Dirty Martini Day

It was just that kind of day.

I got home, peeled off my mittens--I still can't find my leather driving gloves--hung up my coat, tossed my purse and school bag into my "office" (the corner between the livingroom table and loveseat), and made my way into the kitchen where I immediately commissioned Jared to assemble the vermouth, vodka, olives, and cocktail shaker. Rooting around for the glass, I said, "It's February, you know? They should not be disappointing me like this anymore."

"I know, Mom," he said. "...But we're out of olives. I bought some nice pinot grigio today. How about that instead?"

"Look in the bottom shelf, way in the back," I said knowingly. "It's a dirty martini or nothing. Trust me."

"How can you drink martinis? What about a Cosmo? I'll go back out and get some cranberry juice and I'll have a Cosmo with you," he said, obviously hearing echoes of some dusty warning mantra of never drink alone.

"Aha!" My foray into the unknown of the refrigerator had proven successful. Giant green olives, pimentoes poking promiscuously forth, were in my grasp! I pushed past him to the counter and arrayed my arsenal: Three Olives vodka, Martini & Rossi dry vermouth, shot glass, freebie cocktail shaker from Express (a gift-with-purchase from Christmas shopping!), and the olives. I was in business.

I swiveled quickly and hit the lever on the icemaker, filling the shaker with ice, then measured the requisite ingredients. I paused, calculating just how "dirty" I wanted this martini to be. I considered my day. Throwing caution to the winds, I added two heaping spoons of olive brine to the mix. I wanted to be dirty, baby, real dirty! Piling three huge olives into my tigerstriped martini glass, all that was left then was to shake.

I thought of the student who had not yet turned in one single assignment since the new semester had started on January 16th. I thought of the students who had signed up to be on the staff of my literary magazine in September but had not yet turned in one, single, solitary poem or story. I thought of the teacher who used my room for his study hall 8th period and started off by saying, "Now, I'm not strict...!" I thought of the secretary who made me fill out a requisition form in triplicate for a box of paper clips. AND I SHOOK THAT MARTINI.

And then I poured it out and went to my computer. I sipped and enjoyed and relaxed. And I wrote this blogpost.

A Tour of My Blog, With Digressions

As reluctant as I am to rob you of the joy of being greeted by the Animated Farting Brain atop my blog, I did want to nudge you with regard to a few of the features I've added recently to The Dept.

If you take a look along the sidebar, you'll encounter in Other Departments 2 new blogs: Catalina tu Vecina and Manolo's Shoeblog. The first is another look-at-life blog which has a question for commenters to answer every Wednesday; the second is a fun fashion blog written with a very definite persona and voice.

Scrolling farther down, after the archives (On File at the Dept.), I've added a new sidebar daily post: The NBC Evening News' Brian Williams Tie Report. This small feature will be updated daily--or at least every day that I watch the NBC Nightly News and Brian Williams is on it, sporting a cravat. I am obsessed with his tie selection (see my recent comments to Neil and Anali on last post), and I have decided to indulge myself. If anyone would like to bring this feature to the attention of Brian Williams, well, go ahead. I'm sure he'd be thrilled that someone is paying attention. I mean, I would be. And by the way, Brian Williams, your suit selection tonight was also spot on as well. I love the way you are setting a new trend with the extended shoulders, a sort of homage to the forties Bogart look. And I also detected the subtle pinstriping--don't think for one minute that I didn't. I did.

But I digress.

Directly below TNBCENBWTR (The NBC Evening News' Brian Williams Tie Report!) is the Official Angel of Death "Days Left in Office" Countdown Clock. If you want one of your own on your blog, just click the URL below it and you can travel to the site to get it. It's very comforting to watch the seconds and minutes tick away, knowing that it is, indeed, going to end. It really is. And I can watch it happen whenever I need to.

Now scoot down, down, down past all those funny buttons that allow you to get The Dept. on your mobile or your Yahoo! page or other ways that don't boost my Ego/Vanity (Hit Counter), and you'll see a little message about emailing me. Oh, but it's true! I set up an email account just so that you could email me directly in case you have comments that you don't want to share with the rest of the hoi polloi. Although, I have to tell you, The Dept. hoi polloi is extraordinarily discerning. By the way, hoi polloi is one of those terms which have become terribly misused. Most people think that hoi polloi is a term for uppity people. That is entirely incorrect. Hoi polloi means, literally "the common people." As a matter of fact, it is redundant to even say the hoi polloi. When you do, you are saying the the common people. But, as you can see by my usage above, it has passed into commonplace language, so it is a useless battle to fight, much like whom. But, we all must never stop fighting the battle against the non-word "irregardless." THAT IS NOT A WORD, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! PROMISE ME YOU WILL HELP MAKE IT STOP! Just say "regardless." It is enough. Ahem.

But I digress.

We were talking about emailing me by clicking on the handy and convenient "Click here" exhortation that I graciously provided for you. Please do make use of it should you like to.

Finally, has anyone ever gotten all the way to the bottom of my blog, ever? I mean, has anyone ever read my footer? Anyone know what the quote comes from? A Challenge! No Googling, now! What did we ever DO before Google? Makes me wonder if we know things now, or just know where to find them.

Airing It Out

Time to get rid of some doodads nattering in the niches of my mind...

I find myself peevishly fixated on the ties of all the men on television. Today as Brian Williams of NBC Nightly News was bidding us all a good night, I sternly advised him, "I just can't get on board with that choice of tie tonight, Brian Williams, however bold it may be." I feel compelled to comment upon the cravats of NBA coaches, news anchors both local and national, talk show hosts and guests, and anyone else who dares show up wearing neckwear. I have always admired the tie choices of The Tsar of the Telestrator/former NBA coach Mike Fratello and have never, to my knowledge, found fault with any of Tom Brokaw's ties. And, very rarely did the late Peter Jennings make a neckwear misstep. Sigh. He was a snappy dresser and a great newsman. He is missed in both the fashion and news arena.

