Am I Not Human? If You Bug Me, Will I Not Bitch?

Let me just say this: after 22 years of parenting, I refuse to be resigned! I'm not going to just give in and say, "Well, okay, then. Sam is just never going to hang up the hand towel and I'm not going to make an issue of it any longer. It's just not worth it." Nor am I just going to--I was going to use the metaphor throw in the towel but that would be redundant now, wouldn't it?--give up and say, "All right. It's over. Jared will never, ever take all of his dishes into the kitchen from the living room, so I'm done harping about it. It's pointless."

NO! Because that is what THEY want. Who? Well, yes, Sam and Jared want that. Oh, my, yes. They would love that, although their constant refusal to acquiesce to my simple requests/demands would indicate otherwise--that they in fact love to hear me harp and harangue about handtowels and snack detritus, so often do they perform behaviors that result in it.

No, I am talking about a different THEM. I am speaking about the followers of Pastor Will Bowen of Christ Church Unity in Kansas City, Missouri. "The one thing we can agree on," says Pastor Will, "is there's too much complaining." He asked his congregation to take a pledge: go for 21 consecutive days without complaining even once. If they caught themselves griping at all, they had to start over. To help them, he gave them each a purple rubber wristband like the one pictured at the top of this post. Each member of his flock placed it on his or her wrist. If he or she erred, the congregant then switched the wristlet to the opposite arm and started counting again from day one. Some members reported that it took seven months to complete the pledge and attain their "Certificates of Happiness." Others were successful in as little as three months. One member asked her sixth grade class to take the pledge with her. The students found their biggest obstacle to be brothers and sisters who could be "really mean!"

Reverend Bowen is looking to attain World Domination with his no-complaint program: "We're going to be the center of no complaining around the world!" he said. And truthfully, he has planned for this eventuality by appearing on shows like Oprah!, Good Morning America, and has been interviewed in People magazine. He's even giving away his purple rubber bracelets for free on his website http://www.acomplaintfreeworld.org/, which will automatically lead you to his church's webpage.

Well, Reverend Bowen, not the whole world...!

Because I, for one, will not be sucked into your little purple plan! I reserve the right to beef, bellyache, grouse, grumble, kvetch, carp, object, lament, sound off about, bemoan, fuss, bewail, and crab about pretty much whatever I feel like here at The Dept. any old time I want. I find it cathartic and necessary. Some people find it entertaining, and as the old saying goes, "misery loves company."

So...take your little purple bracelets and snap 'em.

Last Year at The Dept.--...And That's What's Known As Relativity

If A Blogger Falls In The Forest...

Cyberspace is a strange and surreal place. We've become part of an ethereal community in which we are friends, but most of us have never met. We know each other, but we've never heard the sound of one another's voice. We care about each other, but very few of us even know--or really care--where or under what circumstances the other lives, works, or indulges in his or her pastimes. Many of us couldn't find our blogger friends in a phone book because we not only don't know their last names, we don't even know their real first names.

If something happened to one of us, how would the rest of us find out?

In my case, no one here at The Dept. knows my Blogger sign-in information. Rick, Sam, or Jared wouldn't be able to post a notice, if they even thought about it. True, there are several of my "regulars" who live near me and who also blog, and they might kindly make mention of it at their blogs, or think to append a notice in the Comments section on my Last Post. But that seems pretty self-aggrandizing to take that for granted. Still, there are a few of you who might care and want to know.

You know, if Something Happened.

Well, I'm here to tell you that someone has already thought of all this. Of course. Let me introduce you to Deathswitch. A deathswitch is a program that prompts you for your password on a regular schedule that you have predetermined. If you don't respond within a previously agreed-upon time, it will prompt you again, several times. If you still do not respond, your computer assumes you are dead (or critically disabled) and basically goes on an automated emailing binge, sending out prescripted messages that you have prepared for this eventuality. "A deathswitch," reads their website, "is information insurance. Don't die with secrets that need to be free."

Holy Crap.

Let me just say this: I have a ton of secrets. A. Ton. And I am taking them to the grave with me. The whole point of secrets is just that. They are secret. Benjamin Franklin said, "Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead." No way I'm emailing a bunch of secrets. No one is getting The Pesto Recipe. Among other things.

And, is it just me, or are the rest of you seeing oh, about eleventy billion scenarios in which this deathswitch thing could go horribly awry? "Oh, sorry about that, Aunt Martha. We had a power outage and my computer got all screwed up and my deathswitch accidentally sent you that. Ha ha. Never mind." or "Hello? Oh, hi, Mom. No, it's really me. No, Mom. Please, Mom. Stop screaming. Mom, please. Mom, I really do love you. It was a joke. My roommate was just goofing around on my new computer. Mom...!" or "Hello, New ISP? I can't seem to get my email set up correctly...."

No, no Deathswitch for me. Instead, I'll opt for an index card with my Blogger info on it. I'll put it with my will and, when it's time for The Last Post, either someone at The Dept. will do it, or they'll recruit one of you.

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: The Cats Are Pointless

So, I Was Talking To Hillary, And I Told Her...

..."Look, Hillary, at some point, you've gotta show you're human like the rest of us. I know it's a tough gamble for a woman who's running for the most powerful office in the world and all, but you're coming off as too polished, too 'handled.' It's not like you have to cry or admit to PMSing all over the place or needing your chocolate fix or whatever--you just have to have a couple of hey, I get you sister friend Oprah-type moments. Trust me on this. I mean, if I can't speak the truth to you as a friend, then what are friends for, you know?" And I think she got me. We'll see. It might not show up in a debate, say, but she'll know when to pick her spots. She's that good.

