What Do The Lagoon Nebula, Subordinating Conjunctions, Scantron, And I All Have In Common? Ask George Bailey!

Man.
This "job" thing is really cutting into my free time.
And you know me...I hate to bitch.

But it's kept us apart, really. My brain has developed more than a passing resemblance to that illustration above, which is an actual photograph of chaos. Celestial chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

You'd think that, after 28 years of this gig, the end of the year would be like folding laundry: something I can do without thinking about it, something that's a familiar and easy routine. But teenagers aren't as compliant as terrycloth and teeshirts, and administrators aren't warm and fluffy like clothes from the dryer. Sigh.

There have been a couple bright spots, however; my junior regulars--dangerously close to wallowing in ennui and D's and F's--decided to "get their grammar on" and became experts in subordinate clauses and sentence structure. It was incredible to hear them admonish each other using insults such as, "Are you crazy? That sentence has an elliptical adverbial clause, fool!" Or, "Can't you see that subordinating conjunction right there? It's "after!" I know it's also a preposition, dummy, but look at the subject and verb after it! DUUUUH!" These kids begged me to grade the test over compound, complex, compound-complex, and simple sentences today immediately after they took it. Not one student scored below a C.

The other ray of light was a little more selfish. I dreaded giving a final essay test today over The Catcher in the Rye for my sophomore honors students. There is only one more class day left--Monday--and then we have exam days. I didn't want to be stuck with almost 70 essays to grade, along with final exams and everything else that constitutes the Last Days work. I pulled my folders and found--oh joy oh rapture--a gorgeous, AP-level analysis based, totally objective test that I had created a few years previous. It is designed to be answered on sheets for and graded by The Scantron Machine. How did I forget about this Wonderful Test? I almost wept. I wanted to fall at my own feet and worship myself. Not only is this a really great test, I won't have to touch a single red pen and it will take a total of 5 minutes to "grade."

I cannot begin to impress upon you HOW WONDERFUL THIS FACT TRULY IS.

SO. VERY. EFFING. WONDERFUL. THAT MY FACE IS SLIDING OFF OF THE FRONT OF MY HEAD. RIGHT NOW.

Maybe you get me.

Anyway. Things are about to get even better really soon.

See you in June.

Of David Gregory, Blah Blahs, Irksome Things, And Wait... What Was I Talking About Now?

At one point my friend Sue was all wrapped up in her perimenopause and then saw something on Oprah or Dr. Phil or read something about adult ADD, which she was also convinced she had. I was immediately envious of her on two fronts. She had legitimate reasons for being completely batshit. Two of them, as a matter of fact. I had basically...none. At least none that anyone could do a show on, unless that show was Women Who Just Don't Frikking Care Anymore And Can't Seem To Keep Anything In Their Heads For More Than, Say, A Minute And A Half.

Would you watch that episode of Dr. Phil or Oprah?

Okay, maybe I would. Maybe you would, too. After all, you're still reading this post.

Anyway.

I'm feeling kinda like that again right now. But I am bravely soldiering on. It's past time for a post, and you shall have one. It will be a meandering snarkfest perhaps, but oh well. Here goes.

It pains me to announce this, but announce it I must: I am breaking up with David Gregory. I know. But I've had it. He's just beyond irritating as the new host of Meet the Press. Yes, he had enormous shoes to fill, coming in after the esteemed and beloved Tim Russert. Yes, anyone would take some getting used to. But he is just terrible. He's combative, mean, shows his bias, and interrupts everyone. And, unlike Tim Russert, employs the "gotcha." You know, I used to love David Gregory. He's tall, kinda cute in a boyish charm sort of way, and he is an Unabashed Pink Tie Wearer. But forget you, David Gregory. It's over.