As I must have made mention of before, we at the Dept. are obsessed with condiments. In our refrigerator at any given moment the observer will find five different types of mustard, which we deem necessary. We must also have both Miracle Whip and Hellman's Mayonnaise, which we use not interchangeably, but for wholly different instances. I understand that those two condiments, MW and mayonnaise, cause massive discussions and divisions of families and friends into two distinct Usage Camps. Some people would never use MW on a turkey sandwich, only mayonnaise. Others will only give up MW when it is pried from their cold, dead hands. The same can be said about ketchup (aka catsup, catchup). I prefer Heinz or nothing. Others will only use Hunts. Others will simply say "Whatever is red and comes out of a bottle--store brand is fine!" I can certainly tell the difference, so do not even try to slip some cutrate dollar store garbage into some leftover Heinz bottle (MOTHER) at a picnic or something and act like it's nothing. Whatever. Oh, and then there's the Coke V. Pepsi thing. I can't drink carbonated stuff anymore--it interacts really oddly with my migraine med--but when I could, I was a Coca-Cola girl. Pepsi tastes like a minty, fakey bubblegum to me. They don't call Coke "The Real Thing" for nuthin', you know. But, the men here at the Dept. have turned it into a Pepsi Camp. And they are addicted. It's just a little sad. Pepsi sounds kinda femmey, you know? Coke--sounds more butch.

Today, during my sophomore honors class, the topic veered suddenly and sharply from The Objective Complement to My Wardrobe. I'm not entirely sure how this occurred, but my clothing and taste have become topics before. Today, the question was posed, "Mrs. D., do you even own a pair of regular shoes?" Let me interject here by stating for the record that I was wearing my red Liz Claiborne heels. Naturally, I asked the student to clarify the term "regular shoes," which was revealed to be "tennis shoes." I paused. The room was silent; each student was staring at me, eyes watchful and anxious. You could have heard a fish fart. In Guatemala. I pretended to think very, very hard. "No," I answered finally, "I don't." Every single eyeball in the room, save my own, popped out onto the floor. There was a mad scramble while each newly-blind student sought his or her own. All of that is true, except the eyeball part.

Now Is the Winter of Our Discontent

"Rain and clouds, go away.

Come again some other day.

Or I am going to slit my wrists or put my head in the oven or

Possibly take an entire bottle of whatever meds I have leftover in

The nightstand drawer if this shitty weather keeps up much longer."

--children's rhyme of unknown origin...sorta

But seriously, this relentless grey drizzle and damp has got to GO. Don't get me wrong: I am thrilled down to my usually numb toes that we are not snowy and frozen here in NE Ohio. We have been very fortunate, especially this weekend. Lots of the USA got a nasty ice storm and some pretty substantial inches of the white stuff. At one point, Canada was intent upon sending us a clipper packing some very frigid temps, and a high of only 13 was forecast for midweek around here. But for once, the front tracked a wee bit differently, and we were spared. Now we will attain the lofty peaks of about 27. (So far! Forecasting near yet-unfrozen Lake Erie remains a challenge that far in advance.) But this neverending cloud cover and fog and drizzle and damp and intermittent showering is reaching panic-inducing status.

I mean, it's like it has seeped into my very soul! I can't remember the last time I saw sunlight. I feel housebound. There are only so many things one can do on the weekend to try and shake the feeling of heaviness and sameness. I've cleaned out the fridge, organized the pantry, done laundry, gone over the wardrobe, boldly surveyed the sock situation (no, I'm not throwing out the singletons! not yet! there is still hope; I know it!). We've gone to the mall, the warehouse club, the grocery store. I've made soups, casseroles, cakes from scratch. Jared and I even had a serious debate on the merits of owning a panda as a pet--which involved Googling. How sad is that? And we purposefully enlisted Rick and Sam. Who, just for the record, agreed with me that owning a panda would be desirable, given the proper environment. Jared, on the opposing side, is an idiot, obviously. By the way, he also vetoed owning a koala. Clearly, he is just crabby.

Also, naming a panda would definitely be easier if you did not try to name it something Chinese. Stick with a basic English/American name. I like naming animals with people names, preferably something literary. But I digress. Really, the point of this post is not pandas. Not that pandas wouldn't make an utterly delightful post topic. Just not now. But they are completely charming.

Basically, the weather here sucks and I don't know how much longer I can take it. I need to go someplace where there is sunshine and, preferably, warmth. By warmth, I mean at least 70 degrees. Fahrenheit. I would like a trustworthy Dept. of Nance reader to invite me over for a while if your town fits that description. And soon. Because the forecast for the next 5 days here is more of the same.

Someone Should Be Babysitting the Speechwriter

"Victory will not look like the ones our fathers and grandfathers achieved. There will be no surrender ceremony on the deck of a battleship."--speech to the nation, January 10, 2007



"Mission Accomplished" photo May 1, 2003, aboardship USS Abraham Lincoln.

Personal Jesus

Something celestial, almost otherworldly, happens to an actor when he takes on the role of all roles--Jesus Christ. Now, I realize we all have a pretty misconceived, stylized, White European view of what The Man looks like, but when anyone says "Jesus", we all see the same thing:

"Yep! That's him," we would say to the officer while we stood on one side of the two-way mirror at the lineup down at the station house, "the one with the beatific expression and the flowy hair and the neatly trimmed beard. That's the guy!" We all could describe Jesus and the sketch artists would all draw this same picture.

