I Ain't A-Scared Of You!

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

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

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

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

Teen: Mom, taste this.
Mom: Why?
Teen: Just taste it.
Mom: But I don't want any.
Teen: You don't have to eat it, just taste it.
Mom: Good God! Okay, fine! (tastes it.) There. It's good. Why?
Teen: It smelled funny. I thought it might be rotten and I wasn't sure.

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

Teen: (in bathroom, calling): Mom! (pauses imperceptibly) MOM!!!!!
Mom: (rushes in) What?! What's the matter?
Teen: Is there something on my back?
Mom: What? Is that all? You sounded like you were bleeding to death.
Teen: I can feel something gross on my back but I can't get it.
Mom: Let me see....Eeew! It's a huge zit. Just leave it alone.
Teen: Mom! I know it's back there. It's gross. You have to get it.
Mom: I don't want to touch it. Yuck.
Teen: Mom! Please. You have to. I don't want my new American Eagle shirt to even touch it.
Mom: I'll put a band-aid on it, then.
Teen: Mom, come on! You have to. Just squeeze it real quick.
Mom: (Sighs) Okay. Brace yourself. (Squeezes) Ugh!
Teen: Ouch! Oh my God! Mom! Geeze! What the Heck!!!!

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

If Moms wrote the script for a horror movie, can you imagine what it would be? Mine, now that my kids are 18 and 21, would be one in which the boys never left home but got some low-life trashy wenches from the Fundamentalist Right "in trouble" and tried to live here with their babies, played country music at top volume, spoke with bad grammar, and brought yappy dogs into my house. Seriously scary stuff, that.

"Words, Words! They're All We Have to Go On!"

I suppose it's because I'm an English teacher and avid reader and writer, but dialects fascinate me. My ears really perk up when I hear people use different words than I use for common everyday objects. (Even that last sentence can prove interesting: some people say their ears "prick up.") Sometimes, I can even locate the general region of where the person lived or was raised by a few key words in their common usage vocabulary.

In my house, we sat on the davenport. You might have had a sofa, or a couch. I blame my mother for that one. She was "Pennsylvania Dutch", and she gave us lots of odd words. We never picked up or tidied up. We redded up the house. We didn't vacuum, either. We ran the sweeper. We didn't eat dinner; we ate supper for the evening meal. On Sunday, our largest meal was in the afternoon, and it was called Sunday Dinner. We didn't use a washcloth to wash up, we used a washrag. And we played in the sandbox with a bucket, not a pail.

My friends across the street had a parent from West Virginia, so they were all screwed up. They got their groceries in a sack, not a paper bag. When one of them got an electrical shock from the outlet, she said she got a poke. She called my braids "pigtails". When she asked her grandmother permission to go with me on my paper route, she said she had to ask her "Ma-Maw" to go on my root. I had never heard of a Ma-Maw and no one had ever pronounced "route" (which I had always said like it rhymed with "about") as if it rhymed with "toot."

But then, I had my own Grandma who called green peppers "mangoes" for whatever reason, and called all saucepans "dippers." She was from Wiggletown, Ohio, which isn't even there anymore, to my knowledge. They probably were incorporated into another small town without them even knowing it, largely owing to the fact that the Wiggletownians couldn't communicate effectively. ;-)

My brother-in-law, who was born in Ohio but transplanted to New Jersey, calls jeans dungarees and calls rubber bands gum bands. He calls carbonated beverages soda, whereas in Ohio, they are commonly called pop, which I cannot bring myself to say. It sounds ridiculous, so I say soda also even though I have never lived in the East.

Once in a while, I give trivia questions for extra credit in my English classes. One day, I asked what a davenport was. Only two students got it right. And both of them knew it because of their grandmothers. A fact which they didn't need to share with me. But they did. At which time I felt a new wrinkle sprout.

This language of ours is so captivating. It is what unifies us, yet it is what makes us unique. It can mark us as readily as a brand to a trained ear. I have become almost a collector of the nuances of English, and it is a lifelong obsession.

Because if We Can't Laugh, then We'll Explode

I've had to edit this post and take out the embedded video. I couldn't figure out how to monkey with the code to stop it from playing automatically every time my blog would load. But it was darned funny, so if you want to go see it at Wimp.com, you still can. It's right here .

