Father bends to speak to boy and then encourages him to pet the horse.  Mother is obviously fretting, but holds up camera for photo.

Nance:  That poor, long-suffering horse.  Now that kid is going to badger it.  You know darn well that instead of petting it, he'll clobber it.
Rick:  The parents are oblivious.
Nance:  I would think the best way to approach that horse would be to--
Rick:  (interrupting)--get in there as quick as you can and just go for it!  Before the horse even knows what hit it!
Nance:  (looks at him in shock and disbelief)...What I was going to say is "hold the kid's hand and pet it very slowly so that he doesn't go crazy".  What in the hell...? 
Rick:  Or, you could try that.  Yeah.  That.

End Scene.

I'm Back From Vacation And My Brain Is Bursting--Time To Swiffer The Cerebellum

Time for a good Clear-Out of the Cranial Crud, so let's just get on with it, shall we? Good!

1.  Why Can't I Quit You?    I am talking about my LoveHate, Daniel Day-Lewis.  Not to be tedious here, but my Longtime Readers know of my eleventy hundred year affair with this man and my dismay with his failure to A) reprise his Glory Days of The Last of the Mohicans by taking glamour roles and B) look handsome and dress well in public the few times he does surface.

Right now, the stars have aligned and three of my Favourite Things have come together as one:  President Lincoln, historian Doris Kearns Goodwin, and DD-L, for a movie has been made of her wonderful book Team of Rivals and DD-L is playing Lincoln.  When I heard this news, I was elated and thrilled.  When I saw this picture of DD-L as President Lincoln, I was excited. 

Then I saw his picture from the White House Correspondents' Dinner, where he was (inexplicably) a guest of The Huffington Post.

There is no excuse for that haircut.  His next role is a 17th century Jesuit priest who travels to Japan.  It is in pre-production. It's like he doesn't even care how much he embarrasses me.

2.  Why Didn't Someone Yell Cut?  And speaking of President Lincoln and film, I could not be more outraged, disappointed, and saddened by the ridiculous movie currently in theaters (and which I will not name here) that turns our 16th president into some sort of occult action hero.  Why not Nixon or Washington, or, oh hell, let's grab a non-president with a distinctive and readily-identifiable persona, Benjamin Franklin?

from Amazon Studios

 Honestly, the whole premise offends me.  Oh, I know that I'm sensitive to Anything Lincoln--I get that.  But it's awful.  I really believe that the only reason the filmmakers and producers are getting away with this travesty is because there are no surviving direct descendants of the Lincoln line.

3.  Doesn't Anyone Else Speak English?  Now, back to books.  Those of you who actually read at my site may have noticed in the sidebar that I'm reading--off and on--a book titled The Whole Truth by David Baldacci.  It's not My Kind Of Book, but I got it because A) it was part of my campaign to broaden my reading spectrum and not be so snobby; B) it was only a few bucks in hardback when a bookstore was closing; and C) it is a genre that a buddy of mine enjoys.  So I'm reading this and I notice a sentence that rocks me up off my chaise longue and causes me to say out loud to no one,"Oh my GOD NO WAY IS THIS IN HERE!"  Here is the offending sentence from page 165: When the screams reached Anna's ear, she thought someone had injured themself.  

I. Know.  Go ahead.  Look up "themself" in the dictionary (or try anyway).  Look up "someone."  Now look up the rule governing pronoun-antecedent agreement, just for the hell of it.  Then try not to kill yourself at any point along the way.   And this sentence is only one example.  I took this sentence to lunch with a bunch of English teachers, and during our chat, I said, "I bet if I did a Fry Readability Assessment on this book, it would score only about a sixth grade level.  Seriously.  It's a New York Times best seller, and it's just so elementary.  It's a Guy Book, but it's just basic." My friend Caroline said, "Who's it by, now?"  I said, "David Baldacci."  She responded with a grimace, "Well, what did you expect from a former child star who has had a bunch of drug problems and all that?  Wasn't he the one from The Partridge Family?"  (Gotta love her. But she just had a baby and a job change and...well, she gets a pass from me.) 

