If It's Cheese, It Leads

As an English teacher, I like to think I appreciate a good metaphor. I find our second-floor school lounge computer's Star Wars-esque mousepad extremely satisfying, emblazoned as it is with the slogan Metaphors Be With You. This is why a recent news item has me somewhat stumped.

Sculptor Troy Landwehr has chosen a one-ton block of Wisconsin cheddar as his medium and reproduced John Trumbull's painting "Declaration of Independence." Now, if you're not sure what painting this is, simply open your wallet or purse and withdraw a two-dollar bill, turn it over, and look at the back. There it is. (Or, click this handy link! Never let it be said that I don't run a full-service operation here at the Dept.) Here is my issue. I don't happen to find this painting particularly cheesy. I mean, there is no attempt on the part of Mr. Trumbull to insert himself in the painting, or to make the signers look dramatic or florid, or to have anyone draw a sword or stand atop a chair or table as if making a heartfelt patriotic speech. The style is realistic, the skill level good, the balance fine, and the subject matter admirable. So...I don't get the whole Cheese Metaphor. Why this painting? Why cheese? I have to say, I'm even a little offended. Last year, Landwehr did a replica of Mt. Rushmore in cheese. Even worse! President Lincoln--Abraham Lincoln--is on Rushmore!

So, I am offering my assistance to Mr. Landwehr. I want to make sure he avoids the same pitfalls next year, those being A) offending American Patriots (me being one) everywhere; B) appearing to make fun of American historical giants (i.e. President Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson); C) completely missing the point of metaphorical humor/expression/irony.

Here are my suggestions for next year's subjects to be carved in the Cheese Of His Choice:
1. Dogs Playing Poker: These depictions have been the Epitome Of Cheesy Artwork forever. Let's face it. No one except college students, bachelors, or bachelor college students would hang these in their homes. The fact that they exist in a series is just incredible to me. Look, I think they're funny and all, but come on. Cheese factor is like...limburger.

2. Elvis On Velvet: Please. Do I really have to even talk about this? Fact: you can buy these off of individuals who park on the side of the road and have them draped over their cars. This one is especially unbelievable. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. Cheese factor...Velveeta on a toothpick served as an hors d'oeuvre. With ketchup and mustard mixed together and served as a dipping sauce. Blech.

3. Anything by Thomas Kinkade, self-proclaimed "Painter of Light." (AKA "Painter of Crap" and "Painter of Kitsch" and "Painter of I'm-The-Franklin-Mint-of-The-Middle-Middle-Class") Here is all you need to know about this guy: He is now painting NASCAR race scenes. He's gone from cozy little cottages with flowered gates and haloes of light to "43 mighty race cars thunder[ing] by as "The King" himself, Richard Petty, waves the green flag for the start of the 50th Running of the DAYTONA 500®." Doesn't matter; his stuff isn't art. He's finally realized his audience and he's exploiting them. Cheese factor: Low-fat Kraft American Singles.

4. Precious Moments figurines. Honestly, what is the deal with these things? Normally sane grownups have cartloads of these; moreover, they display them in their homes. Where other people will see them. Certainly I can understand if one has a gaggle of these doe-eyed aliens as the result of a childhood collection. But...it's time to put them away. They're juvenile, they're scary, they're...frankly pastel and fetishistic. Get over it. Not art. Not even close. And oh so very cheesy. Cheese factor: String cheese. Because IT'S FOR KIDS.

Okay, I feel like I've done my part. For Troy Landwehr, for art, and for America. Oh, and for cheese.

"Jug Of Warm Piss" Or Not, Tell Barack I'm Ready To Serve

So I'm watching Meet the Press on Sunday and Joe Biden is on and he gets The Question. It's inevitable, and I'm loving it because I love Joe Biden who is so bombastic and truthful that it's a little like watching a cross between Howard Dean and a pit bull on steroids go after a republican holding a raw Tbone. Here's the most germane part of the exchange verbatim:

MR. WILLIAMS: You interested in the vice presidency?
SEN. BIDEN: I am not interested in the vice presidency.
MR. WILLIAMS: You're not interested in the vice presidency.
SEN. BIDEN: I'm not interested.
MR. WILLIAMS: MEET THE PRESS, April 29th, 2007, Tim Russert asks Joe Biden, "You interested in being vice president?" "No, I will not be vice president under any circumstances." But in a different answer, you answered you'd have to say yes. I don't know, so...
SEN. BIDEN: Well, no. The bottom--look, the--when I was asked that question, I thought I was still going to be president. Now--number one, I, I am not interested in being vice president. I've let the candidate know. If the candidate asks me to be vice president, the answer is I got to say yes. But he's not going to ask me. Look, you cannot walk away...

Exactly, Joe Biden! And therein lies the point of my post today. If Barack Obama asked Joe Biden to serve as his Vice President of the United States of America, he would say yes. Who the hell wouldn't? When called upon to serve, you serve! This is your country we're talking about, ladies and gentlemen! In case you haven't noticed, it's in a big stinking mess, thanks to the republicans. It's time to roll up your sleeves and get to work on cleaning things up around here. Time to recall the words of a famous Democrat and put your own affairs aside and get on with the job.

This is exactly what I said to Rick and Jared as we watched MTP's segment. (Among other things. I also called Sen. Lindsey Graham an Old Lady Fussypants and referred to South Carolina's secessionist tendencies, but I digress.)

Me: You go, Joe Biden! Everyone would be Vice President. Or at least they should. I would!

Rick: You'd make a great vice president.

Me: I would be Barack's vice president in a heartbeat. Wouldn't you, Jared?

Jared: No.

Me: What?! Of course you would! You have to! This is your country we're talking about! If Barack Obama needed you, you would serve.

Jared: Nope. I would be a nightmare. I would tell everyone to go f*ck themselves.

Me: No you wouldn't. You would want to help. You're a student of history. You would care deeply about our country!

Jared: It sounds like a lotta work to me.

Me: Jared! Besides, you get a motorcade and all kinds of cool stuff.

Rick: Nance, it's perfect for you. You finally get to live in D.C., and have a staff and a driver.

Jared: Oh my god. Mom. You just had me drive you around the other day for six hours while you shopped for a purse. And you called and had Ali meet us at the mall to help. There's your driver and your staff. And you boss me around like nuts. You're already vice president.

Summer Sojourn Part I

Had an impromptu outing with my sister Patti yesterday, and I have to say it was a real shot in the arm. Shamefully, we don't get together nearly as often as I'd like, despite the fact that we live near each other and are terrific companions. We talk about absolutely everything, but she does like to get me fired up about The Politics more often than not. I think she knows that I have serious Perspective Issues, but I'm owning that; I embrace it, and even though she does take a serious risk hauling me around in her Brand New Car when I get all excited slagging off on the republicans in general and The Angel Of Death in particular, she knows that the Entertainment Value alone is well worth it.