Sorry for any inconvenience, especially for those of you who access The Dept. at work. It was really starting to piss me off, too!

But funny! The guy is funny.

On Spring

Spring is trying its best to arrive in Northeast Ohio. The Cleveland Indians baseball team is having its home opener tomorrow, and the forecast is 53 with a 100% chance of rain. (I can remember sending my son off to a home opener one year wearing a parka and snowpants. He had to clear several inches of snow off the bleachers and froze before the 5th inning. I suppose getting a little wet is preferable to frostbite.) I am frantic for 70s and sun. I want to put away, once and for all, my winter coat and sweaters. I want to stop carrying my personal space heater when traveling from room to room at the high school. I want my hands to stop looking like a corpse's, all white with purply fingertips from the cold, even indoors.

The house on the corner has some crocuses, but they don't count. I've seen them poking through snow before, stubbornly heralding a premature Spring. The chubby robins in my yard jockeying for position with the squirrels aren't encouraging, either. Around this area, a few hardy ones winter over and can be seen huddled under the eaves in February. Nope--I want lilacs and thunderstorms. I want a rainbow. I want to hear the music from the popsicle truck. I want to see the cilantro start feathering up in my herb garden. I want to smell that wetly green aroma first thing in the morning when I sneak out in my short jammies to get the Sunday paper off the front walk. I want to start complaining about all the tree buds being tracked into the house and all over the carpets. I want all the storm windows open in the house and the cats sitting with their noses up against the screens.

I want to wear my light blue pointy shoes. I want to break out my pink leather Etienne Aigner bag. I want to wear short sleeves again. I want to wear a dress or skirt with no pantyhose. (Hell, I want to be able to wear a dress or skirt and not get goosebumps!) I want to wear light, flirty clothes and a lighter, flirtier mood.

Spring arrives too late and leaves too soon here in NE Ohio. We pine for it; we yearn for it; we wish for it as avidly as a lover does her beloved. When it arrives, we almost weep. We wallow in it for the briefest of moments that it lasts.

Spring in NE Ohio is unpredictable and mercurial. It is like your friend who dyes her hair a different color every month and goes to a tarot reader. She disappears, perhaps, for weeks or months at a time, but you don't really hold her accountable; that's just the way she is. When she does show up, you just pick right up where you left off. No questions asked, no baggage or recriminations. It's just her way. And you have the best times with her. You do wild, adventurous things with her that you wouldn't do with anyone else. And you don't care, either. You don't get to spend a lot of time with her, but the time you do spend is golden. That's Spring.

Reports of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

I implore your patience. The dreaded Infected Head Syndrome turned out to be a killer. I missed 8 days of school and was really flattened. I am sick of doctors, of drugs, and of my bathrobe. I will return soon with a genuine post. Check back in a few days. I'm just now getting used to being vertical for more than an hour at a time, and the teachers among you can appreciate the workload I am buried under. (And for 4 of those days--No Sub! The horror of it all.)

Thanks, and I'll see you in a day or two.

It' S NOT pretty

Please forgive my absence. I am unable to write due to the fact that every single cell, blood vessel, and fibre of my being is fiercely dedicated to the full-time production of snot.

I am suffering from--and this is not a medical term, but it is accurate--an infected head. My sinuses, ears, throat, and eyes are all a mess and producing the slimy fluid.

It's not pretty. I am a disaster.

Help.

In the Bathroom

I find myself thinking about bathroom habits lately, mainly because I have to yell at my 18-year old on a daily basis to get in there and put the cap back on the toothpaste and hang the towel back up. Each time he goes back in there and does those things, I assess the general area and marvel again at how much I hate cleaning the bathroom and also at how much hair there is in the sink. Blondes must have it easier in that regard: you probably never really notice it in there.