Now, I look at David Baldacci's bio.  He has a ton of best sellers to his credit and I have...zero.  He established the Wish You Well foundation, which, ironically, supports "family literacy in the United States by fostering and promoting the development and expansion of new and existing literacy and educational programs."  In the acknowledgements of The Whole Truth, he thanks his editor for doing a great job.  (But who allowed this sentence on p. 270:  Creel was actually a private investor in the newspaper and he'd been the one who'd discreetly behind the scenes orchestrated the assignment for her.)  And the Fry?  I was wrong. 

Hard to see, but my dot indicates the score. Maybe you can click and it will enlarge.

It graphed out at a 6.5 grade reading level, age 11.5.  David Baldacci is a Good Guy, but his writing is not for me.

4.  Speaking of bookstores, I want to come clean publicly for being The Responsible Party, The One Who Singlehandedly Closed Borders.  I'm sorry.  It was I.  I was the one who simply stopped going to bookstores and chose the Evil Convenience of Amazon.com.  I didn't even browse Borders and have cappuccino or biscotti or any of those other fun words to say at their cafe.  I was lured by the comfort of my chair at home and Super Saver Shipping.  I felt dirty and sinful and like a Horrid Opportunist when I swooped in and grabbed cheapo hardbacks during their Last Days, like the warty old women bartering over Scrooge's bedcurtains.  Please don't hate me.  I want redemption,  Help me.

5.  Finally, if you are sick of Sudoku and finding crosswords too conventional, allow me to introduce you to Jotto.  I have no idea how I found out about this addictive and frustrating little words and letters game, but it's too late to blame them now.  You're welcome.

Your turn.  Kick out some of your Cranium Clutter in Comments.

If You Want To Date My Son, You'll Have To Take A Quiz

Jared and Sam are wonderful individuals, but like most of the people in whose lives I take great interest, they often don't give a damn about what I say.  This is Irksome at the level of, say, their taste in clothing or their driving habits, but it becomes something more Momentous when it involves A Young Woman.  It is one matter when Jared wears only Christmas-themed boxers as his underwear of choice and Sam cannot stop speeding on Route 480; it is quite another when they start Getting Serious with The Wrong Women.

It does no good to remind them that I certified as a marksman with a .22 caliber rifle, either.  They know that A) I do not own any gun but a BB gun, and B) that was back in my freshman year of college.  (Neither of those is any comfort to the Robber Squirrels at my bird feeder, though! Ha!)

Anyway.

In order to assist them--and me--in their quest for An Acceptable Woman, I developed a quiz.  I urged them to administer the Quiz to any and all prospective girlfriends before they got too terribly serious with them.  It's easy, I reminded them, to be bewitched by a lovely smile, cute figure, and ready laugh.  But it's vastly more critical to be able to relate to, talk with, and be interested by her.  Some things can be overlooked (she calls it "fro-yo", wears PINK across her butt, hates cats), but the young woman has got to have some brains, after all.

I've published my Acceptable Woman Quiz here, for you to see.  The Quiz and its Scoring Guide are available as separate pages on the blog simply by clicking the tabs up top.  Let me know what you think. 

Sam's current girlfriend passed with a good score.  Jared didn't administer the Quiz to his girlfriend...yet.  He said, "I think she'd do pretty well." 

I hope so!  ;-)

In Which I Find A Soulmate In ConFic, Analyze Myself, And Engage You In My Quest

One day during a long ago (circa 1990s) Creative Writing II class, I overheard one of my writers say, "When they get that big, they're just not...fun anymore!"

Immediately, the entire room was blanketed in that sort of unified silence that occurs unexpectedly, and every single student stared at little Jennifer Lewis, who was not even five feet tall and happened to be wearing her cheerleader uniform, thus rendering her even more adorable.  She got very, very pink and quickly said, "Feet!  Feet!  I was talking about feet!"