So, yesterday, while we were leaving the tearoom and walking toward yet another Shoe Shopping Indiscretion (it's only June and I've already bought 6 pair--but none at full price!), I notice one of those "Support Our Troops" yellow ribbon magnets on the back of a van in the parking lot. "Geeze, I hate those frikking things," I say to Patti. "They're pointless and worthless. Not to mention meaningless. Do you know how many of those kinds of ribbony magnet thingies there are now?" We climb into her car and start driving. "There are approximately eleventy million," I continue. "There are pink ones for breast cancer. Light blue for prostate cancer. Puzzly ones for autism. Black for POWs. And by and large, none of them were bought with any of the money going toward that cause. Some of them even say things like 'I heart my rottweiler' or 'I heart the Gators.' And the whole thing came from some dorky song by Tony Orlando and Dawn about some convict in prison who was coming home from serving his sentence! Is this really the context we want for America's servicemen and women? And get this! I used to take them off the back of cars and throw them away! What do you think of that?!" I banged on the dash of her car for emphasis.

Patti looked over at me calmly and smiled. "I'm not surprised at all. And, for the record, I never liked that song."

*More of our outing in the next post.

EmilyCat Hits The Reset Button, And I Am Haunted And Taunted By Pet Longevity

As you know, EmilyCat is 18 and is now merely sticking around to annoy me. She is nearly deaf, walks as if she has no knees, has about half her teeth, suffers from occluded vision, is shockingly lax in her personal grooming, and detests everyone. She must be fed three times a day the most disgusting canned hideousness in the universe and I must add hot water to it and mush it up until it is the consistency of cake batter.

I know. How wonderful am I? Can you see my myriad of halos shining from there?

Anyway.

About a week and a half ago, Emily had "an episode." She started wavering and rocking and her back right leg went completely numb; she looked all sleepy and out of it (moreso than usual), and I thought this is it! Emily is going to go to that Kitty Condo in the sky! She was sort of whimpering and she couldn't get up the steps. I called for Rick who picked her up gently and cradled her and said all wet-eyed, "We'd better call The Vet."

"Are you KIDDING!?" I said. "This is Sunday. They will charge us eleventy billion dollars for an emergency call. Let's give her a little while and see how she does."

Cut to the chase: Emily ends up sitting on the floor watching Jared and his girlfriend Ali play Scrabble for three hours. She goes to bed. The next morning, I get up and Emily bounces out of bed, trots to her dish on all her pegs, and barks for her breakfast. She has not peed all over the floor since, and she is fine.

Gimme a break. This cat is going to live forever, and who the hell is going to take care of her while we are in Canada in July? Reminder: SHE HAS TO BE FED DISGUSTING MUSHY HOT FOOD THREE EFFING TIMES A DAY. AND GIRLFRIEND IS GOING WITH, SO NO HELP THERE.

Which leads me to the next part of my post. Which is better, in that it is about a bunny, but devastating in that it is about yet another annoyingly long-lived pet. Here he is:
This story was sent to me via email by Anali, who I'm sure was trying to be nice and had no idea that it was going to be a source of irritation.

This bunny, George, is now in the Guinness Book of World Records as the Oldest Living Rabbit. He is 14 years old, which is about 160 in human years. The average life expectancy for bunnies is 6-8 years. That's pretty good, but what makes it so extraordinary is to what George's owners attribute it. Joe Breton and his wife Amy joke that "the Pez and Doritos they fed George in college are part of the reason he’s still alive."

Oh, ha ha, you might say. But get this: Amy's profession? Veterinary technician. Possibly realizing that she might be coming off as, er...less than credible...Amy offered up this quote to the reporter: “I would never recommend for anyone to feed that to a rabbit but he was a college dorm room rabbit so maybe that helped with his longevity,” she said. Wow, Amy. Good save.

For the record, EmilyCat has never eaten a Pez and she does not like Doritos. And today, she woke me up at 7:23 for her breakfast. It did not matter that I wanted to sleep in. She is such a bitch.

And so far, the record holder for Oldest Living Cat is a Burmese called Kataleena Lady who lives in Melbourne, Australia. Kataleena Lady was born on March 11th, 1977. THIRTY-ONE FREAKING YEARS OLD. Holy crap.

"Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!"

Oh, my heart is broken.

A Few Little Happies; I Can Afford It!

I am officially on Summer Vacation 2008. It would, therefore, stand to reason that I am Blissfully Blissful. Happily Happy. I am at my leisure all day today, and gosh darn it! I'll be at it all day tomorrow as well! Try not to hate me.

In addition to just being able to Sloth Around (and, apparently, Randomly Capitalize), there are a few other things that are making me smile contentedly. It doesn't take much, I'll admit it. Thought I'd share:

1. A florist shop near me runs daily specials that they post on their spiffy electronic sign. They offer a free rose to people with certain names. Past recipients have been Donny and Marie and Fred and Wilma.

2. Jared, my English major son, is rabidly managing his fantasy football team. Its name: the Pencey Red Hats.

3. Also earning Brownie Points for Jared is his Kerry/Edwards sticker still steadfastly clinging to the back of his car.

4. Here are pics of my latest major shoe bargains. Got all three pair for less than the SRP* of the first, thanks in part to Jared's "Former Employee Discount." (*Standard Retail Price)

The orange snakeskin peep-toe pumps are actually rather coral, and they perfectly match a summer sweater I have. The kitten heelish flats have that cute little ruffle trio on them, so they look smart, don't they? Nice for skirts or pants. Honestly, if I told you what I paid, you'd throw up. So I won't. But trust me, it was next to nothing.

5. Here's what was making me happy three whole years ago when I first started up this blog. That stuff would still make me plenty happy today.

What's making you happy these days?

Reality Bites, And Someone In Marketing Really Should Have Thought Of That

So I look at the mail today and there's this huge blue envelope addressed to my husband and me. On the outside it says in big white letters: reality enclosed.

Yikes.

I'm thinking: This is not the best marketing tool. I mean, the last thing I need--really--is more reality. Now, it's not like I have this horrific Dr. Phil-worthy life or anything. But, come on. One thing I've got plenty of right now is reality.

1. Took EmilyCat, age 18 years, to the vet today. She is wheezing, coughing, and randomly peeing and pooping all over the place. Dr. examines her and Emily is a complete and total hissing evil bitch. Dr. says, "She is old. I could run a bunch of tests, but how much do you want to invest in an aging cat? Chances are she has urinary tract and kidney infections, but with her temperament, you're not going to be able to force a pill or dropper down her gullet three times a day. Let's see how she does in the next few weeks, then if you're both still unhappy, call me and we'll maybe make final arrangements at that time." We get home, and Emily pees on my snowboots in the basement which are two feet away from her pristine litterbox. Vet bill: $50.

2. Dinner tonight is all the foldy chips I can find from the bag of Lay's BBQ. I am disinterested in food. No one else is home for dinner.

3. It hit 90 today. I had school. In our 175-year old building. Which is un-airconditioned. Which would have been okay had it not been eleventy-billion percent humidity.

4. Got our "economic stimulus" (in reality, Angel of Death Bribery) check. In less than three days following, had to get new U-joint on Rick's vehicle, two new tires on Jared's, and received health insurance bill for Jared, who is no longer covered now on my policy.