Psssssssssssssssst. How was I just then, up there? Did it sound credible? I've decided to follow a new national trend, making it big by faking it. According to Elizabeth Large of The Baltimore Sun, (reprinted in The Cleveland Plain Dealer 15 June 07) this is perfectly acceptable. "These days it's fine to fake it," she writes. As a matter of fact, there's a book out to help us on our way: Faking It: How to Seem Like a Better Person without Actually Improving Yourself. The mantra of this program is "It's not who you are, but who others think you are." Although this book is designed primarily to help newly graduated college students navigate in the real world, it contains many helpful hints for those who are looking to impress. These hints include:

*Pretend you're a good host by filling top shelf liquor bottles with off brands when you finish them.
*Pretend you're intellectual and well-read by leaving impressive magazines on your coffee table like The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly and The Economist; get a copy of the latest NYTimes best-selling nonfiction book and dog-ear every 40 pages or so. Leave the dog-ear down about halfway through the book.
*Pretend you're a gourmet cook by constantly referring to complicated dishes or ingredients you hear on Food TV shows by claiming to make/use them yourself.
*Avoid exposing your ignorance by being dismissive or saying with a chuckle, "Well, that's a pretty complex issue" and then offering refreshments.

If you're self-righteously shocked by this cool and duplicitous strategy, I ask you: have you never, ever faked it? Not even once?

Have you ever re-gifted? You know, gotten a present from someone, felt really lukewarm about it, stashed it away and, one day been in a spot when a gift was needed on the fly for someone else and...Eureka! That wrong-fit gift became the perfect present for that someone else.

Or...you were asked to bring a dish or dessert to a reunion or a party or a picnic. You didn't feel like putting in the time and effort. You went to a deli or a bakery or the prepared-foods section of a local market and bought something, put it in one of your own dishes and took it to the party. If anyone asked--sure! You made it. Oh, it was no big deal. The recipe? No, you don't dare tell...family secret! (Oh yeah, it was a secret, all right!) I did this! And I admitted it in a previous post.

We've all, as the old old saying goes, "gilded the lily" at one time or another. Who knew it would turn out to be a Millenial Lifestyle Choice? According to professor Ty Tashiro at the University of Maryland, recent research seems to suggest that people are "fundamentally motivated to lie." Technology has made it easier for us to do so, what with Instant Messenger, email, MySpace, texting, and the like. We don't have to face each other to communicate. "People are pretty effortless liars," said Tashiro. And now cyberspace's anonymity and vast network of virtual reality have added to the sense of unreality already out there.

Some have called space the Final Frontier. Is the Internet the Prevarication Perimeter?

Last Year On Dept. of Nance: Men

The Nance Show

It is almost time for the cable bill to come, and that means it is almost time for Rick to sigh heavily and say to Jared, Sam, and me, "This is ridiculous. This much just to watch television?!" Naturally, that is our cue to defend our Pet Channels so that the Budgetary Axe of Death does not fall:

Jared: Life without ESPN, ESPN2, or FSNOhio is not a life I want to live. Are you really prepared to have that on your conscience?
Me: I have to have the Food Network. We've gone over this a hundred times.
Sam: What's this now?

Shortly after that, I also remind him that the cable bill also represents our internet connection. He mumbles something from behind his laptop and proceeds to ignore us for the rest of the evening. He forgets that the majority of his surfing and eventual stopping takes place on cable-provided programming, too. His television watching is just not nearly as interactive as mine is; therefore, it is quieter and not as noticeable.

I am, by nature, a chatty individual, and the fact that the television is supposedly a one-way entertainment device doesn't deter me in the least. I'm quite free with my comments, advice, and dialogue along with the program on the tv. As a matter of fact, Jared thinks I should have my own show something along the lines of Mystery Science Theater 3000, only with a cooking format.

Are you familiar with MST3K? It was a silly show hosted by a human and three robots who sat and watched really awful movies and kept up a running commentary--usually witty and critical--during the films. Sometimes they'd do alternative dialogue, too.

Well, instead of watching bad films, I'd watch the cooking shows of Food Network "stars" that I really dislike. I'd criticize and generally eviscerate them as they cooked, then do my own recipes after their segments. It wouldn't be hard. I already do it at home. There's nothing I like better after a hard day at school than coming home, changing out of my Mrs. D. clothes, kicking back on the couch with Jared and watching Everyday Italian with Giada de Laurentiis, who I simply cannot tolerate as a cook. She is, in a word, terrible. I unwind from my day by ripping her apart, from the fact that she cannot accurately estimate nor measure to her constant use of the word "perfect" and description of every single herb as "lemony." She is also the only Italian I know who refuses to cook generously or even enough. Her guests must have to stop at McDonald's on the way home from dinner at her house.

Anyway, after I got done blasting Giada (or Emeril or Tyler or whoever was on the hotseat that day--but never Paula Deen, NEVER MISS PAULA!) I would then cook a better and Nancer version of whatever dish they had completely screwed up.

Every so often, I might mix it up and have a segment on of the Food Network people I like. Like Alton Brown or Paula Deen or maybe one or two segments that I can tolerate of Michael Chiarello--when he's not saying the word "caramelize" every three seconds and demanding that we see him as a raging heterosexual. But I'd have to see how it goes.

And I'd never have a guest on. Because they might want to talk, too. And I'm just not up for that.

Last year on Dept of Nance: Guilty Pleasures

I'm Just Thinkin' Here

Forgive me if this post is a bit incoherent, but I just finished up my 26th year of teaching today and celebrated the end of another successful year by having a couple of Cape Codders with a group of colleagues at Harry Buffalo's. Uncharacteristically, I nibbled at a snack and drank outdoors, something which I unequivocally detest. But, for my fellow teachers, I will do just about anything. We drank, we chatted, we got incredibly silly and philosophical, depending upon the level of alcohol in our glasses and beer tubes.

Oh, not eating outdoors? No, I'm not a fan. I find it horrid. I hate the whole idea of it. What's the point? You battle wind, bugs, paper plates, sun in your eyes, uncomfortable weather conditions, hot food that isn't optimally hot and cold food that isn't optimally cold. You hope that the wasps circling your open can of soda don't actually go inside, forcing you to accidentally get stung on the lips or tongue. Sometimes you have to sit at picnic tables and be vigilant that too many people don't get up from the other side of the bench, causing your side to teeter-totter downward. How embarrassing! Nope, eating outdoors is too much like work or punishment for me.

There are a few other things I am not, at age 48, ever going to do ever again. Here they are:

1. Be forced into stupid party games or outdoor family reunion games. I don't do sackraces or big softball games or contests. These are just plain ridiculous. I am 48 years old and have earned the right to say NO when I don't feel like doing something.