Ah, Jennifer!  It was wisdom like that--and your startling talent--that got you all A's in CW.

For now, much to my great dismay, it is The Season Of Feet.  They are Everywhere.  I cannot escape them.  No matter the venue, be it grocery store, bank, pet supply shop, department store, or restaurant, feet are all over the place.  At least I am no longer in my classroom, where I would have had to be confined with as many as twenty pairs of feet in various stages of undress every forty-five minutes, five times a day.  Highschool students, especially this unseasonably warm year, would have started wearing The Dreaded Flipflops as early as March.

Ugh.  When did Flipflops (Called THONGS back in my childhood, that term means something entirely different now.) become appropriate Public Footwear for middle class adults?  Who first broke this Societal/Class Barrier?  Bring her to me!  Off with her head!  Honestly, I thought I was alone in this discomfort with and dismay over flipflops (Arrgh! The name alone is irritating, juvenile, and Seussian!) until I read Jonathan Franzen's novel Freedom.  In it, the character and sometimes-narrator Patty bitterly muses about young people:

"I have some issues with their flipflops.  It's like the world is their bedroom.  And they can't even hear their own flap-flap-flapping, because they've all got their gadgets, they've all got their earbuds in.  Every time I start hating my neighbors around here, I run into some...kid on the sidewalk, and suddenly forgive the neighbors because at least they're adults.  At least they're not running around in flipflops, advertising how much more laid-back and reasonable they are than us adults. Than uptight me, who would prefer not to look at people's bare feet on the subway. Because, really, who could object to seeing such beautiful toes? Such perfect toenails? Only a person who's too unluckily middle-aged to inflict the spectacle of her own toes on the world."

Once I read that, I stopped to consider:  Am I against that footwear because I merely hate my own feet, or because I hate feet in general?  Or is it a symptom, like Patty's, of a deep dislike of teenagers and/or twentysomethings?  I concluded thusly:
1.  I do dislike my own feet.
2.  I hate all feet in general, excepting baby and toddler feet. (The Jennifer Lewis Rule)
3.  I like teenagers as a rule; always did.
4.  I am routinely annoyed by twentysomethings as a group, but don't often dislike them individually.

Look, adult feet are ugly.  Even if you tan them up, grease the cracked heels, grate off the skin rinds, and polish the nails (but lay off the greens and blues--urk), they still spend time hanging out at ground level in public.  Those are the facts.  They do a utilitarian job for about sixteen hours a day and look it. Multiply that over the span of years a person's been walking. THAT IS WHY WE HAVE GREAT-LOOKING SHOES AVAILABLE. 

And, hey, all that Maintenance Stuff up there?  That is Pedicure Business, which I'm not having.  Even if you call it the cutesy "pedi."  Do. Not. Touch. The. Feet.  I don't even like to recognize the fact that I have feet. Except for the purpose of owning the aforementioned GREAT-LOOKING SHOES.  Which leads me to...

My Brown Sandal Dilemma.  Briefly touched upon in comments in my previous post, I am locked in a years-long search for the perfect brown sandal which, should I find it, I will buy all pairs of it in my size (8.5), thus forestalling another quest for as long as possible.  Here are my

BROWN SANDAL REQUIREMENTS
1.  Flat, but some arch support
2.  Nothing between my toes
3.  No ankle strap
4.  Show as few of my toes as possible
5.  No flowers or flowery decoration
6.  No gladiator styling
7.  Reasonably priced

Why is this so hard?  Where is it, this Brown Sandal Of Nance-Nirvana?  It is gone, too, the way of Mars Bars and Sane Republicans.  Heavy Sigh.

Instead, I suffer daily with Flipflops and...well, you know the rest.  On the upside, two of my nieces are expecting this fall.  Soon enough, there will be four little Democrat baby feet to play with. 

In Which A Mainstream Retail Outlet Seemingly Legitimizes Black-Market Child Trafficking (And On A Sunday, Too!)