Speaking of the news (sort of, anyway), have you become sort of inured to it all, as I have? I mean, lately, here's what the national news sounds like to me: "stocks took a tumble blah blah blah the economy blah blah blah the nation's automakers blah blah blah in Washington today blah blah blah the Dow Jones Industrial blah blah blah the Federal Reserve blah blah blah life sucks." I used to be a huge news junkie, especially during the Election Rotation, but now I'm sort of watching the news purely out of habit. Don't tell anyone, but if it wasn't for Brian Williams' tie, I probably wouldn't watch the national news at all anymore. I just don't care. Not a whit. (I just reread that last part and actually felt a little guilty. Wait....I re-reread it, and now I don't.)

Here's a thing. I first saw this story on video under the headline Purple Garage Irks Neighbors. What a great headline. Seems that in Oregon, out in a country setting, absentee landowners built a massive garage--no house yet, just a bigass garage--and painted it lavender and purple in Victorian gingerbread style. The owners live in California and admire the San Francisco row houses done that way. Needless to say, the residents already in Sequim are...well, irked. Well, Sequim residents, I feel your pain. There could be a headline in my daily paper that says Stupid Window Clings Irk Neighbor. Or, perhaps, Inexplicably Placed Lawn Chair In Mulch Irks Neighbor. Or this: Awful Plywood Cutout Of Betty Boop Irks Neighbor. Sigh. Most of the time, however, I just sit in my backyard to avoid being irked.

That last part made me start caring a little bit. And not in a good way, either. Is that a symptom of perimenopause or Adult ADD? Feh. I don't know.

Who cares?

This One Goes Out To All My Amply-Endowed Sisterfriends Out There: You Fought, You Won, And I Got To Laugh (While I Was Envious)

In what galaxy do you ever think a woman would be correct when she says this about a boardroom--and I'm quoting here--"They didn't want a lot of big-breasted women storming their meeting"?

I know. I'll give you a minute or two.

(Certainly I would be a bit intimidated if this were to happen at a meeting and my company were, say, The Small-Breasted Women's Bitching Society, Inc. Of which I might just be an enthusiastic board member. But I digress.)

Anyway.

Just such a nightmare scenario, described by a co-founder of the group Busts 4 Justice, is what caused a re-evaluation of a brassiere pricing policy by British retailer Marks & Spencer. You can read all about it here. But, really, as you know from past experience, I will be bringing the best of it to you right here.

But first I want to laud Gregory Katz, the AP writer who I'm positive must also write for The Onion or National Lampoon or Mad Magazine or some other similar publication because, honestly, no phrase was left unturned; no chance for punning was left untaken.

It seems that Marks & Spencer (M&S) had begun adding a $3 surcharge on all bras that were size DD or larger, which resulted in a "spreading consumer revolt." (The grammarian in me absolutely revelled in that ambiguous modifier. I so want to believe that Gregory did it on purpose!)

Naturally, the company, confronted by Busts 4 Justice and its co-founder...wait for it, and I could not make this up if I wanted to...Becky MOUNT, soon saw the error of its ways. There was an entire Facebook campaign of 14000 women behind this effort! M&S took out a full page ad to apologize. But of course. They also offered a 25% reduction on all bras for two weeks. Oh, word choice!

May I just offer this next paragraph up without comment to you? "We are just overwhelmed," said Becky Mount, a co-founder of the Busts 4 Justice group that brought retailing icon M&S to its knees.... "We've won, and we never thought it would happen so quickly."

Oh dear lord. Where are my pills?

Finally, victory came...er...arrived when the group "which grew exponentially" made their threat to appear in force at the company's annual meeting. Ms. Mount also said of her group's triumph that it was likely M&S realized that "they were dealing with a much bigger force than they thought originally."

Indeed.

Of Fate, Fifty, Daniel Day-Lewis, And The Vagaries Of Faith

Every once in a while, the Fates conspire in a vast...conspiracy against me. "Ha ha," they chortle gleefully. "Let's remind Nance that Life is far beyond her silly, futile, grasping efforts at Control! Does she really think that at age fifty she can sail along with no gales of difficulty? That she can look forward to a sunny horizon with calm seas and starry nights, her course clearly charted ahead? If she does, she would be very sadly mistaken."