Anyway, I sometimes think about married couples sharing a bathroom who don't mind it when one spouse is in the bathroom, say, brushing his teeth while the other is actually using the toilet. That has never once happened in the going-on-25-years of marriage in the Dept., let me assure you. I find that to be an absolutely non-negotiable item. That is just way too much ugly intimacy for me. That is a surefire way to "take the bloom off the rose" in any relationship, if you ask me. You might as well just throw up all over him. (Or her. As the case may be.) No one needs to see that. I even offer an objection when Travis and Emily (the cats) wander in while I am occupied in that manner. I tried to think back if my husband and I ever even talked about this issue and formally set this boundary early in our relationship. I couldn't remember if we really discussed it, or if it just became a common understanding between us, like so many issues in a marriage do, such as who takes out the garbage and who is in charge of getting stamps and the fact that there will never be dogs involved in any way and things like that. But regardless of how the treaty was reached, it has never been broken. And it never will be.

The toilet paper will also always flop over the roll and not under it. I will never have any reading material in the bathroom that is expressly for the bathroom. (Currently, there is a collection of Flannery O'Connor's short stories.) Even when I am home alone, I shut the door firmly when I am in the bathroom. I never sing in the shower, but I heartily enjoy it when the rest of my family belt out tunes in their showers.

I wonder if people's bathroom habits are indicative of their personalities in general. That particular bathroom time is about the only thing my husband and I don't share, so overgeneralizing here would be dangerous. And I don't think I want to invite everyone to tell me their water closet proclivities. Unless of course, they really feel they need to.

My Generalized Malaise Has a Definite Source

I'm having a hard time. I'd like to be able to blame it on the weather. (And I could, too. After all, I live in northeast Ohio; here, winter drags on and on from late October into mid- to late April. That's a half-year of winter for those of you scoring at home.) I could even try blaming it on a late Easter and hence, a tardy spring break. So long before I get a break from school and teaching my sophomores and juniors! But I can't do that this time. No, this generalized malaise is due to one thing and one thing only.

I am suffering from Project Runway withdrawal.

Those of you who followed Bravo's reality show know exactly what I mean. What are we to do now every Wednesday night? More importantly, what will we talk about now on Thursdays with our colleagues? (And don't even try offering up "Top Chef" as a consolation! Pfffft. I caught parts of "Top Chef." It's no "Hell's Kitchen", let me tell you.)

To make matters worse for me during my withdrawal, I was a Daniel V. fan. I know! He should have won! He won more individual challenges; he was adorable; his clothes were more polished; he had great cheekbones; his work was always finished beautifully; he was cute; he was so much more professional; he looked beautiful even when he had his hair up like Samurai Designer...!! Daniel V. was the odds-on favorite, the golden boy, and even he looked stunned when he didn't win.

The winner was a designer who already has her own shop in Houston, Texas where, judging by her fashion collection, the women prefer clothes made of stiff satin cut in the style of 1980s prom queens where the theme of the night is "Return to the Set of the Television Show Dallas" meets Upholstered Sluts. Since I am an avowed Daniel V. fan, I will not even mention her name. She is dead to me. (Insert gesture of me forking her with the evil eye.) This designer has won $100K seed money-- and her big plans? To stay in Houston and expand her already successful boutique. Oh boy. Dare to dream.

Not that I am bitter.

Sigh. I hate getting emotionally invested in things and then being disappointed. It's bad enough being a teacher--that comes with the territory. But living in the Cleveland area, our sports teams make this a tradition: the Browns, the Indians, the Cavaliers. We keep getting set up for disappointment. And no, you never get used to it. Now, sweet little Daniel V. on Project Runway, who looked like a winner, gets robbed. Victory snatched from the jaws of...what? what would be analagous in fashion? Pinking shears? A presser foot? Whatever. Just look at this face and tell me that it alone wasn't enough:



This is the face of a young man who is thoughtful about his fashion! He will not stop until we women look beautiful all of the time! And he lost, America. HE LOST. And I am sad. We all should be.

The List

We've been together over 6 months now, so I feel like I can share this with you. You know plenty about me already. I've shared lots of other things with you, so why not this? Who knows? You may even have one of your own and admit to it in the Comments. Perhaps you'll even share yours with all of us.

It's my List of Women I'd Do if I Were Gay.