2. Go to every relative's party or event or send money in my stead. Nor do I expect them at mine. I don't have a lot of cousins, thank goodness. I don't see them often. So, if one of their kids gets married, I don't expect an invitation. If I get one, I don't see why I should feel obligated to go. I haven't seen this kid since he was born, if then. I don't see why I should send a gift, either. Who is this person to me? More importantly, who am I to him or her? Am I part of his or her life? Obviously, this is a ploy for a gift or cash. I'm not falling for it.

3. Send cards all the time. I find greeting cards to be a huge waste of money and time. Let's face it: yes, the thought is nice. Yes, it's pleasant to get mail. But, greeting cards, unless you get generic, awful ones at the Dollar Store, are grossly inflated in price. And, what do you do with them? You look at them, smile, perhaps put them on the mantel for a week or so, then you toss them out. For me, that's not a good return on my investment. I'd rather get and send an e-card, really. I can look at it, save it indefinitely with no clutter, even save it as my desktop wallpaper if it's particularly clever. I realize that the argument can be made that it takes more effort to remember in advance the person's special day, then select the card, stamp it, and send it in plenty of time. But, so what? Do I love my sister less because I call her or send her an e-card? Sometimes belatedly? I think not.

This summer will perhaps be a time of reflection for me. I may rethink these positions. But I doubt it. Perhaps I will, instead, ponder my many obsessions. Like:

1. Brian Williams's ties. Maybe I need to stop perseverating over them and just learn to accept.

2. Lay's Potato Chips. I eat the folded ones and make Rick give me his folded ones.

3. My search for the perfect brown leather slip-on sandal. Where is it? So far, nowhere.

4. My hair. Why isn't Aussie Real Volume shampoo working for me anymore? Or Pantene?

5. Omar Avila. He was on the finale episode of House. Oh my God. He is making me rethink my anti-Latino man position in so many ways. Seriously. So many ways. So many.

6. Breaking up with TravisCat. He is exhibiting rebellious litterbox habits that are ruining my life. I am trying to freeze him out by not speaking to him and making my lap off-limits.

7. Squirrels. They are constantly on my birdfeeder, but I cannot keep shooting them with the bb gun. My aim is not what it used to be, and we have new neighbors behind us. 'Nuff said.

This list should keep me busy through June...perhaps July, if I take weekends off. Naturally, I will consider all propositions/helpful hints offered in comments. But honestly, it's summer. And the livin' is supposed to be easy. Especially for us teachers on vacation.

Rock Me Like A Hurricane...Or At Least TRY!

Hurricane season is upon us, and we are already tracking the movements of one Tropical Storm Barry.

Sigh.

I'm sorry, but I would have a very hard time getting worried and scared about a storm named Barry. That name isn't doing it for me. When I hear the name Barry, I picture either Greg Brady (actor Barry Williams) or a fifty-something guy with kind of curlyish hair, glasses, and plaid Bermuda shorts walking around a backyard barbecue with a can of beer saying, "Well, my accountant looked it over and said he could reduce my tax bill next year by about two percent."

I wondered who the heck was responsible for naming these storms and why they continue to do such a crappy job. It's the National Weather Service, and they started adding men's names to the list in 1979. There are, in fact, six lists of storm names now, and they simply rotate them. The original naming began in 1953 to simplify the task of reporting the storms to the general public; I imagine that they will begin to add even more ethnically diverse names if the public begin to demand it.

Here is the official list of Storm Names for 2007:

Andrea

Barry
Chantal
Dean
Erin

Felix

Gabrielle

Humberto

Ingrid

Jerry
Karen

Lorenzo
Melissa
Noel
Olga
Pablo
Rebekah
Sebastien

Tanya

Van

Wendy

Now, I don't know about you, but those are some wussy names for hurricanes. I'm not about to board up my windows, pack up the Prius, drain the bank account, and load the cats into the carrier for Hurricane Jerry. I mean, jeeze...this is a hurricane that does charity work. Come on! And Hurricane Noel? A Christmas Hurricane?!

And Hurricane Pablo?

I think I've made my point here. Okay, one more, and you have to see it coming.

Hurricane Felix. Get serious.

These pointyheads at the NWS have to get down and dirty and come up with some kickass intimidating names for these storms. Who's gonna run from Wendy? Her dad makes square hamburgers! So, I'm proposing a few names here, and then you should do likewise in the comments. Here's my partial list to replace a few of the pantywaist names in the NWS List O'Losers:

Bart

Dirk

Jake

Mick

Vito

Zena

Gert

Vera

Zelda

There! I've gotten you started. Now, get busy in the comments and intimidate me. Oh, and no fair designating Hurricane Nance. Ha ha, LOL and all that.

Politics, With a Side of Poetry

It's been far too long since I posted something political. I refuse to take any polls too seriously; it's much too early, and as most of my compatriots know, I'm waiting to see if everyone who is anyone has declared himself a candidate yet. But I'm very much following things as they develop, and nothing escapes my notice.


I've decided to have a little fun and compose a few Political Haiku about a few of the candidates from both parties, and I encourage you to play along in the Comments section. For those of you who need a quick refresher:


Haiku is a Japanese style of poetry consisting of three lines. The first and third lines contain only 5 syllables. The second line contains 7 syllables. Taken all together, the poem states a complete thought. (Traditionally, Japanese haiku would be seasonal poetry; naturally, I will be ringing a bit of a change on that theme.)


Without any further ado, here are my Political Haiku:


Barack Obama,
Kicked in the ass by his own:
"He's not black enough."

Hillary makes us
Women feel as if we owe her
Votes no matter what.

Fred Thompson, actor.
Is he in or is he not?
G.O.P. pricktease.

Oh, Rudy, Rudy!
Come on, now! Even you know
You're a Democrat!

The Straight Talk Express
Looks to have been detoured by
McCain's bad driving.

Chris Dodd, your white hair
Gives you an air of wisdom.
Boy! Could we use that!

Mike Gravel, you are
At least entertaining and
Keeping me awake.

Okay, everybody, it's your turn. 5-7-5; it's not like it's hard. You don't even have to take off your shoes! I can't wait to read your haikus.

The X Factor

It's that time again: I'm going through my seasonal bout of Food Fussiness. Nothing sounds good, I don't feel like planning what to have for dinner, and we are all enacting The Five PM Drama at the Dept. way too often lately.

