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.

A Rough Draft of My Doctoral Thesis:The Aesthetics of M&Ms

I'm fixated on M&Ms lately. They're so convenient to eat. I have a crystal cookie jar in my livingroom that I have turned into the candy jar (what does that tell you about things at my house?), and I routinely empty large bags of both peanut and plain M&Ms into it. Recently, I noticed--much to my chagrin--how horridly gaudy they've become.

I blame it on the blue.

There really was no reason to add the blue one into the mix. The original mix was so pleasant: a rather natural and almost autumnal blend of red, green, yellow, orange, tan, and brown. Take a moment to appreciate how lovely the colors look together. Nice, isn't it?

And then, in a misbegotten marketing ploy to hype sales and rekindle interest in what many may have seen as an impossibly old-fashioned confection, the people at M&M/Mars Company decided to launch a campaign whereby the public got to vote on a new color of M&M. And blue won. Did they tell us that poor old tan would be replaced? Honestly, I don't remember. But look at the M&Ms now: red, green, yellow, orange, brown, and blue. Yuck. That's just wrong. It's like...a tutu at a funeral. It's Grandma at pole-dancing class. It's Michael Jackson in...you finish that one.

Sigh. I miss the old M&Ms. And I hate the fussy "Holiday M&Ms", too. Until the day after the Holiday. Then they get marked down to 50% off and I can dump them by the double-bagful into the crystal cookie/candy jar.

How Appropriate that Streisand Sang about Memories

I took a class in the 80s about learning styles. According to its theory, you could supposedly assess a person's dominant learning mode by asking him to recall a childhood memory and observe his eye movement: if the individual looked upward to remember, he was a visual learner; if he looked to either side, he was an auditory learner; and, if he looked down, a kinesthetic-tactual or "hands-on" learner. It's a fun little experiment that doesn't really prove much.

One thing I know for certain, human beings are powerful olfactory, or smell, recallers. We are greatly and profoundly moved to memory by smells. There is a compendium of research to back this up, but I don't need it. I live it.

One whiff of Final Net hairspray and I'm back in 1977. You see, I got my waist-length hair cut in the "Farrah Fawcett" style, all feathered and layered. In order to maintain those perfectly symmetrical wings, I used a ton of the stuff every Friday and Saturday night before hitting the disco. No way a chick could line dance and hustle and try Stayin' Alive and still look good without half a bottle of good old Final Net to lacquer down the 'do.

I absolutely cannot abide any candy or drink that is grape flavored. Why? Blame it on Dimetapp. When my eldest son was in his childhood, he practically lived on the stuff. He never just got a cold; he always got an ear infection with it, and that meant reducing the congestive fluid. Enter Dimetapp, the grape flavored decongestant. Every time I smell artificial grape flavoring, I am vaulted back to sleepless nights, trips to the pediatrician's office where there is always a 45 minute wait in a cramped waiting room full of snuffly kids, and that jittery feeling of wondering whether or not your kid will end up with a worse illness than what he was there for in the first place.

Hot tea with lemon = illness. At least it does for me. When I was a kid, I got it all. Scarlet fever, tonsillitis, German measles, mono, strep a million times, a kazillion chesty colds, chicken pox. At the forefront of all my mom's curative arsenals was hot tea with lemon. Now just the smell of it makes me feel achy and sick. A general malaise blankets my body almost immediately. I won't allow anyone in my house to prepare it. Earl Grey comes close to triggering the response. Dangerously.

I have the usual pleasant aromatic associations that most people do. The Christmassy smells of cinnamon and pine, Thanksgiving's turkey and pumpkin pie, the powdery pleasance of drowsy babies. Walking into a chocolatier gives me warm memories of my aunt and uncle's candy shop where I used to hang out with a favorite cousin and pick chocolatey drips off of the enrober. But the so-called "new car smell" that automobile fanciers rave about eludes me. I just don't get it. I guess it's because I just see cars as a necessity--I drive a 1996 Ford and hope to for a long, long time.

My husband doesn't wear any cologne or aftershave. He never did. Once, I bought him some that I really liked. It was Aramis. I still really like the smell of that stuff. He never wears it, but he smells just fine without it.