The original idea of The List was born over 10 years ago during a getaway weekend vacation. There were about 5 of us at a Virginia ski resort condo; it was a mini-reunion and we had all come from our faraway homes, not having seen each other in years. Conversation started on our favorite topic of the time, Daniel Day-Lewis. Then it moved on to other men in film and which ones we'd consider sleeping with. Then...well...naturally, several bottles of wine were consumed along the way, and the conversation evolved from there. That particular List was a group effort: it was a complicated snarl of veto powers and 4/5 majority votes and such, but it was an incredible catalog of lovely women who were as fiercely defended as if we had been wearing chain mail and a coat of arms, let me tell you. I don't recall who retained custody of that particular List (perhaps Emily of Houston, Texas), but I wish I had a copy because I don't remember who was on it except that I think I started lobbying for Michelle Pfeiffer and lost because "she has that weird upper lip thing going on at the corners."

**This might be the exact critical moment to affirm, once and for all, the unflinchingly heterosexual status of not only me, but all of the women on that vacation. Really.**

Anyway, the idea of The List has been a great boon to listless afternoons in the lounge and boring parties. I urge you to develop yours immediately. Don't feel you need to confine it to film or television persons alone--branch out to other avenues as well. Develop an eclectic List including dead celebrities (with the stipulation, of course, that they be alive for the deed!), and don't overlook the arenas of sports and music. Look at your List as a fluid document and ring changes upon it capriciously! And publicly, if possible! For example, if you really thought Jessica Alba looked hot at the Oscars on Sunday night, say aloud to someone at the office copier tomorrow, "Boy! That Jessica Alba! That gold dress she wore to the Oscars vaulted her right to the top of my List!" And guys, you should feel absolutely no compunction about formulating your own Lists. That is the hallmark of self-actualization and shows that you are secure in your own manhood. It will be liberating for you to say at the next production meeting, "I just cannot get behind Keith Urban's stripey new highlights. I bet Nicole Kidman is mortified. He has just plummeted on my List."

Having said all of that, it's time to share with you:

Nance's List of Women I'd Do If I Were Gay
1. Charlize Theron
2. Sophie Marceau
3. Scarlett Johansson
4. Vivien Leigh
5. Mariska Hargitay

That's my top 5 as of right now. Old Vivien has been on there forever, and Charlize has been in the top spot for a long time now. I haven't kicked around my List in a long time. Usually, my buddy Sue and I bring up The List when we get bored in the teachers' lounge and I try to get her to move Catherine Zeta-Jones out of her top spot (how cliche! that chick is on everyone's List!) . Sometimes, Roger comes in and we badger him about his List. Technically, he doesn't have one, other than the one I maintain for him. Once, I pissed him off by putting Beck on his List. He doesn't fight me about George Clooney at all, though.

Once you start your own List, share it with me in the comments. If you're not feeling self-actualized, you can be anonymous. It's okay. And I'll keep you posted on any changes in mine.

WARNING: Politics Ahead

I watched "Face the Nation" on Sunday, mainly because I just couldn't face "Meet the Press". (Also because my family have threatened to medicate me if I continue to watch "Meet the Press" and talk back to the guests constantly. You know, it's as if they can't hear me, those guests, and I make all kinds of extraordinarily cogent and breathtakingly incisive points, scoring heavily against each idiotic Republican until...never mind. Sigh. Anyway.) This week, former VP candidate John Edwards was on with Jack Kemp, also a former. They were supposed to be talking about how President Putin of Russia was turning into a bad guy, and what the U.S. should do about it, like subtract him from the G8.

As I was watching it, I was listening carefully to John Edwards. I had a few suspicions, and as John Edwards spoke, he confirmed them. He made a lot of statements using words like "moral leadership". He started talking a whole bunch about port security and how we still aren't inspecting even 10% of incoming shipping containers at our international ports regardless of who maintains eventual ownership. He started in on how Hurricane Katrina highlighted the problems of poverty in our country and hauled out his "haves and have nots" talking points. I recognized an awful lot of recycled phrases from his stumping speeches during the Kerry campaign. I saw him pull out the old Clinton "fist with the thumb up" gesture. Hey, I thought, this is a candidate talking.

I realized that John Edwards is basically what the result would be if Bill Clinton and Jimmy Carter had a child.