5. I have a headache.

6. Gasoline here was at $3.96 a gallon for weeks. "Dropped" to $3.88 today and there was a bigass line! Perceived BARGAIN! Give me strength.

And this bank--who sent me the blue envelope--thinks that reality enclosed is going to get me all excited? Think again. If it said martini enclosed, then yes.

Report Cards: Results From The Quiz

It's time to pass back your virtual papers and let you see how you did on the quiz.
In a word: Yikes. Only one of you came close to passing, and that was Jenomena, who scored a 6 out of 10, which is a D. And Jen, as I tell my students, "You may be relieved, but not happy. No one may ever be happy with a D." :-)

If I got these results in my class, I would have to take a good, hard look at what occurred: Did I fail to teach the concept or material clearly? Was there a school event the night before this quiz? Or was there simply a general lack of concern on the part of the students? Hmmmmmmmmm....

In this case, I prefer to think that I am just a Woman of Mystery. A complex being of many facets and, like Thomas' English Muffins, I have lots of nooks and crannies. To my personality, not my complexion. Sigh. Let me just get to the answers before I really start something.

1. Living Room: The place where I spend a great deal of my time is decorated in--
A. Burgundy, navy, pine green. Cherry wood. Tastefully traditional, library/study decor. On the wall is a reproduction of this Vermeer painting.

I love Vermeer, and I found a place in The Netherlands where they train artists to paint in his style. I ordered this painting done in the identical size of the original for our 20th wedding anniversary. It is huge and gorgeous. My living room is very quiet and sedate and has all my hardback books on shelves, and I can sit and read and look at this painting.

2. Career: Before deciding upon teaching, I initially chose this degree path.
B. Veterinary medicine
I have always had an affinity for animals and had a variety of pets growing up, much to my mother's chagrin. I read the James Herriot series of books as a junior in high school and resolved to be a veterinarian. Shortly into my college career, I discovered a very large aversion to the sight of blood and an even bigger aversion to math. I decided to continue with an education career. I figured I could still work with animals but there'd be a lot less blood. Ha ha, get it? (insert rimshot.)

3. Name: I have always hated my name. Detested it. If I could change it, I'd be named--
C. Samantha

This name has always held such cache for me. My grandmother used to use it infrequently as a nickname for me, and I would live on those moments for days. When I found out that it was fleetingly considered as my birth name, I almost wept. Why oh WHY had they not given it to me? I once heard a story that I was named after the song "Nancy with the Laughing Face" because when I was born, I was smiling. I'm not sure I believe that, and I'm not sure it helps. My name does not suit me.

4. Politics: True or False?

I have never voted Republican in my life, and I am damned proud of it.
Oh, I have voted for a couple of them in my life on the local and state level. Back before The Election of the Dark Times (2000), I always voted for The Person and not The Party. And, someday, I may again, especially if I know the candidate personally. But these days, even if the candidate were Satan himself, I'd probably vote Democrat.

5. Trivia: At the grocery store, I:
C. Get asked advice in the Italian Foods section
As goofy as this sounds, it happens to me frequently. My coloring is such that I am often mistaken for someone of Italian heritage, and if I am lingering in the Italian Foods section at all, shoppers will ask me about products or recipes. Sometimes I just come clean and say, "I'm happy to tell you what I use, but I'm not Italian." Sometimes I just answer their questions without referring to the Italian thing at all.

6. Preferences: I chose the color of my hybrid car, and it is:
C. Black
I like black cars. Oh sure, red cars are snazzy and sporty, but I don't feel like a red car person. And I know darn well that I'd hate a yellow car after about two weeks. A black car always looks a little more expensive and elegant than any other car, I think.

7. Talents: I once won second prize for my:
C. poetry
Okay, first of all, if it were my pesto in competition, it would win first, hands down! But anyway, yeah, I submitted to a tri-county competition and got second prize. The judge was a pretty big deal poet himself, and there were lots of entries. I was happy about it and glad that I practiced what I preach to my creative writing students. At least once, anyway. LOL.

8. Issues: I am fundamentally opposed to:
A. the death penalty
I don't feel that this should be "our" job.

9. Faults: Rick wishes I would
B. Swear less
According to Jared, the answer is really "all of the above," but he only lives here part-time. What does he know? Since we got the hybrid, my braking is fully under control. And since Rick sleeps like one dead, and I do NOT snore (but admit to breathing heavily at times), the answer is clearly "swear less." My profanity is...well...unrestrained. I have to keep my mouth so leashed while at school when, obviously, there are so many curse-worthy moments, that when I am at home it's like taking the top off a pressure cooker. I am trying to use the eff-word less, but it's hard. Really hard.

10. Pet Peeves: I really dislike
A. driving, grading papers, grocery shopping
I really dislike all of these things intensely. Rick sometimes accuses me of marrying him simply because he does not mind driving. This could, in fact, be somewhat true. One of my best friends loves to drive, as do both of my children. This is an alarming trend, come to think of it. Grading papers is a horrid, terrible, awful, heinous, and tedious job. Sadly, it is a pretty big part of being a teacher. When I was a little girl, I used to get red crayons and grade pages in coloring books and old storybooks. I thought grading papers would be the most funnest part of being a teacher. Apparently, I was brain-damaged at some point in my youth. I blame living near the steel mill. And grocery shopping? Please. No viable return on your investment. Think about it. And it's ALL WORK. You walk around and find it; you load it; you unload it; you pay a ton for it; you drive it home; unload it; put it away; then you spend time figuring out what to do with it, then do it. THEN YOU FLUSH IT ALL AWAY AND START OVER.

Anyway.

Those are the Nance Quiz results. Did you learn anything new and exciting? I didn't think so. Guess I'll get back to regular programming. I knew this Sharing Thing was not my style.

The Nance Quiz

Every once in a while, I read someone's blog and feel bad that I am not very share-y. Lots of bloggers write about their struggles with some pretty intimate stuff. Or, at the very least, their day-to-day battles with illness, toilet training, or divorce. Some even post their real pictures on the Interwebs whereas I post a funny picture of a cat with sunglasses. It is a real cat, but it isn't me, and it isn't even EmilyCat or the late TravisCat, neither of whom would have put up with such shenaningans. And while it is true that I do write about my actual husband and sons and career and mother and sisters and and life events every once in a while, I am far more private than many (or dare I say, most) bloggers.

Part of it stems from the fact that I am just private by nature, and part of it is due to my job as a teacher. It's just too easy for teenagers + Interwebs = disaster. And I started my blog as a way for me to keep my writing skills sharp and to practice what I preach to my students; that is, writers write. So, I didn't necessarily start it as a means for catharsis or anything like that.

Having said all of that--I decided to offer up a little bit of me in a quiz form. I do this for my students after they've made Me a Topic of Conversation--often, they find me so incredibly Mysterious that they simply cannot Go On, and this just gets it all out of their systems. By no means do I imply that this is the case with all of you: that you are all sitting Out There paralyzed with befuddlement about the minutae of My Life. Quite honestly, I'm stuck for a post, and I thought it might be fun to find out what you imagine I might be like after just having read me for the past few years!

Shall we begin?