Scene opens on living room.  Nance is in her huge chair, browsing the Sunday advertisements, while Rick, on couch right, peruses Sports section.  The cats are chasing each other throughout the house, threatening respective mugs of coffee and tea.

Nance:  Anything good in the paper?
Rick:  I'm only looking at the Sports.  The Indians are getting killed--again--by the White Sox.  I don't know what it is about that team.  The Tribe just cannot get past them.
Nance:  At least we smacked Detroit around...hey.  Here's a thing.  Macy's is having a sale on babies.  They're forty percent off.  Look.  (shows Rick the ad pictured above)
Rick:  Huh.  So...you can get...let's see...a white girl baby or a white boy baby. 
Nance:  Well, what do you want for forty percent off?  That's why there's not much of a selection.
Rick:  That's for sure.
Nance:  Says here their names are Carter, Levi, and Nautica.  And more.  Well, I don't think much of the names.  They sound---
Rick:  --Levi?  Well, to me that sounds---
Nance:  ---Jewish?
Rick:  No, I was going to say Amish.
Nance:  Yeah, it does sound Amish, too.  And Nautica...
Rick:  Kind of a theme name.  Like the kid will grow up to be a sailor.
Nance:  Well, you know, when we went to Friendship APL and got Piper and Marlowe, they had names already--really terrible and awful and dumb names that I hated.  I just renamed them.  I'm assuming that whoever buys a Forty Percent Off Baby at Macy's can do the same.
Rick:  Does it say these kids come already potty-trained?  Because Piper and Marlowe were already litterbox-trained.
Nance:  (leafs through ad)  Hmm.  No, but the girl is pictured in here walking, so it's a distinct possibility.  Hard to tell.  Diapers now aren't as bulky as they used to be, you know?
Rick:  Doesn't matter, actually.  It's not like we're going to get one anyway.
Nance:  No, but I do need a pair of brown sandals.

End Scene

So Much Stupid And So Little Time! Whence All Of These Bad Ideas?

Oh, Readers!  Did you ever get the feeling that you were the Only One On The Job anymore?  Certainly you recall how many times I have renewed my offer to make the Dept. of Nance a bona fide department.  I am offering it again, for I have borne witness to so much Stupid, so many Bad Ideas lately, that it is patently obvious to me that Someone has to do Something.  Here now:

Example A:  This past weekend, our Cleveland NBC affiliate had a segment on its Saturday morning infotainment show about what not to get moms for Mothers Day.  It was clearly a "package" feed that they got from another affiliate because every mom in it had a pronounced Southern accent.  They all looked as if they were in a store parking lot (Walmart?) and were interviewed at the sides of their vehicles or in them.  "Don't get appliances!" one woman said in a dire voice.  Another woman drawled, "I hate gift certificates or gift cards. There doesn't seem to be much thought in those."  One greyhaired lady with very few teeth said cheerily, "I jest want hugs and kisses and all mah fam'ly around!"  At the end of the segment, our local anchorwoman said, "For those of you taking Mom out to brunch, Ruby Tuesday's has a free cookbook for every mom!"

Wow.  Message there?  Here's your meal out, but as of tomorrow?  Get back in the kitchen where you belong!  Really, Ruby Tuesday's?  And, on Fathers Day, will they get a cookbook? Bet not.  Spare me.  What a load of cliché and stereotypical bullshit. I said as much--and plenty more on this theme--to Rick as I went in to grab a shower.  Then, I turned around and said, "And!" to which he said, "I knew you weren't done."  But really, how condescending.  "Here, little ladies.  Enjoy your meal out, but let's remember what Being A Mom Is All About.  Now scoot back in there and tie that apron real tight!" Grrrrr....!