Not too long after that, ol' Bob Schieffer picked up on the rhetoric and asked Edwards if he was a candidate for the nomination in '08. Edwards grinned and said he was considering it.

And I'm bored by that. I realize that the Democrats are going to have to go moderate to get back in the Big Chair in '08, and I hope they realize it, too. It saddens me that we have no Rock Star out there to wow us, even as a moderate. We have no power, no punch, no one to look to for charisma. We don't even have anyone in the wings in Washington already who is a mover and a shaker who is inspiring us now! Who is already there, a Democrat, who is snarking at the president and pushing things around? Who is nudging and shoving and saying, "What about our mission? What about smoking Osama out of his hole? What about this? What about that?"

And if this sounds real familiar, it's because it's the same thing I was bitching about back in August. How sad.

I just want to get over it all. Is there a support group, or do I need to take matters into my own hands and start drinking heavily? Is my next entry going to be titled Why Do the Democrats Insist upon Ruining My Life? I'm already off Newsweek; am I really going to have to give up "Face the Nation" and "Meet the Press"? I haven't had a political blog entry since my Governor Taft one. And he's on the state level!

Guns don't kill people; politics kills people.

Carnival of the Mundane V

Be sure to check out Citizen of the Month for Carnival of the Mundane V. Blogger Neil Kramer is the event's host this go-round, which is a showcase of blogposts that celebrate the Everyday. I was tickled to be included among the offerings in this extravaganza.

It's an absolute clickfest of a blog buffet over there: you can read and read and read and be sure to add to your favorites list. And if you're very tricky, you can stash away a few good blogpost ideas for yourself for later....

But y'all come back now, ya hear?

STEPHEN COLBERT, YOU ARE ON NOTICE!

OMG, I think Stephen Colbert is reading my blog!!!!

DoN readers, who was it to first bring to your attention the story of the idiot legislator from Ohio who wanted to ban homosexual and transgendered individuals from becoming foster or adoptive parents?

And who was it who begrudgingly highlighted the stunning feat of Lydia "Supermom" Canadian Person Whose Complex Name I Now Forget And Don't Feel Like Hyperlinking To--who fought off the polar bear ready to snack on her street-hockey playing son?

Oh, that would be I, dear Dept. of Nance devotees! Imagine then, my surprise when a scant few days later, one STEPHEN COLBERT OF THE COLBERT REPORT mentions each of these stories in his broadcast. Coincidence? I think not!

Clearly, Stephen Colbert is reading Dept. of Nance for his material.

So now, I wish to openly address one Stephen Colbert:

Stephen, I am, to say the least, flattered. I'm a big fan <blush>. I would think, however, that a bit of a nod to DoN was in order. Simply, it's the right thing to do to credit your sources whether creative or otherwise and, even you have to admit that your "opinions" leaned a little bit heavily upon those of the Dept. C'mon, Stephen Colbert. Don't make me have to get tough. You are on notice, Stephen Colbert!

Some Things Are Just Untranslatable: I'm Over It

Yesterday morning, my husband and I were watching a local news show's segment that was broadcasting live from the Auto Show where the crowd was gathered with bated breath. In a few short moments, we were told, a Chevy representative was going to unveil the Camaro Concept Car!!

"Oh boy!"Jeff the Anchorman said excitedly. "I heard that, in some cases, people cried!"

I looked at my husband. "You have got to be kidding," I said. "Who the hell cries over a car? It's a car for godsakes. A CAR."

My husband looked at me and immediately radiated visible waves of celestial patience. He took a deep breath and settled more comfortably into the recliner. "Nance. Some people are into cars the way you're into...like, plays and art and...that stuff. You cry at plays, right?"

"But, a play is a re-creation of human emotion! It has, at its heart, humanity! It's about life and love and tragedy! A car is a machine and metal and rubber! How can you even compare the two? The people who cry about a car are morons and idiots. How stupid."

At this point THE CAR was revealed. Neither my husband nor I cried. I quickly scanned the crowd as the camera panned the group. Happily, I can report that all eyes were dry. When they cut back to Jeff, he was impressed, but composed.