1. Living Room: Is the place where I spend a great deal of my time decorated in--

A. Burgundy, navy, pine green. Cherry wood. Tastefully traditional, library/study decor. On the wall is a reproduction of this Vermeer painting.

B. Sand, ecru, black. Chrome and glass. Clean lines, modern/industrial decor. On the wall is a reproduction of this Mondrian painting.

C. Olive, bittersweet, dark mustard. Mahogany wood. Whimsically eclectic, blend of antique/personal touches. On the wall is a reproduction of this Rousseau painting.

2. Career: Before deciding upon teaching, I initially chose this degree path.

A. Library science

B. Veterinary medicine

C. Fashion design/marketing

3. Name: I have always hated my name. Detested it. If I could change it, I'd be named--

A. Mary

B. Emily

C. Samantha

4. Politics: True or False?

I have never voted Republican in my life, and I am damned proud of it.

5. Trivia: At the grocery store, I:

A. Sneak and eat grapes

B. Park in the handicapped slots

C. Get asked advice in the Italian Foods section

6. Preferences: I chose the color of my hybrid car, and it is:

A. Yellow

B. Red

C. Black

7. Talents: I once won second prize for my:

A. pesto

B. pond

C. poetry

8. Issues: I am fundamentally opposed to:

A. the death penalty

B. abortion

C. both a and b

9. Faults: Rick wishes I would

A. Brake sooner

B. Swear less

C. Stop snoring

10. Pet Peeves: I really dislike

A. driving, grading papers, grocery shopping

B. litterbox duty, grading papers, bedmaking

C. litterbox duty, loading dishwasher, folding clothes

Okay, so see how you do. I'll update with the answers once any interested parties have had a chance to give it a try. If you are readers who have specialized knowledge of any of the answers, don't cheat or tip your hand. Play nice! And if you can think of any other interesting questions you want me to answer, it doesn't hurt to ask. I suppose I can tell you what color the curtains are in my kitchen....

Find Yourself Some Bunny To Love

About two years ago, I was standing in the checkout line of one of my students. Jen was a quiet, friendly girl who had no idea that her next sentence was about to change my life in a very profound and meaningful way. Here is what she said to me:

"Oh, Mrs. D., you know, you can pick up any of the bunnies anytime! You don't even have to be buying one. As long as the top is off the little display area, you're free to pick them up and hold any one of them."

Suddenly, it was as if there was a tectonic shift below my feet. Continents collided, oceans spilled their briny and finny contents onto arid sands and arctic shelves alike. The earth held still, no longer rotating upon its axis while black holes swallowed light years' worth of galaxies and celestial bodies of planetary relics. The jet stream halted its flow and not a breath of air moved, not even a whisper of a breeze; majestic eagles and mighty condors gliding on its updraft began to plummet to the ground, saved only by genetic instinct bred of generations. A small child at a church carnival in Boise wept as her scoop of raspberry ripple ice cream fell off its cone and plopped on the hot pavement.

My pen jerked an extra "S" and I wrote "Pet Supplies Pluss" in the Pay to the Order of blank on my check. "What!?" I said, snapping my head up to meet her gaze.

"People do it all the time," she said. "That's why they're in there."

From that moment on, I have been a shameless bunny visitor to my local pet store. I go there simply to pet and hold bunnies. And I don't care who knows it.

Oh, sure, I used to pretend I was there to actually buy a bunny at first. But only if someone came by or seemed to be looking at me. And, yes, I used to actually buy something when I went. I cannot tell you how many separate cans of cat food or cat toys I used to buy. But after a while, I just went there for no other reason than to hold and pet bunnies. The nice thing about our pet store is that it is in the same shopping strip as a Target and a grocery store and a Home Depot. That makes it way easy to simply stop off and grab some bunny time.

Feeling depressed? Go and hold a bunny. Feeling bored? Go and pet some bunnies. Too cold outside to do much of anything? Go hold bunnies. Too far away from payday to feel good about shopping for shoes? Go grab some bunny time. Spring break this year was, as you know, in March. In Northeast Ohio, March is Wintertime. Spring break made me want to slit my wrists. It was cold, dark, depressing, and awful. I basically camped out with the bunnies.

Now, you might be saying, "Nance, why don't you just go ahead and buy a frikking bunny already?" One word: RICK. The husband is not on board with a bunny. He has basically said that until Emily (the blind toothless 18-year old cat) dies, there will be no more pets. (Interesting note: He tried claiming the six outdoor pond fish as pets. I maintain they do not count. Can I get a ruling?)

Jared claims that soon, the pet store people will be "on to" my bunny habit and will put a stop to it. That they'll one day come up to me and say, "Excuse me, ma'am, but you can't just keep coming in here semi-weekly and pick up the bunnies and cuddle them and then leave. In the first place, it's just weird. In the second place, at some point, you should buy one or at least have the intent to buy one. Finally, we are not licensed therapists." After I tell Jared to shut the hell up, I tell him not to worry. For, it is at this point that I plan to play my trump card and this it is: I will tell them that I am a Bunny Whisperer.

Mainly because I believe that this is true. All bunnies love me. Not once has a single bunny struggled or resisted me. They all snuggle up to my neck and chin and relax completely. I speak softly and calmly to them. And when I leave, they all look sorry to see me go.

How does that old song go? "You're no bunny till some bunny loves you...you're no bunny till some bunny cares...."

In Which I Worry Whether I Am A Bad Person Or Just Have A Sick Sense Of Humor

All right! I guess I just need a little bit of reassurance. I mean, as many DoN readers may recall, this recovering Catholic has already gotten over the whole Hell Thing. So, it's not like I'm worried about Eternal Damnation or anything. It's more of a question of whether or not...well...I don't want anyone to think I'm not a Good Person.

Let me explain.

It's this. I'm sorry, but holy crap. I laughed like hell when I read it. Just the lead line alone: "A 50-year old woman from Toledo, Ohio is recovering after a pelican dove down toward her and slammed into her face while she was swimming in the Gulf of Mexico." Are you kidding? A pelican incident? This pelican slammed into her face.

Now I'm not saying that having a full-grown seafaring bird headed straight for your face is not scarytime; it has to be. But come on. There is no way to be prepared for this when you read it in the newspaper, which is where I first saw it. I was in my jammies and robe, holding my mug of coffee, just minding my own business perusing the Cleveland Plain Dealer when all of a sudden, completely out of nowhere, this story slammed into my face!

With, as the news story says, "intense impact."

I once met a pelican. It was in Florida, at a little place called St. John's Pass. It flew down onto a dock rail and perched picturesquely on a post. A bunch of my ladyfriends and I took turns posing next to it. It just stood there, very pleasantly acquiescing to our photo session. It did not slam into our faces, nor did it even look like it wanted to. It did, however, smell terrible. It smelt of rotted fish and seaweed, which is understandable. Once our photo session was over, we wandered away from the pelican and it turned around and faced the water. I'm sure it later flew away, and probably not into anyone's face.

Sadly, the pelican in the news story did not have such an idyllic story. It died from the accident. The woman, Debbie Shoemaker, has a three-inch gash which was closed with 25 stitches. But that errant pelican gave its life.