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Daniel Day-Lewis. Or what is left of him. I know. I'll give you a minute.

...

This is one of the most painful moments of my Life. I hardly know where to begin. It's not like I haven't been through this before, you know. I've discussed Daniel Day-Lewis's...appearance issues ad nauseum. He's so Hard To Love/Be Obsessed With, you know? Oh, sure, he's had his moments, and I've stuck by him. Yet...geeze. I mean, look at him. He's only 52. I have no problem with anyone embracing his grey hair; I applaud anyone for defying the movie star pressures of the Youth Movement, but can he not find a decent hairstylist? That haircut looks downright institutional. And as my Readers can undoubtedly surmise, what cuts deepest is that tie. What a horror it is. It looks like something made from a remnant of fabric from a transvestite parody of Spamalot. Aqua shirt, black sportcoat, purple chainmail tie...what a complete and total devastation compared to the sexy splendor that was this:

I'm just saying.

Oh, that's not fair, you say. That picture is of a character in a movie. And it's almost 20 years ago. Give the guy a break!

Shut up. I most certainly will not. This man has the wherewithal to look eleventy times better than he does. There is no reason for that tie. Or that haircut. And certainly no reason for continually disappointing me. I have had it with you, Daniel Day-Lewis. From now on, I am going to be shallow and vapid. I am going to chase pretty little dilettantes instead of you and your towering talent. You leave me no choice.

DoN readers, proffer me a new Candidate for Obsession in comments. I'm ready to chase after someone pretty who is worthy of my love. Besides, DD-L's newest film is a musical. Ugh.

If Life Is A Highway, Then I'm Due For A Bathroom Break

I'm going to be 50 soon, and while my age has never been an Issue with me, I've been thinking a little bit about whether or not I've learned anything, really, in the half-century that I've been alive. I mean, I know I've learned things, but at the risk of becoming too introspective (my mother always chided me, "Nance, you think too much!"), I wonder if, in my later adult years, I've come to absorb any Valuable Life Lessons.
I think I have. But the thing is, I have to keep at them. They're not easy. It's not that I'm a Slow Learner, or a Special Education Student At Life. It's just that, as I've said over at my other blog, I like to think that I'm on a continuous Journey Of Self-Improvement.

One of the hardest things I've learned is to accept help. I am almost compulsive about doing things by myself, always have been. I studied by myself, paid for college by myself, and being a student by nature, read every single book about wedding planning, pregnancy, child-rearing, oh, you name the lifestage, and I researched and read about it. I made sure to be an expert so that I could implement My Plan for each one By Myself. Then, I was amazed when it didn't go exactly as The Book said it would. (Damn babies. They are the ones who should read the books!) Yet, I'd soldier on and carefully refuse anyone's assistance. Finally, after my first real bout of terrible illness several years ago, it became impossible to Do It All. It was terribly humbling. But I came to realize that the most romantic words my husband can utter are these: I'll take care of it.

The second most difficult thing I've learned is very basic: Shut Up. As you undoubtedly know, I'm a woman of strong conviction and strong opinion. But I've had to learn that it isn't necessarily important to make them known all the time. I used to think, "I have to say something! I can't let him get away with that remark or he'll think that I feel it's okay" or "How ridiculous! I have to set her straight on that immediately." Um, no, I don't. Not every social conversation is life or death; not every chat has to be momentous. I'm not the world's political or moral policeman. (Or grammar officer, for that matter! LOL.) This one is still very tough for me, almost on a daily basis. Thank goodness I have the Dept. and Stuff On Our List as outlets.

The irony of these two Lessons is this: it's also important to learn the opposite lessons. One of the things I've learned along the way (to a fault, some would say) is to rely upon myself. I have never waited in my life for someone to step up and do something for me. I still think, for the most part, that it's a pretty good way to live. I (and, of course, Rick) have tried to raise Sam and Jared that way. And as far as that second one, well, if you don't speak up and stand up for your beliefs--refusing to kowtow to others just because they wield some sort of false authority or majority--then you've lost your character and integrity. The old adage is so true: If you don't stand for something, then you'll fall for anything.