I started noticing that all actors as Jesus are incredibly attractive a long time ago. I think it started when I was about 8 and I first watched the movie "King of Kings" with Jeffrey Hunter. He was one great-looking Jesus. I remember this one scene when he is down on his knee; he lifts his head and looks up into the camera. His eyes are incredible. Here he is:

I remember thinking, "Oh my God. He is really handsome. Those eyes are making me feel all squooshy inside." Seriously. Here they are.

I mean, come on! I know he's Jesus and all, but really. Mesmerizing.

That movie sort of began my unofficial collection of Hot Jesuses (Hot Jesi?). Pretty much everyone who plays Jesus looks good doing it. Even Willem Defoe. Old Willem is rather "apple-doll faced." He's not really that attractive, but in "The Last Temptation of Christ", he makes a darn nice looking Jesus.

Certainly, black and white can be forgiving, but trust me: I Googled the heck out of Willem as Christ, and even the sweaty and bloody ones were pretty good.

Naturally, you can't have a Hot Jesus collection and not include the Classic Seventies Rock Opera Jesus, Ted Neeley from Jesus Christ Superstar. It's almost not fair; Ted Neeley, who recently went back on the road in Superstar is still hot even now, whether he's playing Jesus or not.

Honestly, he might be the hottest Jesus ever. Certainly he's the most musical, and the only one who sustains a scream worthy of an 80s hair band.

Second only to Jeffrey Hunter in the eyes department has to be Robert Powell, who played Jesus in a television miniseries called "Jesus of Nazareth" in about 1977. Robert Powell has these startling light blue eyes that are almost as eerie as Meg Foster's, whose are downright scary. But I digress. Robert Powell made a very ethereal, Goth-like but fascinatingly attractive Jesus.

Finally, there's Jeremy Sisto as Jesus in the most recent television miniseries offering simply titled "Jesus." It ran in 1999 and had a memorable cast, mainly because Debra Messing of Will and Grace played Mary Magdalene. I didn't watch it, but I saw plenty of previews and magazine covers that proved my thesis that actors are automatically hot when they play Jesus. Jeremy Sisto's Jesus was sort of a laid-back, scruffy Jesus, though, you could tell. He had a casual air about him. Kind of a "geeze, Judas, don't get so serious" Jesus. But still pretty darn easy on the eyes.I mean, a cute Jesus, really, if you look at him. Not that sort of tragic, thinking about the future sort of distracted Jesus, like the other ones. More accessible. I liked that. I thought about whether I had a favorite Jesus or not out of all these, and I guess I don't. But I think Jeffrey Hunter, my first, will always be a little bit special.

O! Whatever Should We Do Without Men?

What a fat lot of lazing around I've been doing here at The Dept. and it's given me time to do one of my favorite things: go on long stretches of just meandering through my thoughts via the remote control. "Sitting and flipping" is what I like to call it. I don't really watch anything on the television; instead, I use it as a catalyst for thinking about things I haven't really given consideration or time to in a long while. Oh, lucky you!

My first thought arose when I watched Richard Engel, The Baghdad Dish, on MSNBC. Unlike a great deal of attractive men, he is incredibly articulate and intelligent. It has been my experience that most goodlooking men should just shut up and stand in the corner, looking good. That really is all that we require of them. But Richard Engel--he can, and should, keep talking. Do you not know of him? Here he is, in all his straight-teethed, lovely-haired glory:

(photo courtesy of msnbc.com)

But, lest you think I am completely shallow, I can also appreciate the slightly imperfectly handsome man, such as Jake Weber, who plays the husband on the television show Medium starring Patricia Arquette. He has an endearing British accent which the show has not in any way felt necessary to explain; he plays a math-geeky engineer who is a terrific father of three blondie daughters; he is incredibly patient and loving and helpful-strong, not "I'll just take over because I'm the man and you obviously are having a meltdown"-strong; and there are times during the show that he absolutely melts me. Have you seen the show? I now watch it only for him. Here he is:

Not my type at all, but as I said, sometimes it is not the look, it's the guy. Which is still something that many, many men just do not get. Which reminds me of a great quote from the book Bridget Jones's Diary. I will paraphrase it to get to the most germane part here: some "men--are so catastrophically unevolved that soon they will just be kept by women as pets for sex...outside in kennels"(Fielding 67). I might add here that, except for the "outside in kennels" part, many, many, many men would be just fine with this.

But, I digress. There's one more man I thought about and want to discuss.

Inexplicably, I join the legions of women who find themselves drawn to a most unlikely paramour. What is it about him? It's not the conventional handsomeness of the Baghdad Dish, nor the cuddly security of Mr. Medium. This guy...there's just something about him. He's charismatic, he's enigmatic, he's got an attractiveness all his own. And he's a brain, too. I'd love him in real life as well. He's even more of a character there:

Hugh Laurie, also known as Dr. Gregory House, has captivated almost every female I know. We alerted each other when he was going to be on "Inside the Actor's Studio." We fought to stay awake to watch him host "Saturday Night Live" (and those of us who couldn't do it and are too pathetic to record on our VCRs--ahem!--were thrilled when it was rerun so soon!). We Hugh Laurie fans congratulate ourselves on having such a smart, unusual idol. And, like many Brits, he isn't constantly in the news doing something horrifically embarrassing or stupid. Seems like the American celebs have the monopoly on that. And, though it pains me to say it, so do the women.

Which brings me to another one of my points, and yes, I have made one or two already.

Really intensely, insanely, heartrendingly handsome men should just do that and nothing else. Be goodlooking, be beautiful, and shut the hell up. Oh, okay...go ahead and do a little acting if you must. But face the fact (literally)--you are gorgeous and that is your thing. If you open your mouth and try to sound relevant or political, or even like you know where there are starving children, you will sound like an idiot. Besides, no one will be listening anyway. She/he will be watching how your mouth moves when you say your Ws or the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you get all sincere. Or try to.