Yet, I can't stop laughing about the whole thing. And the news stories do not help. One report felt it necessary to point out that Debbie was "not trying to attract any attention or anything of that nature." Were there pictures of fish on her bathing suit? Did she look vaguely codlike?

Sigh.

This is funny. Isn't it? Or am I just a Bad Person?

Random: proceeding, made, or occurring without definite aim, reason, or pattern

Holy Crap. It's been a week, and I haven't posted. I'm such a slug and a slacker, and it's not like I haven't felt my responsibility most keenly; I have. Have you ever had so many ridiculous hormones performing scenes from Hamlet and A Streetcar Named Desire in your body at once that you just can't stop feeling strung out long enough to accomplish anything beyond the basics?

Really? Really, you have? Then you are my very best friend right now. Let's get hammered.

Anyway. Here's some stuff.

Jared, my enormous child (and you just go ahead and take that any old way you want to) moved home from college in a heap of boxes and laundry last week. He is an English lit. major, and here is an example of the discussions we are now having at the Dept.:

Me: ...so how did that paper finally turn out?

Him: You will be thrilled to know that I employed the semicolon copiously in it. I did it for you, actually.

Me: I told you! The semicolon is the hallmark of an accomplished and mature writer.

Him: It's vastly overrated. It's extraneous in the extreme.

Me: You're full of it.

Him: What!?

Me: You heard me. I'm maligning your veracity. What will you do about it?

Him: I'll...I'll...gesticulate maliciously! (makes threatening motions at my face)

Me: You look like you're vogueing.

My birthday was on the 3rd. I turned 49. I hate birthdays like that: 29, 39, 49. They sound fakey. They sound like I'm trying to lie and hold on to some last vestige of an age that I'm not really still at. I really am 49; I'm not actually 50 and claiming to still be in my forties, hanging onto that decade. So now, when people say something about my age or it comes up and I say, "I'm 49," I might get that sad little look, or that knowing wink wink nudge nudge look that says, "sure you are, honey; sure you are." Sigh. Bullshit. I'd rather be 50 and get it over with. FIFTY. Okay. Maybe not. That sounds pretty serious. F I F T Y. Geeze. I'll start cultivating a fake British accent or something to convey that gravitas. I have a year to work on it.

Finally, I haven't done a haiku for the longest time. I really like them, too. They're short, they force you to economize your thoughts, and they really encapsulate an issue. Here's a political one. Do flex your own haiku muscle in Brainstorms.

Only Democrats

Could screw up an election

After eight Bush years.

What Do Nance and Old Faithful Have In Common? Every Once In A While, We've Gotta Blow.

This may very well be the result of some Serious Hormone Influence, or it may be the Aftermath of Post-Essay Grading Stress, but I'm just a wee bit grumpy and in need of a catharsis. I'm going to see if a bit of a brain enema can't "mellow me out," as we used to say back in the old days.

Just as a sort of postscript to my previous post regarding ladies who dine out, here's another little irritant that frosts my cupcakes. My sister and I were recently on what has now become our Annual Mom Haul, wherein we transport our mother across state lines to visit her sisters in Pennsylvania (state nickname "Home of Patsy's Relatives"), and we stopped this time to transfer custody of Patsy to her sister Shirley at a Denny's conveniently located halfway between Cleveland and Gettysburg. We all trooped in and had a little lunch before resuming our journeys homeward. While waiting for our food, I glanced around and saw a woman pull a huge emery board out of her purse which was sitting on the table. This alone was enough to horrify me. Like many women, I often have no choice but to put my purse on any number of unsanitary surfaces in any given week. There is, therefore, no freaking way I am ever putting it on the same surface from which I plan to eat or drink. No way. Then, of course, she starts to FILE HER NAILS VIGOROUSLY AT THE TABLE. IN A PUBLIC RESTAURANT.

All right. Yes. It is only a Denny's. I am aware. But it is still a public place and a restaurant. This is when I think it should be permissible for me to make a Citizen's Arrest. Immediately.

Oh, but it gets even worse.

She then, for some reason, proceeded to take out, from the depths of her enormous bag, a smaller purse. It was a fish-scale sequined clutch purse with a chain strap. It was all I could do not to A)weep, and B)call the police immediately. I mean, come ON. She was wearing a tee shirt and a hoodie. In a Denny's. Off of the Interstate.
Does anyone feel my pain? Anyone? It was at that moment that I felt very keenly the fact that Denny's does not serve alcohol.

The second thing I want to vent about is this news item that I heard about last night. No doubt many misguided young women are hopeful and excited about it. They are, alas, young and that accounts for their...misguided-ness. Just because researchers think that they may one day soon develop a birth control pill for men does not mean that women are off the hook! As the mother of two young men in their twenties, I know of what I speak. Here is a typical conversation between me and either of my sons regarding him taking any daily medication necessary for any aspect of his wellness:

Me: Hey, did you take your pill today?

Him: Huh?

Me: Your pill. Did you take it?

Him: Umm....I think so.

Me: Well, you have to! It's important. The doctor said you have to take it, and the same time every day.

Him: Mom! I know!

Me: But you don't even know if you took it or not.

Him: Jesus! Let me go count!

Me: Oh. My. God. How ridiculous.

Him: (distant) Shit!

Me: What!? What happened?

Him: They fell in the sink and some went down the drain. I hope you're happy now.

And trust me: the threat of an impending pregnancy will add little incentive. Guys just don't think that far in advance, especially if there is still female birth control as an option. The only way a male birth control pill will work is if they put something in it to make his penis bigger. Then they'll take it.

And you know I'm right.

The Phenomenon Of Ladies Who Lunch

Allow me to say at the outset that I love being a woman. I love the fact that I am talky, feely, complex, and actually do need five pairs of black shoes because yes, they are all totally different and no, I cannot wear those black shoes with that dress, how stupid.

Actually, I just went and counted and I have nine pairs. But I digress.

My point--and I do have one--is that I embrace my sex. I like being female and I wouldn't have it any other way. But there is one area where women in general need to get it under control, and that is when they're out lunching together and the bill comes.

It's absolutely horrific the convoluted calculating and dissection that occurs. It's like listening to the most devious and boring word problems ever concocted by wicked Dickensian headmasters!

"Now, Beora, you had the small dinner salad, but you also had part of my crabcakes. If the crabcakes were $8.50 for three of them and you had one, how much would that be? Don't forget that I'm also leaving a 15% tip. Oh, wait. I had the olives out of your salad. Do you think 75 cents is fair for them? I'll tell you what. Just take the tax off and we'll call it even." This is the only time when many women will willingly resort to math! Without calculators!

Rick and I were dining at The Cheesecake Factory (aka The Coldest Restaurant Ever) the other night and there was a table crowded with women next to us. I knew in my heart it was Perfect Blog Fodder, so I was very careful to discreetly observe and eavesdrop. That poor waitress. As the bills came and were passed around, the very very expertly coiffed woman in the linen cropped pants and French manicure called her over. (I stole a look at her plate: she ate only the chicken out of her sandwich and most of her fries. I also think the avocado didn't make the cut.) The waitress leaned over. "We," and the woman elegantly indicated her friend across the table in a sort of Royal Wave motion, "were wondering. Could you possibly re-do our checks and split the avocado spring roll appetizer between them? Thanks so much," she said, before the waitress had even indicated that she would.