Here it is, in its entirety:

Curtain opens on modest living room. Husband sits in distressed leather recliner. Wife sits in one corner of couch, legs drawn up, arms encircling them. Eldest son sits slumped in opposite corner with laptop computer open, staring blankly at screen.

Rick: Well, what does everyone want to eat?

Jared: I don't care.

Nance: I don't know.

Rick: Where's Sam?

Nance: Upstairs on the phone or computer. Jared, get him.

Jared: (takes out cell phone, speaks into it to voice dial.) Call. Sam. (pause, then--) Hey, get down here. Family meeting for dinner.

Nance: (stares incredulously) You just called your brother on the cell phone? Upstairs?

Jared: Yeah. So?

(Sam comes downstairs and stands in archway between living and diningroom.)

Rick: Sam, what do you feel like for dinner?

Sam: I don't know. What are the options?

Nance: It's late. If I have to cook, something has to have time to be thawed, then I have to cook it, and by the time you people decide, we won't eat until 8:00.

Sam: I'm going to go work out at 7.

Rick: We'll order out then. What does everyone want?

Jared: I don't care.

Sam: I don't care.

Nance: Well, I absolutely cannot handle pizza, and I won't do Wendy's or any fast food burgers.

Rick: O. Kay. What about gyros?

Nance: (makes face as if someone poured worm guts all over lap and into hair.)

Jared: Well, that effectively cancels out all the edible menu options within a 5 mile radius.

Sam: Do I have to stay here? Can't you just tell me what we end up with?

Nance: Well, just get whatever you guys want and I'll just find something here.

Rick: That's ridiculous. What about Chinese?

Jared: That's fine.

Sam: I'm getting a call. (Steps away to talk on cell.)

Nance: Well...

Rick: Then I have no idea. Nance, you're the X Factor here. It's gotta be up to you.

Nance: I know. I'm sorry. I'm awful.

Sam: That was Scott. I'm gonna go work out now. I'll just eat whatever when I get back.

Sam leaves. Jared and Rick look at Nance expectantly and annoyed. Nance makes herself even smaller on the end of the couch. Everyone waits. Eventually, they order_______.

Sad, isn't it? It's horrific. I just have no real interest in food and even less interest in making decisions regarding it. Everything about it is a chore. I'd just rather be taken out of the equation entirely. (Like Sam, who is the Poster Child for Passive Aggressiveness. Or something like that.)

I cannot wait until this particular bout passes. My husband is being a saint throughout it, but his patience certainly has its limit. Thank goodness he has a real fondness for peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches because I can see that being on the menu at least once this week. We've already had Chinese.

Flamingos: They Don't Teach You This in Teachers' College

Kris's mom came to see me yesterday. She stopped by my room before first period with a package in her hand. "Danielle wanted to come see you on Mother's Day with this," she said smiling ruefully, "but I told her not to. Then she had to go back to college, so I just decided to run up with it."

"Oh, she didn't have to do this!" I said, surprised, and started to open it.

"Nance, you probably shouldn't open it right now, " Deb said. "It's not that it's a big deal, but it's a little sentimental, and you might get emotional. When you see it and read the note, you'll understand."

"Okay, " I said. "I'll wait, then. But thanks. How are you, Deb? How are all of you?"

"Well, it's been three years," she said, "but it's not really getting any easier. We miss him so much. We got the results of his autopsy, you know. And we found out that, even if the marrow transplant had worked, there had been so much lung damage, we might not have had him much longer anyway. He did it for us, Nance. You know that? He was so tired. He only did it for us. We should have let him go. We just should have let him go."

I put my arm around her and tried not to let the tears which threatened begin to fill my eyes. "Oh, Deb, why go back and relive that decision now? That was your son. He was nineteen. Of course you wanted to try."

She smiled--smiled--at me. "If he had lived through it, he wouldn't have been able to play softball. He wouldn't have been able to play golf. He would have had to be on oxygen. He wouldn't have been able to do any of the things he loved to do. We just wanted him alive and that was all we could think about."

"Of course it was, " I said. "That's all any of us wanted."

"Well!" she said, taking a deep breath. "Dani saw this and right away thought of you. I told her I'd make sure you got it. So! Here it is. Nance, you look well. I'm so glad. Take good care of yourself. Promise me."

"I will," I said. "I promise. And you do the same. Give Danielle my love, as usual."

And with a wave, she was off.

Last night I was edgy, headachy, and so very tired. I waited until this morning to open the package. Inside was a note from Deb and two photographs, one of which was Danielle taking a photograph of a flock of flamingos, my favorite bird and the welcoming tacky-chic decor of my English classroom. Also inside was a silly flamingo bottle opener, one of the kind that has the insides of oil and water so that a bright pink flamingo perpetually floats aloft within. Part of the note reads:

...all Dani could talk about was how much you loved these animals & then we found the bottle opener in a gift shoppe right at our timeshare and the rest is history. I know she hasn't forgotten anything you did together, whether it was in class or in support of Kris or our family. Those are what pulled us through the worst part! Yes, 2 years after her graduation, the impact of you as a person/teacher still affects her thoughts and actions! So that is why I am so grateful that both of my kids were able to have you in their lives!! I know you are/were in both of their hearts!

Someday, I'll tell you about Kris. But that's not what this post is about. This post is about teaching, the career. The life of it. The way you are born into it. The way it becomes who you are. And the way that, no matter what college does to prepare you for it, no university course can ever prepare you for what I just told you about. Or the dozens of other kids in my heart. I wanted to tell you about someone else, too. But I think this post is big enough. There's time enough for all the rest later.

If Moms Wrote Horror Movies, Redux

*this is previously posted material from long, long ago when my blog was just a newborn, with minor edits*

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 19 and 22, 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.

Just Off the Top of My Head...

Time to pop the top off my head and release the pressure. Here's the latest passel of cerebral sediment that's gotta go.

*I love baseball. For a sport with such funny pants, it has a very elevated vocabulary. The phraseology is downright elegant. "Designated hitter" just begs to be pronounced with an intelligent British accent. And "intentional walk" has a four-syllable adjective with a pretty sinister undertone. And here's my all-time favorite: "defensive indifference." This is a real term. I am not kidding you. This is a perfect term to describe my entire strategy when Sasha in my 7th period junior class cheats on her vocabulary test. I never bust her because, no matter what she does, she ends up with a 62% at the end of the term anyway.