Later that night, my husband and I went out for dinner at a favorite Italian restaurant. Free from the grip of my once-restrictive battery of medications, I decided to have my first martini in many, many months. Just ordering it made me feel like sneaking a cigarette at Grandma's. It came at about the same time as our appetizer of mussels in a buttery Pernod sauce. I ate a mussel and took a sip of my dirty vodka martini. Lord help me, I got tears in my eyes. My husband was watching me closely; he caught me, dammit.

"Aha!" he said, triumphantly. "Now do you understand about why some people might cry about the Camaro concept car?"

I took another sip of my martini. "No," I said. "Those people are a bunch of assholes."

Who is Lydia Angiou and Why Is She Ruining My Self-Esteem?

In light of my last post regarding parenting, this hits hard. Thanks to moms like Lydia Angyiou of Ivujivik, Quebec, I am doomed to feel inadequate...pretty much forever now. My list of parenting triumphs can never come near hers. Let's just compare briefly, shall we?

NANCE'S LIST OF PARENTING TRIUMPHS
1. NATURAL CHILDBIRTH WITH A LABOR OF 15.5 HOURS--for both children who each weighed over 8 lbs. Really, I feel this has to be mentioned, and it has to be first.
2. All homemade Halloween costumes, including a skeleton for which I consulted my college anatomy textbook and made the stick-on felt bones individually--no lie. Also, all costumes were of the children's request, not my convenience, and no, I do not sew and I work outside the home.
3. For both children's first 5 years, the decor of my living room included an adjustable-height basketball hoop and a kid's pool/air hockey table. Our house has no "family room" or "rec room" and those of you who have a house know how much of a sacrifice this is, and in how many ways.
4. I allowed my children to quit Little League when they said it sucked and they hated it and I realized that the only way I could stand watching them be miserable through it was pouring beer into my insulated water bottles and drinking it while sitting in right field.
5. I decorated my kids' birthday cakes to order, even the dreaded WWF Wrestling cake.
6. I used to let them write all over each other (& me) with washable markers when they were bored.
7. I got them out of the house and called the fire department when our doorbell wiring caught fire inside the wall. (My husband got home in time to see a fireman wielding an axe menacingly toward the wall; everything turned out fine and the wall was saved.)

Okay, okay. Enough of mine, and I'm sure that's a partial list (although it took me so long to come up with those that my self-esteem reached a new low). No sense in wandering off into self-aggrandizement. Now, let's take a look at Lydia Angyiou's list. Admittedly, it will be small, because I don't know her at all, except what I've read recently.

LYDIA ANGYIOU'S LIST OF PARENTING TRIUMPHS
1. Fighting off a 700-pound polar bear that was threatening her son.


I am so screwed here.

The Don'ts of Parenting, Part I of a Series

Today, my eldest son reminded me of this past example of my stellar parenting. He was a curious 10-year old. I was apparently:
A.) preoccupied B.) drinking C.) feeling silly D.) any combination of the above

He doesn't remember the circumstances surrounding the situation and, once you read the exchange, you'll probably understand why. (I'll be paying for therapy for years.)


Jared: Mom, what happened to the Ice Age?

Me: Things warmed up.

Sigh.

Who Is Jeremy Scott and Why Is He Torturing Me?

I consider myself a foodie. Not only do I love to cook and eat, but I love reading about food, experimenting with interesting recipes and ingredients, shopping at specialty markets, (oh, how I love Cleveland's landmark West Side Market!) and watching The Food Network while harping on the way the various FoodTV people do things. (Love Alton Brown and The Barefoot Contessa; hate Giada Di Laurentiis and Emeril "The Ewok".) In Ohio's frustrating growing season and my ridiculously small yard, I lovingly raise herbs and then, when I just can't use them all fresh, I dry them, pesto them, freeze them, and even give seminars locally on everything I know about them.

Having said all of that, it is still a struggle--a stretch, even--for me to comprehend or even appreciate this:
Yes, those are ice cream cones on her boobs. It is a dress made to look as if someone charged at her bodice with ice cream cones aimed at her breasts and stuck them on, allowing the vanilla ice cream to melt down and cover her torso. But wait, for Jeremy Scott, our designer, is not done yet. Not by a long shot.