Please. The cost of this woman's moisturizer is probably thirty times what those effing spring rolls would have set her back. I almost leaned over and said to the waitress, "Miss, you look very tired. Please don't put yourself to so much trouble for something so trivial. Put the cost of that appetizer on my bill and these ladies may consider it my treat." But I knew it wouldn't come out that way.

What is it about us that makes so many of us go through this Tortuous Ordeal? Why must we struggle so? If we are the takers, do we fear being under obligation to a possible Mean Girl who will hold it over us or snark about it behind our backs later? "You know, Beora snarfed down one of my crabcakes and I never saw a penny for them. I ate a few of her olives, but really--what's that, like 75 cents? That's so typical of her. Her kids are the same way; they come over all the time but never ask my kids over there."

Or, if we're the givers, do we worry that we'll be taken advantage of time and time again and seen as a Goodtime Girl? "Don't worry if you don't have enough money! Just come along anyway! Velma will cover any part of the bill that's left after we all 'chip in' nudge nudge wink wink. "

Aren't these women we're lunching with supposed to be our friends? Can't we just "do lunch" the way guys do and simply order food, eat it, then everyone toss money at the bill when it comes, knowing it will all even out at some eventual point sometime in the future? Isn't there a trust factor here? More importantly, even, why does math have to get all involved? Why must we Woman It Up?

Tales From The Front: Two Girls, A Tongue, And A Pun

Trying to get the final edition of the literary magazine out before we all lose our sanity has proven to be a major challenge for my staff and me. Both my poetry and fiction editors are seniors; they are inundated with pretty heady stuff this time of year: college scholarships, bigass papers, prom, the musical, and naturally, each is also an officer in at least one other school organization. Beth and Michelle also work at least 15 hours a week at an outside job, take all honors and Advanced Placement courses, and as a result of all this, are chronically sleep-deprived.

For the past couple of weeks, we've been stealing periods here and there and time after school to read submissions, edit, type, and do the graphics for what will be our last issue. I ply them with chocolate and sneak them coffee from the lounge when their energy shows signs of flagging.

Recently, Michelle was reading a piece of short fiction and crabbing about the typos and spelling. "Why is this so hard?" she moaned. She picked up my red pen and circled the word "tong" in the story. "Tongue!" she yelled. "Tongue! Not tong!" Angrily above the misspelled word, she wrote t-o-u-n-g-e.

"Er, Michelle?" I said. "It's t-o-n-g-u-e."

Michelle looked at me, stunned. Then she folded her arms on my desk and buried her face in them. From the depths I heard a muffled voice, "Oh God. Maybe I should take a writing course before I sign up for this gig."

On Friday, Beth sat down at my computer to do the page layouts. Suddenly, she was overcome with a fit of sneezing. Michelle and I blessed her a few times, but soon it became not only tedious, but pointless. She was going to sneeze, that's all there was to it, and we had work to do. Finally, I said, "Geeze, Beth! What the heck?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. D.," she said. "I have some kind of allergies. I'm not sick."

"Well, you're really pissing us off," Michelle pointed out. "We have a crapload of work to do, and you're no fun."

"Honestly," I agreed. "It's very selfish. Here we are, stuck on a Friday with all this junk to read and edit, getting punchy, and you're sneezing for apparently no reason."

"It happens every time I go into a building," Beth said. "When I'm outside, I'm fine."

"What the heck kind of dumb allergy is that?" Michelle sneered.

"Apparently, Beth has an edifice complex," I said triumphantly, and high-fived my appreciative staff.

I'm gonna miss these girls.

Somewhere In Here There's A Great Pun On The Staff Of Life Or Teaching Being My Bread And Butter

So, I'm getting ready to give my daily quiz in 5th period sophomore Honors class. They're so well-trained; all of them already have everything off their desks except the requisite half-sheet of paper and either a pen or a pencil. I scan the room and note their eager, anticipatory faces. They've all read the three assigned chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird, or at least if they haven't, one or two of them have downloaded the chapter summaries from Sparknotes.com and are hoping to maybe get a couple of the basic plot questions right. I'm just about to read the first question aloud when something odd catches my eye.

I turn to my right and look at the desktop of Ben, my little Alternative Rocker Boy. I absolutely love Ben, who is emo-skinny, has gorgeous red hair in a very stylish straggly cut, plays drums and bass guitar in two bands, and says, "thank you" every time I hand him a test, a graded paper, a quiz, or a worksheet. He also has dimples and very cool glasses and the kind of ad-agency printing for handwriting that you just know means he is creative and mature for his age and will probably end up having an awesome job like managing a charity co-op art gallery for musicians in SoHo with Bono, Madonna, and that one guy who started Live Aid on its board of directors. (Crap! Who the hell is that guy?)

Anyway, back to Ben and the thing that catches my eye. He has something on his desk. This is highly unusual because Ben, for all his individuality, is not a rulebreaker. I stare at it quizzically. Because...it is half a loaf of Italian bread. On his desk. Just sitting there. Not even sliced or anything. So, I just sort of look at it, thinking for a few moments. And Ben is just patiently waiting for me to begin the quiz, but everyone else has followed my stare and is also looking at The Bread. So, I smile a very small smile, and Ben smiles back at me--a lovely, winning, gorgeous Ben-smile.

"Expecting a flock of ducks?" I inquire.

Ben looks at me, very serious. He says, "No." Sadly, all of them are used to my frequent bouts of random attempts at not only humor, but odd ways to introduce discussion topics. Doubtless, he thought this could be either.

I press on. "Perhaps a butter delivery, then?"

Ben tilts his head, rather like a dog whose owner has given it an unfamiliar command. Again, the smile. "No."

(The rest of the class, it should be noted, followed this exchange visually as if it were a ping-pong match. At this point, they all turned to me.)

But I'm in agony:

What now? Is Ben toying with me? Does he really not know what I'm talking about? Can I risk another one-liner here, or am I pushing it? The totally cool thing, of course, is to simply drop it and give the quiz. That way, my cool is intact and so is Ben's. But... But... I have to know the story behind that damned Bread!

I gave the quiz.

If Amazon Thinks I'm Gay, What About Netflix?

When I discovered Amazon.com, I thought I had found the perfect relationship. I could sit in my little office in my comfy rolly chair and browse books, books, books to my heart's content. Then, I could order whatever of these lovely books that I wanted--in hardback!--simply by clicking with my mouse. Moreover, my cute UPS guy with the dark hair and lovely tan skin would bring them right to my door!

Naturally, a bill would eventually come, but there was FREE SHIPPING, and who could possibly bitch about that? It was a wonderful, idyllic time.

And then, I ordered two books that changed everything. They were: Tipping the Velvet by Sara Waters and Truly Wilde by Joan Schenkar. The first one was a Dickensian style novel about a girl who works in a fishmonger's house and meets a male impersonator. The second was a biography of Oscar Wilde's niece. I had read reviews of them both, read excerpts of both, and found them well-written and engaging. I didn't know it then, but the technobots at Amazon were clicking and clacking away at my destiny.