Sigh. It is your cross to bear.

Happy Holidays from The Dept. of Nance

Merry ChrisMoose, Dept. of Nance readers! Things have already gotten way out of hand here--we've become Holiday Central. Crock Pots have been filled, drapes have been de-cathaired, and the cookies have been brought out of their deep freeze of pre-Christmas hibernation. My house smells like lemon Pledge, Febreeze, Mr. Clean, Windex, Formula 409, and takeout Chinese. That's today. Tomorrow, those aromas will be replaced with glazed ham, Friendship Cake, my three kinds of fudge, Confetti Baked Beans, and all the tangy aromas of the dishes of mixed pickles, shrimp cocktail sauce, and dill dip for the veggie crudites. And once the fam arrive with the trays and trays of cookies, all sorts of indiscretions will occur.

Aaah, Christmas. I hope yours is warm, restful, happy, and above all else, spent with those you most want to be with. I'll see you in the new year. I have such high hopes for 2007, don't you?

Peace,

Nance

This Just In: Inflatable Snowman Attack on Video

In the true spirit of journalistic integrity, and because I am willing to pursue the whole story at great lengths for you, my devoted Dept. of Nance readers, here is the link to the actual footage of the previously mentioned, heinous Screwdriver Attack on the Inflatable Snowman.

Just click here.

(It's also because no one is home tonight and I don't feel like reading and glossing the three chapters of The Scarlet Letter that I assigned my honors AmLit students. Yet.)

As you can plainly see from the film, I am not one of the perpetrators. They are clearly: male, tall, large-framed, strong of arm. I, on the other hand, am none of these things. Besides, they caught both of them, and I am old enough to be their mother. And, of course, would punish them. At some point. I'm sure. Enjoy the video.

I Need the Cronkite 12-Step Program--If There Is One

Hello, my name is Nance, and I am a news junkie. I know...admitting you have a problem is the first step. But, the problem is bigger than that. There aren't going to be enough steps in this recovery program. The problem is bigger than I am. I'm hooked and hooked for good. Just the past few days alone have convinced me of it.

It started with this little tidbit, which I read in The Plain Dealer. Up until this story of the python in the Australian toilet, I totally believed--no, needed to believe--that this sort of happening was purely an urban legend. I have a terrific fear of snakes; I will not even touch a photograph of a snake. Once, when I was a little girl, I was terrified that there was a rattlesnake in our toilet. Horrified beyond measure, I screamed for my mother from the hallway. "Mom! Come quick! There is a rattlesnake in the toilet! I can hear it rattling in there! Come listen and then call the fire department to get it OUT!!" My mother came tearing into the hall. She stopped. She listened. Then she started laughing. She tried like hell not to, but she couldn't help it. Her shoulders were shaking with unsuppressed mirth. I was crying---hard. "Nance," she said, her own tears sliding down her cheeks, "honey, that's the wind through the Venetian blinds."

The next news item that gives me pause is one that I heard on MSNBC today. It is the results of a poll given annually for National Kids' Day. Just about 1500 kids under the age of 10 were surveyed as to their opinion of what would be "The Very Best Thing in the World." Number 1? "Being a celebrity." Number 2: "Good Looks"; Number 3: "Being Rich." Now, I realize that "the very best thing in the world" is really broad, and that these kids are very young, but honestly...Number 9 was "Watching Films"!!! Oh, and all those things beat out "God", who rounds out the list at Number 10. Now that's gonna piss off some right-wing conservative Christians, and right at Christmastime, too. I wonder if they specified whose films... 'cause if it's like Adam Sandler or Lindsay Lohan, then it's pissing me off royally.

Finally, we come to an article AND video, the footage of which I cannot seem to get for you but that I saw on both MSNBC and our local NBC affiliate. But before I discuss it, I must digress. (No! Really? La.) It is with great dismay that I observe and note the proliferation of the Inflatable Holiday Yard Decorations. They are no less than an atrocity. What started out as a mere novelty has now turned into an all-out urban assault of not just the standard secular figures of Yuletide; nay, it is now de rigeur to have a yard full of these airy erections in a variety of forms: Sponge Bob in a Santa Hat, the Grinch, a penguin with a scarf, Santa on a Harley, and this year's newest incarnations, the Sno-Globe and the Christmas Carousel. No. I am not making any of those up. They are all in my neighborhood proximity, I am sad to report. The only one I am even remotely flexible on is the Inflatable Eeyore with Reindeer Antlers and that is because, come on! It is Eeyore. If it were up to me, an enormous inflatable Eeyore would be required on every single street. Just not in my yard.

But, I digress.

This report, which I read and saw the shocking and amazing video footage of in no way involves me. I swear it on my life. There is no way, despite my obvious antipathy toward all non-Eeyore yard inflatables, that I would ever stoop to attacking and stabbing one with a screwdriver in the dead of night. Besides, it is clear that the attacker is a man. And I would not go back four times over. Duh.

There you go, as The New York Times' masthead boasts, "all the news that's fit to print."