He used to use Flex shampoo, and when I smell it, I remember him with his long, long hair burnished gold in streaks by hours of sunny construction work. It was beautiful and wild and I used to look at it spread across his pillow when he slept. When he got "a real job" he had to cut it all off. I was so sad, and still am. I saved it in a plastic bag in my drawer and in my memory, and in every bottle of Flex shampoo.

No, Really...Oh, All Right, Then Send Me Flowers

Northeast Ohio is enjoying a very mild January. Last year at this time, we had 29 inches of snow in the greater Cleveland area. This year, less than 5. There are doubtless tons of theories for this: La Nina, El Nino, a fickle jet stream, global warming.

All of them are wrong.

The reason is very simple. We here at the Dept. of Nance, having had our fill of a record-breaking snowfall last winter, decided to take matters into our own hands. We knew it was time to virtually guarantee a mild winter. And so we did.
Meet the Storm 5524, also known as The Deterrent. Since its purchase in mid-December, we've racked up less than 7 inches of the white menace.

You're welcome.

K9 Jihad

Osama bin Laden addressed the American public again, this time via audiotape delivered to his producers at Al Jazeera studios. He warned us that plans for attacks within the United States were already underway. He went on to offer a sort of thorny olive branch--a conditional truce. The White House response: the equivalent of "the finger."

Bad idea.

Am I the only one suspicious about this news item that turned up in the paper today? How the heck does a 60-70 pound Labrador retriever just happen to fall off an overpass? And hit a car, killing the driver? Police questioned the dog's owner, and he swears he did not throw the animal. Hmmm....

Clearly, this is the work of Al Qaida. These bastards are recruiting pets to be suicide bombers now! (They've done their research, too! Labs are one of the most popular breeds for pets, according to the AKC registry.) These mujahideen breed the animals, put them in training camps and teach them to hate Americans, the infidels. Then the terrorist pups are sold in the U.S. where they are adopted by unsuspecting families. Later, as full-grown dogs, they hear Their Master's Voice, and a key word in Osama's message sends them into a pre-programmed frenzy. They run blindly off the nearest overpass or into interstate traffic. Death is the sad result.

Obviously, the collateral damage from this sort of pinpoint attack is relatively small. But the terror quotient is high. Americans love their dogs. Dogs are, simply put, doggone American. Pets are part of the American Way of Life. If we become afraid of our pets, then the terrorists have won!

I am at a loss as to why Homeland Security has not picked up on this. I have waited, in vain it seems, for the terror level to be raised to reflect this threat. Surely we should be orange by now. At least.

And let me just say this: I'm glad I have cats.

And the Call Goes Out!

I know it comes with the territory of being a teacher of English, but I must admit that I am growing tired of being a Defender of the Language. My battle-scars are many and my spirit is flagging. These days in particular, I feel as if I am reduced to leading what amounts to a bayonet charge against the ubiquitousness of a single word.

This word has become the 2005-2006 equivalent of what "awesome" was to the 90s. It is the new "whatever". It is fast becoming the single most overemployed adjective to describe everything from food to fashion. I dare any of you to watch "How Do I Look" on the Style Network and not hear it at least a dozen times in an episode. You cannot listen to a single interview on any infotainment show and not be subjected to it. It is as cringeworthy to me now as the word "like" peppering a student's monologue about why he doesn't have his homework.

The word is "amazing." And it's everywhere.

The made-over ugly duckling-turned-swan now looks it. The fragrance of the grilling tuna smells it. The scene of the devastation can only be described as it. And the effect it has on my blood pressure is certainly approaching it.

The only solace I have is that now I have extended the fight to you, compatriots. Take up arms with me in this fight. Stop using this word. Tell others how sick you are of hearing its overuse. Employ thesauruses! It's not too late!

The Content of Its Character

I'm off today for Martin Luther King Day. My sister who works in the bank is off, too. My husband, a project manager for a construction firm is not off, and my sons who work in retail are not off. My mom is getting a hip replacement today, so her surgeon is not off, either.