*The Oscar Mayer jingle irritates me. They sing about their first and second names and then spell them. But then, they say at the end, "Oscar Mayer has a way with b-o-l-o-g-n-a." But in the song, they have pronounced it baloney. If they are going to SING "baloney", then they should SPELL "baloney." There is a difference, is all I am saying. One is pronounced ba-LO-na. The other is pronounced ba-LO-nee. Get this right. Geeze.

*White cars look odd to me. They just look like they're not done yet. Like they aren't painted. I saw a white Scion the other day, and it reminded me of an old-timey ambulance. It looked like it was perhaps European Army surplus from like World War II or something, and they painted over the red cross. OR, it looked like a funny clown car ambulance. I half expected it to stop at the intersection and have a bunch of clowns come piling out of it, all wearing like huge yellow rubber stethoscopes and carrying oversized hypodermic syringes. They could hit each other with those rubber mallets and then fall down onto big stretchers and bounce back up. Anyway, white cars: I'm not a fan.

*Speaking of white--I'm at the point now where I'm wavering on the White Shoes Issue. Technically, my mother would weigh in now and say that since we've had Easter, it is officially White Shoe Season. Since I cannot seem to find mine, it's sort of a moot point. No one on my floor at school has worn hers yet. I wonder if they're waiting for me?

*My cell phone ringer is perpetually set on "Joy to the World." The Christmas carol, not the Three Dog Night Song. This is because I never, ever used to know when my cell phone rang. I could be holding it, hear it, and would wonder aloud, "Whose phone is that?" I am completely serious. Finally, I set it on "Joy to the World" because I have never heard anyone else's phone ring in that tone. Now, when my phone rings, I jump, terrified, and frantically try to silence it. Or, I don't hear it. Both reactions are incredibly annoying to my family. On Friday we were in my car on our way to dinner and my phone rang. Because we were in a closed-in place, I was jolted out of my skin and, panicked, tried to find my phone and wrest it off its clip in order to answer it. I was unsuccessful in both arenas:

Me: Dammit! My heart is racing! Feel it! And I still didn't get to it.

Sam: You're ridiculous. How hard is it to answer a phone?

Me: I hate this freaking clip. It's impossible.

Rick: Nance, it's just a phone. You always go crazy.

Me: I know. But I feel like I have to hurry.

Jared: She used to never even hear it. This is an improvement.

Rick: Somewhere between terrified and oblivious...that's where we need for you to be.

And that's what I've been aiming for all these years...

Adventures in Fine Dining: Or, Blogworthy Stuff from Macaroni Grill

On Saturday, Rick and I celebrated Sam's 19th birthday by going out to dinner. Without him. Or Jared. The boys were slated to go with us, but they were attending an NFL Draft Day party and ate like water buffalo there and ended up calling us and cancelling. So Rick and I said, "Fine. We'll just do it another time. Stay as late as you like and call us when you're coming home." We sort of stared at each other and then decided to go out anyway.

Then began the Ritual of Nance Fussing About Whether Or Not What She Had On Was Dressy Enough. Rick hates and detests this Ritual because it really never ends and there is not a satisfactory role in it for him to play. He strode purposefully off to his closet to toss something on that was not bristling with whatever bushes he had been trimming before and was, naturally, ready within minutes. Shortly after that came Act II of The Ritual, which is Now I Don't Look As Dressy/Casual As You Do which is followed by Rick's own Ritual, which is The Slamming of The Back Door And Heading To The Car Ritual.

So we end up at Macaroni Grill, one of the few restaurants around that still take reservations. They had an opening when we called at the spur of the moment and we were able to make it. We were seated, and let me just say this: my fears about proper attire were immensely, vastly unfounded.

Seated directly to my left was a family of three: the parents were probably about our age (late 40s) and they had a teenaged daughter. The mother was wearing the obligatory Mom Jeans and a shapeless sweatshirt, the color of which defies even my descriptive powers. I think it used to be blue, but was perhaps washed with black jeans, and is now dusty bluish-grey. Naturally, to complete the ensemble, she wore filthy tennis shoes with rundown heels so that she is walking perpetually askew. Her husband was wearing a trucker's hat--you know, the billed cap with the adjustable plastic band in the back. Thankfully, I didn't see the front so I didn't have to read a slogan like "If this truck's a-rockin' Don't come a-knockin'" or "Eat at the Y". He was also wearing jeans, sneakers, and a shapeless garment on top. The daughter had her hair pinned up with a variety of hair implements: clips, bobby pins, and a scrunchie. And, in addition to sweat, she was wearing a spandex volleyball warmup and her athletic shoes. Charming. My martini could not come fast enough.

Which leads me to my next blogbit: martinis at restaurants.

Okay, look. Stop effing around with my MARTINI. Here's the deal. Martinis are sophisticated. They are a classic drink. They are the epitome of the urbane, debonair cocktail. I embraced the martini several years ago. (Purists would claim that even I am pushing it by drinking vodka martinis instead of gin.) But don't go throwing a bunch of crap into my martini--like ice--and bring it to me! Don't sugar the rim of the effing glass like it's a freaking margarita! Don't put plastic stirrers into my MARTINI! Don't insult me by pouring the whole shebang into a goddam highball glass! Part of the allure and culture of the martini is in that gorgeous glass. God help you if you ever, ever put an umbrella in there. Now, I can get behind the Lemon Drop, the Appletini, the Cosmopolitan (aka the Pink Martini), and at Macaroni Grill, I even ordered the Pomegranate Martini. But they sugared the rim and put two plastic stirrers in there. I was apoplectic. Get a grip, bartenders and "mixologists" everywhere. The martini is sacred. Stop screwing around with it.

Finally, I have to speak about the 60-something woman who was dining with her female companion a few tables over from me. I wasn't looking at her on purpose--I simply could not help it. No one could. Her head was on fire.