Example B:  Because of Hormonal Fluctuations and The (Now Hopefully Permanent) Cessation Of Sanguinary Hostilities, I have been having intermittent migraines.  I awoke with a real bitch of one last week, and struggled to make use of my migraine medication.  Let me just say that the people at Maxalt "have a lot of 'splaining to do" about their product and may they rot in everlasting circles of Migraine Hells   engage in a little R&D toute de suite so that others do not suffer in kind.  Here is a little Photo Essay to demonstrate.  (And imagine yourself in Excruciating Agony while two pleasant but hungry cats annoy the hell out of you.)

1. First, you have to try to pry this open.

2. To get this, the second package.
READ THOSE DIRECTIONS!

3. NOW, IF I can peel this off, I can push the
melty little pill onto my tongue and LIVE.

Really, Merck&Co?  Don't you have any Migraine Sufferers on board over there at all?  Do you honestly think I can even see those directions, let alone fold on that fucking line, then have the patience to locate an almost nonexistent notch, tear it--OR USE SCISSORS--all in order to THEN OPEN ANOTHER FUCKING PACKAGE?!  As my students used to say, "Somebody needs to get real."

Example C:  Much of the time, I simply cannot stand to think of using my dreadmill (hence the name).  The weather has been temperate, so I do my walking outdoors in the 'hood.  I try to time it so as not to disturb the local schoolchildren with my presence.  I have to tell you, though:  it's boring walking the same routes over and over.  In order to break the monotony, I give myself little tasks and little things to look for, like a Quirky Scavenger Hunt.  I wasn't on one of those when I saw this Quintessential Bad Idea, however:


This is just So Bad on So Many Levels, that I'm almost in awe of its Badness. I mean, come on.  What, exactly, is the thought process here?  All right!  Those damn kids want a trampoline, we'll give them a trampoline!  I've told them and told them we don't really have the room, but they just won't shut the hell up.  The city says we have to have a safety fence, and damn it, we do!  Not safe for them, but oh well!  And I swear to God, the first one who impales himself can just walk to the hospital for all I care!  And if they want those branches trimmed, they can goddam well do it themselves, the little shits! 

In the front yard of this house were a ton of kid toys.  And bikes and happiness.  But that back yard. Yikes.  Interestingly, there is another house in the neighborhood with a scary trampoline setup almost identical to this one.  I was all set to photograph it as well, but they put up one of those cage-net thingies that completely encloses the trampoline, rendering it much safer. I was devastated because this trampoline had the bonus of a nearby garage gutter.  Alas.

But, really, parents? Allow me, if you will.  TRAMPOLINES + PICKET FENCES = KID KEBAB (NO GOOD).

Had to be said, apparently.

Saturday With St. Patsy

On Saturday I had the opportunity to renew my Good Daughter Merit Badge.  Rick and I went and picked up St. Patsy at the Lakehouse where she spent a week with her sister and ladyfriend, and transported her back home.  I'll let you decide if I earned it.

Scene I.

Main room of lakehouse.  Older woman is bustling to pack up a mountain of luggage, baskets, tote bags, a cooler, etc. in preparation to leave.  Younger woman observes with dismay, but wisely chooses not to remark upon the volume of stuff.  She is, instead, having a glass of chardonnay.

Nance:  Mom!  You'll be happy tonight! Guess what's on TV!
St. Patsy:  (looks up expectantly; is honestly excited) What?  Give me a hint.
Nance:  It's a Tragic Heroine Double Feature tonight on one of the old movie channels! Guess what's on.
St. Patsy:  (smiling; really happy now) No!  You mean on TNC?
Nance: (laughs)  Mom!  What the hell is TNC?  It's "TCM" or "AMC".  Turner Classic Movies or American Movie Classics!  But yes, one of those, and I think it's AMC.  Doesn't matter; you can look at the guide. Guess the movies.  Remember, both are tragic female leads.
St. Patsy: (now completely not packing at all; unable to multi-task) Oh, well! Has to be Camille.
Nance: (proud, but a little surprised) Yes!  Camille is the first one.  What's the second?
St. Patsy: (leaning on a barstool now; thinking really hard)  Now...is it...well, don't I even get a hint?
Nance: (teasing) What a wimp.  Okay, here's your clue:  Same leading man in both of them.  Robert Taylor.
St. Patsy:  (frowns; then brightens)  Oh!  Oh!  Gotta be D-Day 6th of June!
Nance: What?!  How is that a Tragic Heroine Movie?  Now you're just grasping at straws!  I'm so disappointed in you.  I could not be more--
St. Patsy:  (interrupts)--well, what's his character's name?
Nance:  I don't know!  Besides, that's not even fair.  Here's your next clue:  He is military and she--
St. Patsy: (triumphant)  Oh, Waterloo Bridge!  Oh, boy.  I will be crying tonight!  I better have plenty of tissues. 
Nance:  I know, right?  I knew you'd be happy.