The next time I signed in to Amazon, the little banner greeted me, telling me they had recommendations for me, as usual. And what recommendations they were! I could tell by the titles of some of them that they were, as Amazon tags them, definitely lesbian literature, lesbian erotica, and lesbian fiction. All intermixed among my Salem Witch trial book recommendations, classic literature recommendations, nonfiction recommendations, history (mainly Lincoln) recommendations, and my husband's construction and computer book recommendations (Rick uses my Amazon account). Clearly, Amazon and I were having relationship issues. Amazon.com thought I was a lesbian. Or, a lesbian witch carpenter. With a history fixation.

This makes me start wondering about Netflix. Which Rick and I just signed up for about a month or so ago, once he realized that I was going through serious House and Project Runway withdrawal. We sat down together and, since I am the one who is most savvy and current with movies, I started adding movies to our "queue" (which is a fancy schmancy Netflix word for "waiting list." BFD.) We noticed right away an alarming preponderance of George Clooney movies at the top of said queue. Michael Clayton, Syriana, Good Night and Good Luck are like, in the first 5 movies we've rented. So, I'm wondering...Is Netflix going to make assumptions about me based upon what looks like an obsession for George Clooney? Am I going to be inundated with recommendations for the Oceans numerical series? Will I be hounded with offers to queue up the Facts of Life television series? So, I checked in with my Netflix account just to see how judgy it was.

Oh, Netflix. How I love you so!

Netflix doesn't base our relationship on just three flings with George Clooney! NO! It takes into consideration my other ratings, my entire queue, even my moods. It knows my preference for Daniel Day-Lewis and big, epic costume dramas. It even seems to know that it was Rick and not I that queued up Walk the Line and Falling Down, and Netflix isn't holding that against me! It still remembers that we watched and loved Once, and it recommends A Passage to India and Benny and Joon. It remembers that I loved Fast Times at Ridgemont High and laughingly recommends Sixteen Candles. Netflix knows that I'm an 80s girl! Does Netflix remind me that Elizabeth: The Golden Age should soon be in my queue? It is to laugh!

Amazon and I--we have some issues to work out. It's hard to get all my books in hardcover now, and I don't like having to trust someone else. I like sticking with what I know. I'll get it together. But Netflix--it's still got the bloom of a new, exciting relationship. And it's so easy and carefree! We completely understand each other. I think this might last a long, long time.

My Latest Obsession: I Stand Up For Mary Lincoln

"Certainly ill luck presided at my birth--certainly it has been a faithful attendant." --fragment in a letter from Mary Lincoln, November 1869


You would have to look hard in America's history to find a woman more roundly condemned and more valiantly championed, both in her own time and more than a hundred years later, than Mrs. Abraham Lincoln. She was, in many cases, a woman before her time, intensely interested in politics and highly educated, well-versed in banking and real estate, and no stranger to international travel and the ways of European society. She was fluent in French, adept in all social situations when she chose to be, and so charming that her brother-in-law once remarked that she could "make a bishop forget his prayers." True, her moods could be mercurial, but that was to be expected for the "middle child" whose mother died in childbirth when Mary was only 6 1/2.

Her father remarried quickly, too, bringing a cold, distant woman into the house who immediately began on a second family of nine more children. Mary left for boarding school as soon as possible, where she excelled. Soon, she was able to escape permanently to Springfield, Illinois, to her sister's house, where she met and--against her sister's wishes--married Abraham Lincoln. It had not been an easy engagement, however; at one point, they had a 6 month estrangement which proved almost suicidal for Abraham. Due to the intervention of well-meaning friends, they had several meetings and the engagement was salvaged. One year later, their first son Robert was born. Three years later, Edward, who they called "Eddie" was born.

Mary, who believed that homemaking and mothering were the most noble of callings, set about making her home a haven for her children and her often absent husband, whose job took him away from his family. Nineteenth-century housekeeping was brutally hard and nonstop. And the lack of sanitation and refrigeration made illness a constant companion and threat. In 1849, Mary lost both her beloved father, for whom her eldest was named, and her grandmother. At the beginning of the following year, in February, her beloved son Eddie died of "consumption". And Mary went into paroxysms of mourning. In these Victorian times, women were expected to bear up under grief, to accept it as God's will and to be strong. Mary Lincoln never grieved that way, and she was seen as extreme and unchristian for it. She had watched her child of only four years old waste away from sickness for fifty-two days and then die. She could not bear it.

Ten months later, Willie was born. And three years later, Thomas "Tad" Lincoln joined the family. And with Mary's help and ambition, Abraham Lincoln entered the White House in 1861 with the country torn asunder and gave his inaugural address with Federal snipers posted on the top of key buildings in Washington in case any Southern "secesh" should try his luck at taking out the new President.

Already the gossips and newspapers were vilifying First Lady Mary Lincoln, who was born in Kentucky. They speculated about her loyalties. The North accused her of espionage for her rebel family; the South accused her of being a traitor. She read the papers, heard the epithets being thrown at her husband: black ape, tyrant, imbecile, gorilla. She heard of death threats against her husband as well as plots to kidnap him. Her own carriage was tampered with, causing an accident. In 1862, Tad and Willie became gravely ill with typhoid, and Willie died. The day he was buried, a tornado swept through Washington. Mary was overcome with grief, and for three weeks could not move from her bed. The President harbored fears that she had become deranged. Tad, still sickly, seemed unable to regain his health, and the country was locked in a bloody civil war.

Mary had lost two half-brothers to the Civil War, but she dared not mourn them; they fought on the Confederate side. At this time, a new wave of pseudo-science was sweeping the globe: Spiritualism. Mediums claimed they could bridge the chasm between the spirit world and the living. Mary, bereft of her two darlings and overcome with grief, began to attend seances. She convinced her husband to allow a medium to come to the White House. He humored her, and a long interest in Spiritualism followed.

On April 6 or 7 of 1865, Abraham Lincoln confided to his wife that he had an unsettling dream: he had been awakened by the sound of weeping. Wandering through the White House, he came to the East Room where he saw a catafalque on which a coffin rested with a body inside. He asked a nearby soldier, "Who is dead in the White House?" One answered, "The President." On April 14, 1865, Mary Lincoln witnessed the assassination of her husband in the chair next to her.

On May 23, Mary, dressed in the heavy black mourning that she would never, ever give up, finally left the White House. There was no provision made for her residence at the time; no money appropriated. Abraham Lincoln, a lawyer by profession, had died without a will. She and her sons lived in Chicago, for Mary Lincoln could not bear to return to Springfield, a city rife with memories of her beloved husband and their young family's early years together. They lived cheaply, and Mary worried constantly about money. She petitioned Congress for a widow's pension, but her reputation in Washington was sullied by last-days looting of the White House by souvenir hunters and petty thieves. The White House was open to the public in those days, and anything not nailed down or under the watchful eyes of guards was easy pickings. China, silver, draperies, art, even furnishings had disappeared after Lincoln's death. And an astonishing number of Washingtonians blamed Mary Lincoln. Even after some things showed up in private homes or in pawnshops, she was still called a common thief among social circles and in the newspapers.