When I go back to school tomorrow, a few of my black students will likely start talking about MLK Day and it will lead to Black History Month and they will start joking/not joking in their way about how Black History Month is in February, the shortest month of the year. And some white students will start in about how there is no White History Month or Puerto Rican History Month, etcetera etcetera etcetera, until I just stop it before I have to set them all on fire.

Or perhaps I will make the point that at least MLK Day still has its dignity. As of this writing, there are no MLK Day Sales in the paper. Macy's has no 20% off coupons "in honor of" MLK Day as they do for Presidents' Day, Memorial Day, and Labor Day. Martin Luther King, Jr. is still honored by civic programs and commemorative marches in our town, not by people opening their pools or ceasing to wear white shoes. His speeches are made by church and secular leaders to respectful crowds; retail outlets are not decked in cheap patriotic bunting in order to sell unrelated seasonal goods. Sometimes the point made is missed.

Book It, DoN - O

Is nothing more annoying than reading a bad book? I keep soldiering on, giving it a chance to redeem itself. I await a breakthrough chapter, the emergence of a clever plot device, an engaging character's arrival...all for naught. And then, halfway through, I'm trapped. Do I dump it now? Now that I've invested all this time? Rendering me unable then to say "Oh yes, I've read that. It was crap" and not feel as if someone could challenge me and say "Well, did you read it all the way through, because once you get near the end..."?

Oh no.

I am a compulsive book-finisher. I just am. I am the Reverend Dimmesdale of bad book readers: flagellating myself with the bloody scourge of lousy literature. I absolutely loathed Life of Pi, but I finished it. Every last bit of it. Groaned during the familiar and formulaic Angels & Demons (which I read after The DaVinci Code), but I finished it. (And I was not all that enthralled with the sometimes contrived, elementary writing of TDVC, either, but you don't see my name staring out at you from the spines of hardbacks, now do you? I know, I know.) A bad book for me is like biting into a mealy peach. Such disappointment and betrayal!

Now, good books...is there anything more satisfying? Don't you love that realization when, as my friend Roger says, you discover that you've been smiling as you read? That moment when you purposely look up from the page to see with whom you can share what you're reading? A good book is like the feeling you get when you flop your pillow over to the cool side. Instant gratification and comfort and contentment. I'm currently immersed in Doris Kearns Goodwin's Team of Rivals. This woman is so in love with Abraham Lincoln that when she writes about him, I swear the page becomes illuminated. And I was completely taken by The Time Traveler's Wife as a story about the strength of human emotion. Now Roger has ordered me to read anything by Tom Robbins, especially Skinny Legs and All. This is how my booklist grows.

And no, he is not responsible for any bad books. Not yet, anyway.

DoN Takes a Look at Her Cabinet

For some reason, I started thinking about the men I've been obsessed with over the years. There haven't been a whole lot. I get to indulge my little fancies at school by hanging their pictures in my high school classroom where they are sometimes appreciated by my female students and goodnaturedly derided by the males. Here's my first official crush from my earliest days of teaching in the 80s:

Admit it; he's very handsome and nonthreatening. You saw "St. Elmo's Fire" and loved him. He was Billy, the bad boy who just needed someone to take care of him and save him from himself. Then he had the soft-core porn scene with Demi in "About Last Night" and you almost had the big "O" right there in the theater. Sigh. Heavy sigh. So cute. Still is.

Then, in the 90s--1992 to be exact--my mother called me and ordered me to see a film. I was reluctant since it had a bunch of Indian fighting in it, but she told me that the lead actor was "just my type." I went and saw it: "The Last of the Mohicans" provided me with my longest running obsession/crush, Daniel Day-Lewis.

There have been a few dalliances here and there. Notably,

only as Tristan; then only as Braveheart.