Scene 2. 

Interior of car on the ride home.  Rick is driving, Nance is up front, St. Patsy is in the passenger seat, crowded by several pieces of luggage that would not fit in the hatchback of the Prius.  Nance and St. Patsy have been reminiscing about the myriad car trips of her youth.

St. Patsy: (fondly) Remember taking the long way with your father down 511?  It was way out of the way, but you kids put up with it because he would stop at the ice cream place and get you all a twist cone.
Nance:  Yep.  I remember.
St. Patsy:  There were a lot of cows that way, Nance.  (very bright and happy now) And those goats!
Nance:  What?  Why would you say that to me?
St. Patsy:  Say what?
Nance:  About the goats.
St. Patsy: What about them?  There were always a whole bunch, remember?
Nance:  Mom!  I really cannot believe that you would be so cavalier in your mention of goats to me, considering my Childhood Trauma with them!
St. Patsy:  What childhood trauma?
Nance:  (turning fully around in her seat; indignant)  What childhood trauma?!  Don't you remember that travelling petting zoo at the mall when we were little and we went in to it and that goat ate my favorite dress that Grandma made me?  How upset I was? How do you not remember that?  Oh. My. God, Mom.
St. Patsy:  (giggling) Oh that's right.  I do remember that.
Nance: (aggravated and wounded) Holy crap, Mom.  That was traumatic for me.  And you are laughing! (more laughter from the backseat)  Wow.  I bet if it was Patti* who had her favorite dress eaten by a renegade goat, it would be a whole different story. Because Patti-- *(note: Patti is the eldest and perceived favorite daughter)
St. Patsy:  (interrupts) --Oh, Nance!  (begins to mock-sing a tragic violin/movie music interlude) Da da daaaa da da, da da da daaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Nance:  (horrified at her callousness) Mom! Really? First you don't remember my childhood goat trauma and then you mock me?
St. Patsy: (calm) But I remember your attraction to cattle.

Finis.

Welcome To Helpfultown, USA. Our Motto: If You're Not Happy, We're Not Happy!

Even though my plans are to leave it in the not-too-distant future, I have to admit it:  my town is such a helpful, nurturing little town.  For example, this billboard, strategically placed at the railroad bridge:

If you're even thinking about it, we can help.  Help with...?  But, in any case, the train tracks and height of the bridge there might just be all the assistance you require.  But hey!  Just a few yards away, if you level your gaze to a traffic sign, you get something a bit more catchy, a bit more...hip to help you work things out:

You know?  He was more than just a poser from South Texas and Miami; that Vanilla Ice really knew about Life.  Who knows how many people could be saved from Thinking of Suicide if they'd just Collaborate And Listen?

Or, if all else should fail, look down a bit more and to the side, where yet another helpful hint awaits.  Simple, basic, and to the point, sometimes it helps to just



...though your heart is aching...smile, even though it's breaking...when there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by...if you smile...

But let's say you don't.  You just cannot "get by."  Well, fear not, My Town Travellers!  Sojourn but a little longer--a block longer, across from a Walgreens, as a matter of fact--and find respite in

Could this place be any more accommodating?  We just want to help you to be The Best You That You Can Be!  Happy Trails!