Because here is no, not a mermaid! This is sort of the opposite of Melted Torso; here, we have the scoops intact on the breasts, all nicely...pert. And pink. Instead, the entire body is the cone. I have no idea what the all-encompassing tutu is supposed to represent. I have never had an ice cream cone with a gigantic Starlight mint around it. (Nor have I ever had two scoops of booby-flavored sherbet outside the cone, either, but I suppose I'm just being picky now.)
When I was a kid, I was crazy about those Hostess cupcakes: you know, the chocolatey ones with the cream center and the layer of fudgy icing on top with the white squiggles? I always peeled off the fudge icing for last, then dug out the cream filling, then ate the cake, then picked off the squiggles one by one, then rolled up the fudge and ate it. I haven't had one in ages, but I would still eat them this way. Until this dress completely ruined the whole thing for me. Now whenever I see Hostess Cupcakes, I will also see this dress and think of picking at nipples. There, I said it. I hope Jeremy Scott is happy now that he has intruded upon my childhood in such an unseemly way.

Finally, aside from the whole food thing, let me just say this. I really, really appreciate men with longer hair. I am sick of the skinhead look for men. I like men with hair. (On their heads, not on their backs so much. Let's not wander into that territory now.) A man with a romantic, longer hairstyle will automatically hold my gaze longer than any other male in the viewing area. Does Jeremy Scott try to spoil this for me as well? Let me let you decide:

Aside from the obvious question: "WTF is this outfit supposed to be, anyway?", I could weep. This is one extremely attractive male. With lovely, long, romantic locks. Jeremy Scott--WHY?!

Jeremy Scott, did your mother constantly nag at you to stop playing with your food? Were you sick of hearing about starving children in Third World countries? Do you have male pattern baldness, Jeremy Scott? Are you playing a joke on Fashion Week? Did you go to the fabric store too late to score any good material? Are you vision-impaired? Do you hate all your models? Is this a commentary on the bourgeois relationship of middle-class Americans and their need for instant gratification as manifested through fast food? Huh, Jeremy Scott? Because, whatever it is, it's just really ugly. So there.

*thanks to Foodgoat (see my links list) for the heads up on the work of Mr. Scott

The State of Things--My Hate of Things

I was lamenting what I call my Red State Status when my friend Roger said, "You're the only person I know who plans to move after she retires due to political reasons."

After reading Saturday's Plain Dealer, Ohio did nothing to change my mind. A bill sponsored by 10 Republicans was introduced into the Ohio House last week that would ban anyone determined to be gay, lesbian, transgendered, or bisexual from adopting or acting as foster parents. The bill goes even further and extends that ban to anyone living with such persons who can be determined to fit the description of those described by the terminology above. The bill's primary sponsor is Representative Ron Hood of Ashville, Ohio, who claims that it is aimed at protecting children because studies have shown that children do best in a home where they can be raised by a mother and a father.

I can only imagine what Rep. Hood's next move will likely be should he carry this ludicrous logic to its necessary end. Will a ban on divorce be next? Single parenthood outlawed? Mandatory marriage of pregnant teens/single women and the baby's father, if known? If parentage is not known to a certainty, will DNA testing be state-mandated and state-funded?

Of course not, for this latest legislation is, as one savvy pol put it, "a solution in search of a problem." It was formed in the considerable collateral damage of another of Ohio's Hate Legislation, the constitutional ban on same-sex marriage that rode in on the evangelical coattails of the Bush victory in 2004. The same out-of-state and, sadly, rabid Ohio exclusionary right-wing religious groups will make this a confusing separation of church and state issue, another civil rights debacle. I guess they would rather have babies aborted than taken care of by a loving parent who might be gay.

Ohio cannot fix broken school funding, but they can hurriedly push a concealed carry law through in no time flat so that Clem can tote his pistol to the drive-thru. Ohio's governor cannot remember who paid for his golf, but he can certainly remember to stump for the President who ignores every segment of the budget that will keep this state's citizenry and its economy afloat--and which state was it that gave the Angel of Death the Big Chair anyway? Ohio's Attorney General (Republican) cuddled up with the president of the Diebold corporation to score a big deal on electronic voting machines for his state--the same corporation president who said in a fundraising letter that he was committed to "helping Ohio deliver its electoral votes to the president". And, who is running for Governor of Ohio next year as a Republican? That very same Atty Gen'l, Ken Blackwell.