Then I discovered

who I'm pretty much still stuck on because Daniel Day-Lewis refuses to remember he is handsome and has good hair and currently looks like this:

In other words, like that smelly weird guy outside your vacation hotel who keeps saying "Havin' a good time? Need any maps tahday? Call ya a taxi? Howsabout some spare change on ya's?" I can't even defend him to my buddy Roger (whose hobby it is to abuse me for my longstanding amour) and say that he's doing this for a movie role because he's not. He just looks this way because he wants to. How sad is that? Doesn't his wife care? I mean, I would, and I'm not even an acquaintance. I've tried to quit Daniel Day-Lewis millions of times, but here's what happens. I show "The Last of the Mohicans" in my English class. And it drags me back in! I know he isn't Hawkeye anymore. I keep having faith that, one night, Daniel Day-Lewis and the missus will watch "The Last of the Mohicans" on DVD and she will turn to him and say, "Hey, Dan. Let your hair grow out for awhile. And let's make an appointment with the plastic surgeon to get that nose straightened out. It's time to re-establish you as a romantic screen hero." Mrs. Day-Lewis would be doing a lot of women and directors a big favor, let me just say it right here and right now.

In the meantime, I'll add . He's young, pretty, British, and aging well. Plus, he has a straight nose and has not yet embarrassed me by wearing bad clothes or a shaved head in public.

...But Fear Itself

This morning was not a happy one for my eldest son. He was from his slumber untimely ripp'd to take me to the dentist at the ungodly hour of 8:30 a.m. (I'm a dentophobe from way back and have to receive nitrous and, thanks to my ongoing adhesive capsulitis, am still not driving.) He was a completely good-natured gentleman about it; that is, until we stepped inside the dentist's waiting room. Where there is a 50-gallon aquarium.

Jared: Jesus-Christ-there's-fish-in-here! MOM!

Me: Oh. Yeah. That. I forgot about that being in here. Just sit over there and don't look at it.

Jared: How could you forget about THAT?!

Me: Jared. Just relax. Don't look at it. There's a lid on it and everything. Do you need to go and sit in the car? For heaven's sake. I'm the one having major dental work. I'm the one who is being gassed, remember. I'm the one who might reveal intimate, personal details while under the influence of anesthesia. What if he asks me something strange? What if he asks me my PIN? What if---

Jared: Oh for fuck's sake. The Muzak is The FISH. It's the Christian station. I'm gonna kill myself right now. This place is my own personal hell. Am I being punked? Are there hidden cameras in here? Do they know I'm an atheist with a phobia about fish and they're doing this to torture me? Are you kidding me right now?

Me: Just relax. Read your Plain Dealer. Really, your concern for my welfare is touching. It really is. I'm about to go in there and have a filling and a crown. A crown. I've never had a crown before. Not that you care. Because at any minute, a dangerous fantail might erupt from that tank and deal you a deathblow. While you are given a requiem by "Awesome God." How can you live with yourself?

Jared: You could have warned me about the fishtank. That's all I'm saying.

Two of the Rs

Truly fine writing is an enviable skill, and when I come across it, I feel like whooping and weeping in gratitude simultaneously. Consider:

People don't usually gather together rejoicing about the subject, but everyone privately agrees that a hearty and effortless bowel movement is one of the morning's significant satisfactions. It represents casting off the burdens of the previous day and rising up to begin the new one unencumbered by the past, and it deserves a little quiet celebration. ( from Endangered Pleasures by Barbara Holland)

What graceful words to express the vernacular of taking a shit.

Especially dear to me is her essay on "Praise" from which I mined this wonderful gem: "A nod of satisfaction from an expert carries more weight than eulogies from the ignorant." Would that more parents of the 90s realized that; my job as a public high school teacher would be easier: students would be working harder with more realistic estimations of what their "efforts" are actually worth. Oh my! that sounded bitter. Perhaps from the thought of holiday break coming to an end day after tomorrow. Heavy Sigh!

Take a peek at the Barbara Holland book. Lovely reading on a variety of topics from taking naps to the lost art of talking to shopping to cigarettes. (And if you're an English teacher, they make great examples for classroom use.)

And if you owe a gift to an English teacher...!

Paging Darwin...Charles Darwin...

This from the waiting room of my latest visit to the orthopedic surgeon:

The woman in the completely unnecessarily big hat with the silver holly sprig affixed to its brim leaned over and said to the girl in the pajama bottoms:

I'm not sayin' your dad's dumb or anything. It's just when I look at his dog, I see so much of them in each other's eyes, it scares me. Him and George are so much alike, ya know?