In 1868, Mary felt defeated. She decided to leave for Europe with Tad. She was in ill health, persecuted, a pariah in her own country, a country that owed its very existence to her husband, the Martyred President. She left for Europe, hoping to take the cure in some of its most recommended health spots. Tad, under the tutelage of a scholar, began to improve in his studies, but soon became homesick after so much continental wandering. In 1871, they boarded ship, but Tad, ever susceptible to illness, caught a cold which developed into pleurisy. Back in Chicago, he worsened and in July, Mary lost her third son. This time, she was able to attend his funeral, but her only remaining child, the distant and very Victorian Robert, left inexplicably less than two weeks later for a Colorado vacation. Mary was left alone.

That fall, the Chicago fire broke out. Fighting smoke and flames, Mary escaped with a few items, losing many valuable letters, papers, and mementos of her husband. She spent the night and part of the next day along the shore of Lake Michigan. After that, she became a continental nomad, wandering Europe and North America, seeking mediums to help her make contact with her beloved Mr. Lincoln and her dead darling boys. She was especially pleased with the picture made by a spiritualist photographer which showed the spirit of her husband hovering behind her, his hands placed protectively upon her shoulders. It would prove to be the last photograph ever taken of her.

In May of 1875, her son Robert had had enough. His mother's constant mood changes, her odd behavior, her shopping sprees and her buying mania were not only embarrassing to him, but were worrisome. No longer could she be termed "eccentric"; she was, since his father's death, literally insane. He convened, secretly, a half-dozen doctors, the majority of whom had never even seen, let alone examined his mother, and presented his evidence. They wholeheartedly agreed: She needed to be confined to protect not only herself but her assets. She might spend herself into the poorhouse. Robert sent a family friend and a guard to collect his mother, who had no choice but to acquiesce with humiliation. The trial was a jury trial, and Mary Lincoln was never called to speak on her own behalf. Indeed, she had no idea until she got there and was told so that Robert was the one who initiated the proceedings. When it was all over, she was declared insane, and was ordered confined to Bellevue Place, a private asylum.

Her stay there was short because Mary Lincoln began an immediate campaign for her release, much to her son's chagrin and dismay. She wrote letters, comported herself admirably, and did not require any restraint or strong medications. She even involved the newspapers, her most hated nemeses, inviting a reporter to visit her at Bellevue and write about his impressions. It was sensational. Entering Bellevue on May 20, she was released on September 11 to the care of her sister Elizabeth in Springfield. By June of the following year, she was declared in court to be "restored to reason." Robert, it must be noted, strongly objected to both the release and to her declaration of full sanity. He did so, however, out of concern for her well-being both times, he continued to reiterate. There is not definitive evidence to the contrary. But Mary Lincoln never forgave him and, at one point, planned to shoot him with a pistol packed away in one of her trunks.

As was her usual habit, Mary Lincoln left for Europe after this battle. But she was forced by continued ill health and loneliness to return in 1880, unable to care for herself. She had fallen and broken her back, weighed now only about 100 pounds, and was nearly blind, a condition actually caused by her excessive weeping. She was unable to bear most light and spent the remaining two years in a darkened room at her sister's home, one of four that she paid rent for. One was a sitting room, one for her bedroom, and two for her sixty-four trunks of possessions, whose combined weight was four tons and caused much concern as to whether the structure of the house could bear it. Mary Todd Lincoln died on July 16, 1882, of a stroke. She would have loved her funeral, held three days later. It was full of flowers and music; the mayor declared it a holiday; thousands lined the streets. Even the newspapers printed a thick black mourning band on their mastheads.

And at the end of it all, Mary Lincoln was laid to rest with her beloved Mr. Lincoln and the rest of her family.

It's My PityParty And I'll Cry If I Want To

"Spring Break"...yeah, right. It's been Winter here forever.

Today, I looked out on our deck and was greeted by the omnipresent glacial pack of icy snow. No, I am not kidding. That damnable slab of snow has been there for a month. I cannot even begin to think of traversing the Arctic tundra that is the backyard to check on the status of the fish, whose pond I have just now seen the surface of. God only knows if any of them have survived. We have reached the giddy heights of 47 degrees one day this week for our high temperature. There has, at least, been sun. Yet, that effing snow has barely ebbed a centimeter. I told Rick last night that by tomorrow, if that goddam snow hasn't disappeared, I'm taking the hose to it if it is the Last Thing I Do. I am at DefCon 5. Or whatever DefCon it is that means stark raving apeshit.

We are in The Snowiest March On Record. We've had two blizzards. Our district is down to only one last Snow Day. I have worn my winter coat every single day. I'm sick of all my sweaters.

I get that it's all a big cheat this year. That Easter is way earlier than usual and that Daylight Saving Time is, too. That we're all jumping the gun.

But, dammit. I'm cold, I'm tired of the cold, and it was supposed to be "Spring Break."

So there!

Pillow Talk From The Marriage Bed

**Scene Opens**

Interior of Rick and Nance's bedroom. They are in bed. As last scene of "Medium" flickers to a close and endless litany of pre-news commercials begins, Nance shifts to pre-sleep comfort position in which she lies on her side facing Rick in fetal position, bony knees jabbing into his side, shins carefully touching him for warmth. Slyly, she slides the remote control onto his chest, thereby abdicating all responsibility for volume, sleep-timing, and anything else television-related should they not make it through the entire newscast. Again.

Rick: (sighs, then suddenly draws his breath in with a sharp gasp as if in pain)

Nance: What!? What!? What did I do?

Rick: (with real effort) Nothing! I have a terrible cramp in my foot! OW!

Nance: Well, geeze! I thought it was something really horrible the way you were acting.

Rick: Nance, this really hurts!

Nance: I'm sorry. I'm sure it does. What should I do?

Rick: It's almost gone now. God! That's just horrible. It would be nice if you would rub my foot.

Nance: (look of revulsion) It's not like you can't just pop down there and reach it yourself.

Rick: (look of pained amusement) I would rub yours, you know. I have rubbed yours. And not because they hurt, either. Just because I'm a nice guy.

Nance: I know, and that's very nice of you. Thank you.

Rick: What if I was dying? What if I was dying, and the only way to save my life was for you to rub my feet? Then what?

Nance: (pause) Then that would be rough. You might die--

Rick: (incredulous, interrupts) You have got to be kidding me! Are you telling me right now that if I was dying--

Nance: (interrupts, calmly) You didn't let me finish. I was going to say if they let me wear gloves or put plastic baggies on my hands, then I would do it. This isn't fair. You know how I hate feet.

Rick: No. No. No plastic bags or gloves. It has to be bare hands or I die. That's just the way it is for some reason. Now what?

Nance: (pause) Now you're just making shit up to piss me off. I would try probably. I would try, but you might die. There. Why do you insist on making me say things that just end up hurting you in the long run. Now turn off the tv and go to sleep. We've missed the weather.

**End Scene**