All This Testosterone Is Getting to Me

As the only female in the house, I find that it often falls to me to make certain concessions in the interest of Family Harmony. Happily, some of them are trivial...even fun. Others, however, require the diplomacy of an ambassador and the silence of a cloistered nun, two traits that I am not entirely famous for. Allow me to give you some examples of my sacrifice:

1. Fantasy Sports: My husband and two sons are deeply embroiled in this occupation. Rick can spend hours in front of his laptop laboring over his draft picks; Jared spends geological eras in front of his notebook computer, sweating over his nightly lineups in the NBA (er, that's National Basketball Association for those of you in the non-sporting group); Sam disappears upstairs and hollers down to Jared for consults regarding his teams. Jared picked my brain incessantly regarding his bench vs. active rosters until finally, I said, "I'm going to have my own team!" They all stared at me. Naturally, it was too late "to get into a real league," so I logged onto SmallWorld.com and picked my team. I had one criteria only: looks. I christened my team Cute Boys and my fantasy team was born. I don't give a damn how many points or anything they have. I just want them to look good. And they do. They are darned cute. (Although, if Etan Thomas doesn't get his facial hair under control, even his sexy dredlocks are not enough to save him.) Here is my #1 Cute Boy. Tell me he isn't the cutest thing ever. I love him. He is from Brazil. Or some country that starts with a "B." Who cares? He's cute.

2. The Nativity Scene: Okay, so. My nativity scene has a very special meaning to me. It is carved from olivewood from the Holy Land, and my husband bought it for me for our very first Christmas together in our very first apartment together. Every year, I lovingly wrap it up, each individual piece, in tissue paper, and store it away. Starting last year, the standard figures of the Nativity have been joined by the starting lineup of the Cleveland Cavaliers basketball team bobbleheads. And LeBron James, whose feet have been broken off, has now supplanted baby Jesus in the manger. But don't despair: power forward Larry Hughes is carrying baby Jesus in one arm--Larry's other arm is holding a basketball, natch. Not only are there Three Wise Men, there are Two Zydrunas Ilgauskases: one is a stretchable, and one is a loomingly large bobblehead. Oh, and there is also a black Santa Claus statue. Only one, though. The other one is strangely MIA. Hey! Don't look at me. I had nothing to do with it. I'm just biting my tongue and wondering who/what is next to join the tableau.

3. ESPN: Are any or all of you aware that this "channel" or "network" or whatever is a non-stop sports thing? Because, really, it's just uncalled for. We must watch "SportsCenter", "Around the Horn", "Pardon the Interruption", as well as the reruns of "classic matchups" which could be, oh, let's say the 1978 North Carolina vs. Mudflap State game. Remember, no one in my family or Rick's family went to either of those colleges. Or even travelled near any of those states. That does not matter, for perhaps Larry Bird's grandpa or Michael Jordan was a peanut vendor at one of those games! That is enough for Jared. So, I grab my Plain Dealer and read or do the crossword puzzle until the news comes on. And get this: Jared says, "The news? All you ever do is watch the news! Nothing ever happens. Besides, it comes on again at 11." Good heavens. "SportsCenter" is on 24 hours a day. Or more.

4. The Christmas Tree: It's a battleground of taste. The polar bear balancing on the circus ball has to be showing its butt. The surreptitious re-hanging of "back of the tree" ornaments on the front of the tree goes on all month. Sam's plastic condiment cup ornament, colored in 1st grade with green and black magic marker and hanging crookedly from a pipe cleaner, keeps mystifyingly reappearing on the front of the tree right at eye-level. The wooden moose and rabbit must be showing their butts also. And any of my crystal drop-style ornaments magically have other obliterating ornaments hanging in front of them. Both boys are almost an entire foot taller than I, so they re-hang uglier ornaments high and in front where they know I cannot reach them. And their father, unless I make a strong appeal, goes along with the joke. This year, I refuse to react. Who really cares? The only people who come over to see my tree know my freakish family and, most importantly, love them anyway. Feh.

Bless them all, my 3 men. In all the insanity of The Holidays, I think they keep me sane. In their way.

Sometimes, It Really *Is* All about Meme...

Although my dislike of memes has been previously documented here at The Dept., I am making an exception for V-grrrl, who tagged me for a "5 Things Most People Don't Know about You" thingy. I make this exception for two reasons: one, V. is a friend of mine and two, my other idea for a blogpost is still germinating.

I'll apologize ahead of time, however, that I'm not going to get all philosophical and deep and Barbara Walters-esque on you all. Let's face it; you know the really important personal-type stuff already. It's not like a meme-thingy is going to unearth some Nugget O' Nance that will make you go "Aaaah!"

So! Without any further falderal, here are

5 Things Most People Don't Know about Nance:

1. I've been every size from 0 to 18, and many more than once. And for a variety of reasons. I am now a size 2, up (thankfully!) from a size 0. I plan to stay here.

2. I am an unabashed fan of the lima bean. But it has to be the huge, Fordhook variety, cooked until totally mushy, and served with lots of salt, pepper, and butter. I will eat an entire brick of them myself for dinner, minus the one that I put on Sam's plate. For years, I used to pay him a standard fee of one nickel if he ate that lima bean.

3. I love to watch dog shows on tv but do not own, nor ever plan to own, a dog myself. I know

all the breeds by sight and even know the names of some of the repeat contenders. To me, owning a dog is too worky. You may as well have another kid. YOU, not me. *shudder*

4. I do not, repeat DO NOT, go to the library. See, the thing about libraries is, you have to give the books back. That is, to me, a bad deal. I much prefer to buy books. And they have to be in hardback. I hate, no, DETEST, paperback books. They are ugly and impossible to read. They also convey no gravitas. I buy books. In hardback. If I buy a lousy hardback book, then so be it. Books are like produce: if you get a mealy peach or a nondescript canteloupe, oh well. You did your research, you picked out one you thought you'd like, but it didn't work out that way. C'est la vie.

5. Most of the time when people talk to me on the phone, I don't pay any attention whatsoever. I don't do this on purpose--at least I don't think I do--but I find that I have no idea at all what they have said by the time I hang up. I'm not talking about the "Mom, I'm going to be late; I have to work an extra two hours" phone call. I'm talking about people who unexpectedly call me just to talk on the phone. I loathe the phone. Especially inane cell calls which serve no purpose except to establish that the caller is on the move and on the phone at the same time. Luckily, I don't get many of these. But, I think I have Phone ADD. Or something. I'm not sure.