Not literally, you understand. It was her hair color: a bright, neon/fluorescent orange. I suppose it was supposed to be something somewhat akin to her original haircolor in her youth. But she was still trying to work it. It was teased and shellacked into a sort of helmet-ish affair with carefully placed individual spitcurl bangs. Eventually, I could look away. But not before I took in her attire in all its glory: a Scooby-Doo sweatshirt. My eyes filled with tears. But not before I saw the 3-inch gold crucifix pendant on a chain prominently displayed outside said sweatshirt. I just knew she wore it to complement the metallic copper handbag I saw on the floor next to her chair. Later, when she tried valiantly to signal her waitress and succeeded in alerting the entire diningroom, she used her sequined checkbook wallet (which matched her purse!) to do it.

As you can probably imagine, dinner conversation did not lag. At one point, Rick said, "Why don't you just have some cards made? They can say Congratulations! You just made my blog! Go to http://deptofnance.blogspot.com/"

I think that might just be rude.

Why Brian Williams and Bill Clinton and My Husband Take Up Space In My Brain

It's strange the way the human mind works, and mine is no exception. As a matter of fact, mine works in such oddball and incomprehensible ways that I, at times, cannot even possibly explain its complex and twisting pathways, even to myself.

But, stuck as I am for a blogpost this week, I have to try.

I was reading my email, and in it was this astonishing comment from Ortizzle on my most recent Brian Williams Tie Report of 4-26:
Before you go psychotic, why not send him a beautiful, uh, say, forest green tie? I looked him up on Wikipedia: HIS BIRTHDAY IS MAY 5th! (When he will turn 48, by the way).

My first thought was: Omigod, my birthday is May 3rd and *I* will also be 48! This is some sort of cosmic sign that Brian Williams and I...but is this really how I want to be remembered: as the woman who became famous as the One Who Sent Brian Williams a Tie and Subsequently Was A Segment On The NBC Nightly News? But, how will I really be remembered? And do I really want all those people staring at me, remembering me anyway? I don't like people staring at me when I'm alive, let alone when I'm dead, and can't really do anything about it.

The rest of her comment said:
Anyway, you still have time. You could send it with an explanation of how you started the Tie Report, give him a link to DoN, etc., etc.

Well, that sounds really worky to me. It sounds like looking up the address, getting to the Post Office, which is always a parking and traffic nightmare in our town, and also like a bit of a pain. I'd have to carefully compose a really charming letter that would sound engaging, yet chiding, but without being too snarky. It sounds like at least two drafts, and I don't mean beer. And, remember, I have no online archives of The Tie Report, so I'd have to include hard copy transcripts, and some of them are...well, downright biting. Easy for Ortizzle to say, and honestly, she did offer to share any expenses (which was really sporting of her--I like her! I really like her! see Sally Field Oscar acceptance speech), but I'm just in this for the casual nature of it all. I fear commitment at this level; it's the man in me....

And speaking of men, I then branched out to: I wondered if perhaps I was starting to become a bit enamored of ol' BW on a more-than-style level. He's kind of my type: boyish yet intelligent, not traditionally handsome, and a sort of sardonic wit about him, especially last night at the MSNBC Democratic Candidates' Debate. At which, by the way, there was no appearance by Hillary Clinton's husband, Bill, who I will forever love, as all of my loyal DoN readers know. He was in Russia, but I don't fear for his health anymore. I recently saw him on tv and he looked great and said he was feeling fine. He said he would do whatever he was asked to do, and I'm assuming he meant by Hillary.

I think that's a great policy. More married couples should have it. If more husbands had that attitude, the divorce rate would probably be much lower. Personally, I don't ask much of Rick. Lately, it's been pretty standard: get in bed first so it's warm when I get there; get up first so I don't always have to be the one to make the coffee; decide what we're having for dinner so that all I have to do is make it. Is that so terrible? Basically three jobs:
1. Warmer
2. Maker
3. Decider
That last one...seems familiar....

DoN Re-Images Professional Sports

I'm not real sporty, but I do enjoy watching some athletic contests; mostly this is out of self-defense, sharing the home as I do with three men. But you all know that I do have a very definite fondness for fashion, and I am just irritated beyond all measure by some of what goes on, sartorially speaking, in the world of sports.

Let me get one sport out of the way right off the bat--how cute, a baseball reference--and that is football. I don't care about it, and they don't have much control over their uniforms. Not much opportunity for individual style there, although I do appreciate the flowing locks of such players as Troy Polamalu sticking out of the backs of their helmets. Other than that, they all look the same: tight jerseys, tight knee breeches, helmets, taped-on shoes. End of review.

Moving on.

The NBA (National Basketball Association) may as well change their name to the NCA--National Culotte Association. How these players can run down the court without a severe case of chafe-rash is beyond me. These men have on the equivalent of what was high fashion for me in the sixth grade when we were not allowed to wear shorts to school, but were able to skirt (!) the dress code by wearing the "shorts which looked like a skirt", the culottes. Look:

Is that ridiculous, or what?

Thank goodness the NB(C)A has eliminated the Ballerina Tights from the legal uniform. This look was popularized by Cleveland's own LeBron James when he had a leg injury and then other players started copying it because it kept their muscles warm and loose and for some, they felt it created a sense of confusion on the hardwood for the opposing players who were trying to pick up their defensive moves. Here it is, in all its fashion horror:

I know. Don't even say it.

At least the NBA coaches dress. They pace the sidelines in suit and tie. And some of them look wonderful. I have always admired Pat Riley for his well-cut suits, and the former coach of (pretty much everybody and) the Cleveland Cavaliers Mike Fratello for his ties.

Actually, let me insert here that the NFL coaches could take a lesson. They stalk the sidelines, some of them (most notably Bill Belichick), in clothes that look like they picked them up off of a frat house floor. What's up with that? I miss the days of Tom Landry, former Dallas Cowboys coach, who always looked dapper and well-dressed and wore the distinctive stroller hat.

Now to Major League Baseball, and let me tell you, I have some issues with these individuals. This league needs to come to a consensus right now, people, about PANTS. Let's decide: are we wearing the pants down, like jammies, or up, like traditional baseball pants? Because if we don't get some consistency soon, we are just out there, people, like a bunch of third-graders playing a pick-up game of stickball. I cannot take it anymore. I mean it! Personally, I like the pants-up look. It's baseball! The Great American Pastime! (Historically, anyway. Everyone knows that now, the Great American Pastime seems to be acting like you are the only one in the world and talking loudly on your cell phone whenever and wherever you like. But I digress.) If we wear the pants down, we might as well be playing golf. Pants up = baseball! Just look:

That's Grady Sizemore and Travis Hafner, both Cleveland Indians.