Sigh. Spare me. I can't get outta here soon enough. Ohio, love it or leave it. I can't, so I must.

Forgive Me; It's a Sickness...Separated at Birth II

Am I the only person in the world who noted the coincidence that, not only did these two die within a day of each other, but they also bear a striking resemblance?





Look at the nose; look at the chin; look at the jowl line. I'd have used a more recent picture of Al "Grandpa" Lewis, but the only ones I could find showed him with a big ol' stogie jammed in the corner of his mouth.

After a successful run as the patriarch of a macabre sitcom family, Al ran for the governor of California while in his nineties, you know. And Betty Friedan. She was a feminist pioneer and political machine on her own, founding the National Organization for Women. Who knew that after such divergent lives, they'd end up together with similar aspirations and faces and, well...end together! R.I.P.

**I was going to do a "Separated at Birth II" post with regard to the NBA's Steve Nash and the original Bad News Bears' Kelly Leak character, but saw that it had already been alluded to at least once by a sportswriter as well as a website. See! It's not just me!

Betty Friedan and My Dad...Sorta

I just heard on the news that Betty Friedan died. She was, more or less, the founder of the feminist movement as well as the author of the book The Feminine Mystique, which dared to suggest that some women might not be completely fulfilled in the traditional role of wife, mother, and homemaker. As the news anchor spoke of her life, for some reason I recalled a comment my father made to me several years ago.

I had driven him and Mom to their doctor appointments, and I was waiting with him while my mother was seeing Dr. Gould first. Dad and I chatted politics, as usual. I valued his opinions, and I secretly chuckled at how very liberal of a Democrat he had become as his age had advanced. I don't even remember what we were discussing, exactly, but I made several points that clearly impressed him. He nodded, and then he said it. And I'll never, ever forget it. He looked at me straight in the eye and said, "Nancy, you're good-looking and you're smart, and that makes you bad company for most people." I remember being very taken aback but feeling a little complimented. I just sort of laughed and said, "Well, I certainly hope not!"

Dad was always that way: he admired my forthrightness but was constantly telling me that I "might want to soft-pedal it once in a while." If I went out with one of my male friends while I was engaged, he'd ask me what my fiance thought about it. He used to tell me I didn't need any makeup, but when he saw me without it, he'd later ask my mother if I was feeling okay--that I looked a little "peaked." He thought of himself as modern and enlightened, but he was just a little chauvinistic at heart. I'd like to think that Dad was just being a gruffly proud father, giving me a sort of bristly compliment rather than making a commentary on the evolution of interpersonal relationships.

Now, it's not that I don't know some men who are intimidated by smart women or beautiful women, or beautiful smart women. I just don't think there are as many of those men as there used to be. Why? Because I think that there are so many beautiful smart women now. Girls in high schools prepare for careers, not husbands, after graduation. The two-career family is the rule, not the exception. In many families, the higher wage-earner is the wife.

If there is an afterlife, I hope Betty Friedan and my dad meet up someplace, sit down, and have a few drinks together. They have a helluva lot to talk about.

This + Summer Vacation = :-)

The cool thing about this is that it's true.

After a far too arduous process, my staff and I finally got our school's literary magazine out this week. Courtney, brand new to the lit-mag staff this year, wrote poems, typed, did layout, and designed the cover. She is also a cheerleader, honors student, and athlete. In her entire life, she has probably never even killed a bee. Here is what she told me:

"Oh my God, Mrs. D! So, I'm sitting in Brit Lit, and in comes this huge guy, right? And he goes, 'Where Courtney? Where Courtney Sobi--and he like totally butchers my last name. And I'm totally scared, but for some reason I like raise my hand. I don't even know I'm like doing it! Seriously! And he comes over to my desk! And this humongous guy looks at me and he goes, 'Hey Courtney. I likeded your pome. In that magazine. Out of all the stuff I read, yours was the only thing I really liked. Yeah. Okay den. I'm out dis piece.' And I'm like 'thanks', and he nods and walks out!"

And I'm like...so totally stoked right now that I had to put it on my blog.