This is the part where I think I'm supposed to tag other people. But, V, I'm not going to do that. I should have put that as #5 probably: I am not a joiner-inner. I don't go to Tupperware or Pampered Chef parties; I don't participate in recipe chain letters; I don't "forward this email to 10 strong women I know!" My sister Pat would probably laugh and say I was a Parade-Rainer. But she wouldn't do it, either. Hell, I don't even have her email address

The Dept. Presents: "What Not To Wear" Meets "Hardball"

It's December, dear readers, and today we had real snow here in NE Ohio. It was white and fluffy and covered the lawns and tacky inflatable yard ornaments that a shocking number of residents of my town cannot resist planting in their front lawns. All of this made me...no! not get into the Christmas spirit! It made me long for Spring! And what does Spring make us think of? Fashion!


It's time to pay our BFD (Best Friend Designer) Jeremy Scott a visit and see just what whacked-out sartorial psychosis he has in mind for us come April. Ooooooh! I can't wait! Remember last year, he was all about junk food. But not this year. This year, Jeremy is all about The War. That Jeremy! He is still going to have his fun. This is obviously a strong social commentary on the fact that the United States is really running a Mickey Mouse operation over there, and that we had flimsy excuses at best for going to war in the first place. The American people didn't fall for such a sketchy coverup. Ha! ha!

As now-unemployed Donald Rumsfeld so aptly said, we go to war with the army we have, not the army we wish we had. And Jeremy Scott would seem to agree with this fashion statement for women headed to the beach...after they make a quick stop at the beverage store or perhaps the local daycare to pick up the tots!





The United States Constitution is...well,...like the Pirates' Code, more of a Guideline in the eyes of the current administration. There are parts we need....and parts we don't. Here's Jeremy Scott's interpretation:

War is hard! Fighting the terrorists is hard! We know this from the Kerry-Bush debates; our President told us. It creates the need for lots of down time at the Ranch in Crawford. Those are the times when you just gotta relax, take naps, and phone it in. Jeremy Scott knows this:

But, after all, we're over there, building a democracy! Right, Jeremy Scott?

Riiiiiight!

*Note from Nance: For some reason, this new, buggy version of Blogger that I was urged to "upgrade" to, refuses to link to my previous Jeremy Scott post. So, if you want to read and look at the gustatorial goofiness that Jeremy sent down the runway at Fashion Week last year, search this blog for "Who is Jeremy Scott and Why Is He Torturing Me?" or just click on February and scroll down to that post.

Behind Closed (Classroom) Doors

Each and every day, I strive for a G-rated classroom. I really do. I mean, I don't consciously think about it when I walk in at 7:30 a.m., but at no point in my teaching day do I say to myself, What I have here is a room full of teenaged hormones just waiting for a catalyst. I think it's time to toss out something that is just a blatant sexual innuendo. Yet, it happens. And it's not just me. For example, this from my now-retired buddy Barb in the biology department:

So I've got the kids all dissecting their frogs, right? And, as usual, I'm walking around all the lab tables, looking for the best specimens of each of the organs they have to draw on their diagrams in their lab notebooks. I'm hollering all period: "Over here is a good example of the heart", and "Take a look at the liver at Kim's table" and things like that. And then...I wander to one of the tables in the back where Mike S. is. Remember Mike? He was a football player and was homecoming king that year. Good looking, tall. "Oh, hey!" I yell, all excited. "Mike's got a great-looking set of gonads back here!"

And this from Sue, my department head.

I had been talking about books with my students. We were discussing our favorites and what kinds of books we all like. Some of them are intimidated by long books--one look and they put them down. Other students look for books by particular authors, still others read graphic novels. A few days later, I was eager to share a new book with the class. "I don't know how many of you will like this one," I started out by saying. "But I know Amanda will love it. It's long and thick and hard, just the way she likes them!"

Sigh.

And we thought we could alleviate so much just by shelving the teaching of lie/lay.

Premature EjacYULEation

D isaster averted at the house today.

What was I thinking? I know the rules--hell, I made them! But it's a perilous time of year, this Wad O' Weeks known as The Holidays. This year, it arrived on October 1st! You know I'm right! The little boo-ghosts were jockeying for position next to Santa and Rudolph. Candy corn was nudging the candy canes. And as soon as the Marketing Mafia allowed us that brief, non-profitable moment known archaically and whimsically as "Thanksgiving," people stood outdoors in lines that snaked for fifteen football fields just to be able to...buy stuff.

Were things being given away? No. Were things being handed out gratis? No. Would these cold, ridiculous people who were in this ridiculously long line since 3 a.m. have to pay real money for things at the end of it that they would also have to walk around and have to find, heft, and stand in line for again? YES!!

H U H!?!?!?!?

But I digress.