Okay, finally, golf. This is a sport which has really cleaned up its act, and I would like to think that I had something to do with it. I didn't, of course, but I would really, really like to think that I did. Golfers used to have carte blanche to dress in terrifying plaids and disgusting flat hats and knickers and banlon stockings. (R.I.P. Payne Stewart. I know you tried to be retro and bring this back and it was a bold statement. But it is telling that, in your absence, no one has taken up this Fashion Cause/Risk.) I just wish that the ubiquitous billed hat was not so...ubiquitous. I am so very tired of baseball caps being worn if the wearer is not fielding a grounder or popping up a fly ball. At least Greg "The Shark" Norman wears a different sort of headgear:

I find it refreshing and interesting. And I can definitely get behind a signature look. Tiger Woods, take a lesson.

Finally, in a completely selfish, yet public-service announcement sort of way, here is a picture of the completely unabashedly stylish and cute cheetah-print slingbacks I told you I bought on sale with my son's (the shoe store assistant manager) discount. Many of you asked about them right around the time of my road trip.

Did you note the detail of the black leather button on the sling? I love these. You cannot believe what they do for a black skirt and sweater outfit. Okay, you probably can.

Miss Independence

When I was eighteen I started out at the local community college; I was paying for my own education and I needed to work part-time as a bank teller to finance my degree. Like most college freshmen, I was sort of undecided: in my heart I knew I was born a teacher, but having had a string of furry pets during my teenage years made me flirt with the idea of veterinary medicine. Bravely, I enrolled in some science courses until I realized I had a tendency to faint at the sight of blood and that my hatred of math--present since birth--only intensified and deepened.

Never one to dawdle at decision-making, I quickly changed my major to secondary education, reasoning that I could become an English teacher and blend the best of both worlds: I could still work with animals, but there would be a lot less blood. (rimshot)

I was caught in such an odd, in-between world. I was in college, but I was living at home. I was working and earning my own money, but I was living at home and had a curfew. It was the strangest thing. I had always been self-motivated and independent, but it felt like I should be somehow different now. What was the answer?

Cigarettes.

That was the Big Blow I Struck For Independence. I started smoking.

Laughably, though, I couldn't really do it much. I couldn't smoke in the car, because technically, it wasn't mine, it was my parents'. And I couldn't really do it much in very public places because my mom and dad knew everybody. Mom was a teller for the same bank I worked for. Dad was a security guard at the steel mill in town and knew every person, every cop, every family, and everybody who went to our church. It was ridiculous. So, when did I smoke?

In class.

Back then, in the late seventies, we could smoke in class unless somebody objected. And no one did. So, for my eight o'clock Eighteenth Century British Lit. class--oh my god, what a yawner!--I'd stop in the cafe, get a huge coffee, grab my pack of Salem Light Longs or Kent Somethings (I forget, but they were in a silver and green pack, I think), and head to the back of the room. That class nearly killed me for a variety of reasons. Can you imagine drinking like 24 ounces of coffee and smoking probably 4-6 cigarettes while meandering through the likes of Alexander Pope, Jonathan Swift--and let's not forget Dryden. Dryden. I mean, I was supposed to read Tristram Shandy for that class. (I never did, you know. I just thumbed through it, came across those odd blank, black, and swirly pages and did an essay on those. BS'ed my way through it and Dr. O. thought I was a genius. I did, at least, have the grace to feel guilty about that.)

But I digress.

Back to My Rebellious Smoking. I smoked like a smudgepot during all my classes and felt very professorial and beatnik and English-studentish. I even gestured with my cigarette and used my empty styrofoam coffeecup for an ashtray. How pretentious I probably--no, surely--looked. But I wasn't the only one. There were lots of us, but I bet I was the only one doing it for a sense of dangerous independence. The only one who had to do it there because if she didn't, her mother or father would find out and probably ground her or lecture her and make her feel like a disappointment. Sigh.

But it didn't last. In November I met a boy, and that made me quit cold turkey. Because there was one thing I really detested about me smoking and it was this: I hated the way I looked when I was smoking. I thought it made me look hard and cheap and tawdry and trashy. I hated the way my mouth looked when I would draw in, and no matter how hard I tried, I never looked cool or sexy or even smart when I let the smoke out. So, when I met this boy, I just stopped. And that was it. Because I knew if I didn't, sooner or later, he'd see me smoking and it would be awful.

The funny thing is, that was almost thirty years ago, and every once in a while, I still get a yen for a cigarette. I completely understand people who try to quit, over and over again. I get it. But it looks ugly. And you know me. That's enough.

Spring Breakdown

It's been a sorta crummy Spring Break. The weather has been lousy: cold, windy, snowy and rainy by turns. I've retreated into a sort of Mushbrain Mode, and little by little, I have given up any semblance of adult dignity and household control. Yesterday, I didn't even get dressed and I washed my hair at 7:3o. P.M. Yeah.

Today, I knew I had hit bottom when I realized that I had been carrying on an entire dialogue in the kitchen with Jared in my Napoleon Dynamite voice. Complete with well-placed movie references. I stopped, chagrined.

Me: Oh my god. That's it. I am almost forty-eight years old and I'm doing the Napoleon Dynamite voice. This is all your fault. I won't have any friends left. No one will want to hang out with me anymore. No one.

Jared: Sure they will. Just be the one to bring the booze.

Visual Basic

Sometimes, a picture really is worth a thousand words. (Panel courtesy this site. )

Easter Greetings, Road Trip Wrap-Up, And A Cell-Phone Story

Happy Easter, and to those of you who do not celebrate the holiday, why, hello there!

And speaking of Easter, let me just say here and now that once again, the opportunity to use copious amounts of bunnies was wasted. The Cadbury people did not use the Cadbury bunny ad in which the bunny clucks like a hen and lays the creamy Cadbury eggs. No fluffy cute bunnies were used to advertise Easter sales on spring dresses or hats. No bunnies were paraded around for frikking anything. So, in an effort to give cute bunnies their due, here is an absolutely terrifyingly, mindbendingly cute bunny.