My original point, and I do have one, is this:

Today, I took my mother out to a craft store so that she could buy something which I cannot mention here because it is a Christmas secret thing. While I was there, I found very charming, very serviceable coffee mugs with lids on them to keep the coffee hot whilst one is, say, working the Saturday Plain Dealer crossword puzzle or browsing the Sunday Plain Dealer sports section or ads and one does not wish to keep getting up and rewarming one's coffee in the microwave. I purchased two of them at the fabulous price of one dollar apiece. Later, when I brought them home, I called my sons and husband into the kitchen to admire and, yes, validate this purchase as 1. a great deal, 2. a great idea, and 3. very cute. As they returned to their activities, I busied myself making room for the mugs on the counter next to the coffeemaker. It was then that disaster struck:

Sam: (urgently from livingroom) Mom! Umm...What are you doing?
Me: (merrily, from kitchen) Making room on the coffee counter for our cute new mugs!
Sam: (triumphant) Wrong!
Me: What? Why?
Sam: Why?! You know the rules.
Me: Ohhhh. There's holly and...dammit. There are candy canes on this one!
Sam: Then no way are you putting them out.
Me: But the candy canes are so small!
Sam: Doesn't matter. It's not December 1st.
Me: I want a ruling. Jared?
Jared: (looks up from computer, instantly alert) Holly is seasonal, not Christmas. And same for snowmen, which are just wintry. How many candy canes? I can be flexible.
Me: The candy canes are small. And there are more snowmen and holly together than candy canes. Rick?
Rick: (groggily, from depths of recliner) Isn't tomorrow December 1st?
Sam: No! No! December 1st isn't until Friday. You people! You know the rules! You can't put them out yet. They're Christmas mugs.
Me: You're right. I'll just put out a couple of regular mugs to mark their place until Friday.
Jared: (chuckling) Like ghost runners, huh, Mom? Remember ghost runners? "Ghost runner on first!" Remember that, Sam?
Sam: You people are such idiots.

A New Tradition at The Dept.

For me, blogging is a complicated process. I'm not a fourteen-year-old who plops down in front of the computer at 3:25 p.m. with a bottle of Powerade and a bag of Funyuns and proceeds to type in all lowercase letters about " goin 2 the mall 2day bcuz im 4 sher gettin tha new fitty cd, hun."

Sometimes I mull over blogpost ideas for days, discarding some, stretching out others, cursing under my breath at V-grrl or Neil because they have such a great post up and I want to write about that, too, but I don't want to steal their ideas.

And when I started blogging back in August of 2005, I was pretty much writing in a vacuum. Not many people even knew I had someplace on the web. My own mother still thinks this blog is a message that I only send to my Aunt Shirley and Uncle Dick in Gettysburg. (...and your aunt and uncle say they really love getting your messages and they read them all the time. They let me read some of them while I was there. They're cute. Sigh.) Little by little, though, my humble blog got picked up and noticed. I started finding ways to publicize it, and more people started to read it. How did I know? Only a Non-Blogger would have to ask that.

The Comments!
On August 07, 2005, I got my very first comment on a post. Check it out.

I'm happy to join with Neil at Citizen of the Month and participate in the now Second Annual Thank Your First Commenter Day.

So! Thank You, St. Jim of Southern Maryland for being the very first commenter ever on The Dept. of Nance!

I still don't get very many commenters. I'm nowhere near the 12-15 commenters a day that V-grrrl, the expat in Belgium gets; nor am I even within dreaming distance of the 30-75 daily comments that Neil racks up. And some of the earliest, now big-time bloggers like--hell, why should I give them any more publicity?--get hundreds and hundreds of comments a day! I don't even have close to that many readers, let alone commenters. I'm not going to pretend I don't have Blogger Envy; I sure do. But I'm still a rookie blogger.

But this post is about St. Jim of Southern Maryland, my first commenter ever. Thanks, St. Jim of Southern Maryland. You will be commemorated every Wednesday before Thanksgiving here at The Dept. of Nance for giving me a virtual thumbs-up; that little cyber-pat on the back.

Thanks!

Doncha Think?

The tragedy of Irony Lost on Somebody was implicit in my last post. Alert Reader Danielle commented on it, and now, thanks to her, I have Irony on the Brain.

Apparently, I have Pompous Capitalization Syndrome as well.
But that is beside the point.

Last night Jared and Travis-cat had a major falling-out which was precipitated by Travis's predatory behavior towards Emily-cat. Travis had slept the entire day on Sam's bed and when he finally awoke late in the evening, he expended his energy by picking on and ambushing Emily (who is, as you may recall, 16, arthritic, almost deaf, and has snarkiness issues). Jared defended Emily, and the result was that Travis bit Jared, who retaliated. Travis puffed out like a blowfish and retired, shaken, under a chair for the rest of the night.

Now to my point, and I do have one.

I spent the whole evening concerned about Travis's well-being, because I had never seen him so affected. He refused to come out. Eventually, I went to bed.

This morning, he was still AWOL. Sam informed me that Travis had spent the night under the covers with him. Soon, all my men left the house for the gym or their jobs. Shortly thereafter, Travis loped casually downstairs.

He came into the office where I sat at my computer. He jumped up and I made a huge fuss over him. Many embarrassing kittywittyisms escaped my lips. He purred, bounded down, and went into my bedroom.

And yakked up onto my aubergine carpeting.

And then into the hallway, the dining room, and the kitchen, yakking all the way.

To hell with him.

Another Man's Treasure...

The pot to my discarded coffeemaker is sitting on my curb lawn. So is the filter basket. The coffeemaker itself is gone and so is the rest of my trash. But there sit the thermal carafe and basket, stark white and forlorn. They were not even good enough for the garbage-pickers.

Do you have garbage-pickers in your part of the world? We do. And our street is a hotly contested avenue of prime garbage-picking real estate that was the cause of at least one boisterous and noisome argument that I was witness to a couple of years ago because it took place right in front of my home. We are prime trash-gleaning territory, let me tell you. But first, a primer of sorts might be in order for those of you who are not, perhaps, part of the refuse rescue and recycle...er, cycle.

I live in a charming established neighborhood of mostly colonial homes and some story-and-a-half houses built in the early half of the 20th century. The lots are tiny and the homes are only a driveway's width apart from each other. The streets are lined with old, old gracious silver maples and there is no parking on either side of our narrow avenue. Every home has its mail delivered right to its door; same with the daily news. On every Tuesday evening the neighborhood drags its trash and bluebagged recyclables down to the curb for the next morning's pickup. We can set out anything to be taken: the usual trashcans of household garbage along with appliances, furniture, branches, etc. Many times, I have taken the extra time to arrange certain items rather conspicuously and attractively, such as old tv trays, outdoor furniture, planters, and the like. Then we all go inside and wait for the garbage-pickers to show up.