So there. And I have absolutely no segue into the next section, which is about my road trip. Except to say...

I made it through The Road Trip With Mother, sanity intact, and all with only two pairs of shoes. She was so well-behaved, Mom was, that I was almost ashamed of my pre-trip trepidation. True, there were a few moments when we had to explain her cell-phone to her again--she's had it since Christmas--, and we did have a few "Nance and Patti as Shirley and Evelyn Moments", but all in all, the old girl did all right. I think most of this was due to the fact that she was sitting in the backseat of the van and couldn't always hear all of the conversation clearly all of the time. But I could be wrong. But I doubt it.

I must say that I was deeply touched--deeply--by the concern some dear Dept. readers expressed in the comments regarding my taking of only two pairs of shoes. You were so very kind to be worried about this obvious fashion risk. But rest assured that I am nothing if not fashion savvy. I made sure that the two pairs I did take worked perfectly well with the choice of pants I packed. And, our motel was right next to an outlet mall that had several shoe shopping offerings should a footwear crisis emerge. None did, and sadly, our itinerary was so packed and the weather was so inhospitably cold that the opportunity never presented itself even just to browse. But fear not: I have a pair of incredibly stylish leopard print point-toe slingbacks on hold already here at home. On discount. You would not believe me if I told you the price, so I won't.

But I digress.

The trip to take my mom to see her sisters was a ton of fun. I re-met cousins and my cousins' daughters and the wives of cousins. There was a lot of talking and my uncle mixes a helluva martini. He and my aunt are incredibly good hosts and democrats. I love them. And they are good to my mother--way better than I am. Someday they may look under the bed in the guest room and discover that I have been living there quietly for months.

Finally, I want to share with all of you what I came home to. No, not a messy hellhole of a house. It was clean and wonderful and Rick and Jared and Sam were glad to see me. They even wanted to wait until I came home to color Easter eggs. No, it's this:

Jared came downstairs this morning, still a little sleepy. We said good morning and he started grinning. He even chuckled a little. We started laughing, too, even though we didn't know what was so funny. "What is it?" we asked. "I got up," Jared said, "and I always grab my cell phone first thing. I noticed that sometime in the night I had gotten a text message. So I retrieved it to see what it was. It was from Sam. It said, STOP SNORING."

Time to Go...But First--

Just a real quick post; the Ladies are almost here!

I've tragically overpacked, as all American Road Travelers are honor-bound to do. In an almost visceral rebellion to the restrictions of air travel, I've packed all full-sized toiletries and all of them are in gel form. All of them. I've packed two pairs of shoes, several sweaters, two pairs of pants, and probably ten pairs of underwear.

And I've rehearsed my Speech to Mother for my Entry into the Vehicle. It is to ensure a nice, pleasant trip for all of us. But especially for Me. Here it is:

Mom, let's get a few things straight from the get-go. Number one, I've already counted my grey hairs, and they'd better be the same at the end of this little journey. I have 31. Number two. I will be riding shotgun and will have ultimate control of the heater and the vents. Number three will cover the topics of conversation, and they are: not the grandchildren, not Bobby, (that's the brother of ours who she lives with), not previous road trips if they concern the fact that I became carsick, not the time I got lost in the new church coming back from communion, not the time Dad knocked me off the dock and I almost drowned because I forgot to close my mouth, and finally Number four, you are not to start calling us Evelyn and Shirley (her sisters) before we even cross the Pennsylvania state line. We clear on all of this?

That oughta take care of a lot.

See you Saturday or Sunday.

Road Trip!

Kids these days!

They'll never know the glory of the family vacation like the rest of us experienced it. Nowadays--oh does that word ever make me sound like my hair belongs in a bun at the nape of my neck, skewered by a couple of knitting needles--kids travel in luxurious vehicles complete with their own I-pod jacks, specially cooled cupholders, reclining seats, and (this really kills me dead) DVD screens that magically fold down in front of them. Honestly, add their own laptops and Xbox game systems, the screens of which are built into the seatbacks of Mom and Dad's captain's chairs, and they are actually unaware that they have even left home. I could puke.

Case in point: each and every morning on my 2.5 minute jaunt to work, I observe the Catholic Family Van next to me. It contains The Children on their way to St. Wonderful School, which is a neighborhood school. No one lives more than about 5 minutes away from this school. Yet, there is a DVD of Barney or Dora the Explorer on the flip-down screen inside this vehicle every single morning. Now, I ask you: can these juveniles not be ripped away from these simpering characters for five freaking minutes? Are they even aware that they are in a car? And a moving one at that?

When I was a kid, we used to go on a family vacation every now and then. If it was a long ride, say from our home in NE Ohio to our cousins' in Gettysburg, PA, we really planned for it. That was a 6 hour ride, at least. We got our crayons and coloring books, we made score sheets for all the state license plates, and for those of us out of all four siblings who didn't get headaches reading in the car, we laid in a supply of Archie comic books and some Encyclopedia Brown paperbacks. Mom made us a bed in the backseat by putting the coolers on the floorboards and topping it off with blankets, and we were ready. If we were awake, we looked out the window and noticed stuff out there!

I wonder about this new batch of kids. They can crisscross the country and not see a thing but Grand Theft Auto and DVDs of The Wiggles and Harry Potter. To them, the countryside looks just like their livingrooms: a screen, empty cans, snack packages, and their parents' mouths moving.

Which all reminds me...

I'm going on a road trip!

My mother has decided that she wants to visit her sisters in Gettysburg, so I'm back in the back seat and headed east. With my sister. We're taking the old woman and dumping her off for a month. I figure this is the best way to get back in her good graces for never calling her. Ever. This should be good for...say, at least 30 phone calls, wouldn't you say? Mom said, "I know how you hate long car rides, Nance, so do take some Nice Pills or something, won't you, before you leave?" She knows me so well, it's almost as if she were my mother or something. So, I've promised my sister I will wait until we get out of my driveway before I start whining and asking "How much longer?" and that I won't put my feet in her face or say, "I think I have to--blaaarrrp--" and throw up as I'm telling her I might have to. Because I'm a grownup now.

Seriously.

It'll be fun.