As soon as it is dusk, we hear the familiar rumbles and clanks of battered pickups. They've arrived. These vehicles cruise slowly up and down the street, checking out what is placed on the curbs. Sometimes the pickers come alone. The driver leaves the engine to idle as he jumps out and inspects each pile. Sometimes they bring one of their kids--usually eleven or twelve years old--or even their wives. Gutters, aluminum siding, any metal goes quickly--it can be sold for scrap. Then the other items are inspected. Once, I heard a woman say loudly, as if she was hoping I was listening, "I can't believe they're throwing these perfectly good plants away! What's a few bugs?"

Once, our basement flooded. Our curb lawn looked like our house threw up. It was a garbage-picker's paradise. I watched fascinated while a kid with an absurdly huge head rode his bike away, somehow balancing two big stereo speakers on his handlebars. I still don't know how, or why, he did it. Don't people realize what's in the water when basements flood?

Anyway, a couple of years ago, two garbage-pickers ended up in a face-off with each other in front of my house. One accused the other, in no uncertain terms, of being in his territory. Seems as though this angry garbage-picker has been scavenging on our street for pretty much his entire career and every other garbage-picker (but this new guy, apparently) knows it and stays away. Much gesturing and posturing ensued, but the Original Garbage-Picker won. I guess you can't argue with Seniority, even if it's in the Garbage-Picking Realm. The other garbage-picker surrendered his stuff, got in his pickup with the scraps o' plywood side panels, and left in a huff. Since then, things have been serene on our little street on Tuesday nights.

But I'm miffed about the coffeemaker. Why take just the maker and not the carafe and the basket? I already know why the city's garbagemen didn't take it. I've had that conversation already. I had occasion to call the city's sanitation department before because the garbagemen left so much crap all over my lawn. Here is what went down on the phone:

Me: Hello. I have a concern regarding the city workers who are supposed to collect my trash.

City Worker: Yes? How can I help you?

Me: Well, they leave a lot of garbage on the lawn. It's not there in the morning when I leave for
work, so I know it's not coming from an animal getting into the cans. They are spilling it
from the cans and not cleaning it up.

CW: Well, ma'am, they can't go picking up garbage at everybody's house.

Me: Excuse me? Did you just say that they can't pick up people's garbage? Isn't that pretty
much their JOB?

CW: Well, ma'am, if they stop to pick up SPILLED garbage on everyone's property, they'll
never get their route done. You'll just have to pick it up. I'm sure it's just a little bit.

Me: Well, ma'am, if they didn't SPILL the garbage, there wouldn't be a problem. How about
YOU come out and pick up their mess for me? It's just a little bit. Or better yet, how
about you ask Mr. _____ (insert mayor's name) to come out and pick it up for me?

CW: Ma'am, you don't understand--

Me: You are absolutely right about that. Good day.

So, today, my carafe and basket are in the garbage can. Waiting for next Tuesday. As part of the regular trash.

Carnival of the Mundane XXIII: Committees Realigned

Taking a cue from the pledge of Nancy Pelosi, The Sam and BeckyBoo Show has wasted no time and, squeaking in at just over the 100 hour deadline, has already realigned some of the Carnival's most influential committees. Click on the link and visit some Mundane posts (a favorite feline one of mine included) about...oh, just any old thing. Then check back. I'm about ready to file one for The Dept.

Blue Skies...Shining at Me...Nothin' but Blue Skies...

Now this is the kind of Housecleaning I can get excited about!

When I finally got to bed last night, I knew the Democrats had won the House, but the firewall was still in place--Missouri, Virginia, Tennessee, and Montana had yet to be called. And although CNN and MSNBC remained confident in their projections, Steele had yet to relinquish Maryland. I had given up Tennessee, and I was happy enough with the House and the fact that my own state, Ohio, had completely and irrevocably turned a lovely shade of angry electorate
BLUE. The governor, the senate, key house races, my state rep.--hell, even every local seat, judges even, were going Democrat. I felt electrified. I turned off the television feeling pretty damn good.

This morning while getting ready for school, I listened to local radio but was surprised not to hear a single word about the outcome of the Senate. My husband turned on the tv and I stared at CNN and a single word in the upper left corner of the screen. "LIVE", it said, with the balance of power graphic still across the bottom. Virginia and Montana, I heard, were still at stake, with Missouri going to the Democrats. I couldn't wait to get to work and "caucus" with fellow Dems.

All day long, other Dems zoomed down to my room to chat it out and hug and squeal in the hallway. We all had CNN minimized on our computer screens and checked it in between classes or during lulls in our lectures. You could tell just by looking who voted what in our building. The smiles were dazzling for the Dems. It felt good to feel good, not angry. We had gotten it all out at the polls, and evidently, so had everyone else!

But, once the recounts are done and the euphoria wears off, January will inevitably come. The Democrats will have to do a singularly vital thing: they must--they must turn the anger into hope. This country has given them their fatigue, their skepticism, their yearning, and their desperation. This is a weary and resentful electorate. An impatient and mistrustful people. A ready and waiting America. "There is a tide in the affairs of men, " warns Brutus in Julius Caesar, "which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries." The Democrats must take this opportunity bestowed upon them by a hopeful America and reward that hope immediately and decisively, not vengefully and foolishly. This is a time to lead forward, not punish the past. It's not enough now to be the party of who we aren't; we must now be the party of who we are.

And make America what it can be again.