Turning 50 won't change a thing, as far as I'm concerned. I hate those fakey Milestone Birthday things--black balloons, "Over The Hill" themed cards, joke gifts like Depends and Geritol and all that crap. If I had my way, I'd buy a new pair of red high heels and go out for martinis.

In Which, Concerned For The Wellbeing Of My International Readers, I Provide A Valuable Safety Bulletin--With Bears

I'm not sure how many readers of the Dept. are foreign nationals--although I do know many are from Texas--but this is a post that has merit, regardless. For those of you non-USA readers who find themselves in a hurry, I can distill its salient points immediately, in order of importance, and here they are:

1. Bears are dangerous.
2. Read CNN.com.

If you find yourselves at leisure and can continue, I can assure you it is well worth your while. (My United States residents, this blogpost can vindicate your obviously inherent knowledge and perhaps make you feel better about this.)

Onward.

It was with horror and trepidation that this article was brought to my attention by a helpful Dept. reader. As soon as I loaded up the page and saw Polar Bear Attacks Woman At Berlin Zoo, I had only one thought: Elinor, aka "Flocke," the German cutie that I became fascinated with last winter. I quickly scanned the article and saw that neither Elinor nor Knut, another polar bear PR bigwig in Germany, was involved in this Unfortunate Incident, which, by the way, is captured on videotape! Good heavens. (And still, no one knows why this woman leapt into the polar bear area--over a fence and into a moat, no less--during feeding time.)

That concern out of the way, I was free to concentrate on the Bigger Issue At Hand, and this it is: Why the hell are all these foreigners so hell-bent on mixing it up with these bears? We all recall the Panda Incident in which a guy wanted a hug, and Panda Incident2 in which a dad wanted to retrieve a toy from a panda enclosure, both of which occurred in China. Now this, in Germany.

What the heck?

And people say Americans are pushy and intrusive. At least we stay behind the fence and just stare at the animals. We don't go trying to get all interactive and whatnot with the bears. We simply stand there, read the information and then spout it off to our kids as if we already knew it: "Tiffany, look! That polar bear can live to be anywhere from 20 to 25 years old, did you know that? And unlike other bears, they don't hibernate. What? Okay, come on now. Yes, Tiffany, I see it's pooping. Come on, let's go get some cotton candy."

Anyway.

My point is this, International Readers, and although I have made it before, it is obvious that it bears repeating. (Oh, ha ha.) STOP IT WITH THE BEARS ALREADY AND START READING CNN.COM!

Geeze. Here's a link, even. Add it to your "Favorites."

Barack Might See A Glimmer, But All These Idiots See Is Glamour; Spare Me--Time For A Smackdown

Time for another round of Smackdowns from the Dept. of Nance. I'm sure all of you Loyal Readers recall that, should the Dept. ever become a real government entity, one of the duties I am fully ready to discharge with all alacrity would be to hand out Smackdowns for Rampant Stupidity that I see roaming free among the residents of our fine Country.

This latest Series O' Smackdowns was prompted by an article I read in my Mighty Cleveland Plain Dealer this morning before tackling the crossword puzzle (avec le stylo, naturellement!). At the risk of upsetting anyone, allow me to first state that it involves discussion of The Economy, which, for those of you just tuning in, is having a Bit Of Difficulty At Present. In that It Sucks.

Okay. So.

Here is the headline, which is just irritating enough that I had to put my coffee down in order to be certain that it did, indeed, say what I thought it said: Some Are Spending Less For The Fun Of It.

I immediately had to read this article. In a state of highest dudgeon. Because I live in Ohio, a state which was in Recession long before it was declared that the country was in one, and in a metropolitan area where our tax base was built on steel, shipbuilding, manufacturing, and automobiles. So you tell me. (Michigan, I feel your pain. You know?)

In this article, Becky Martin, age 52 (and old enough to know better) has gleefully cut up 10 credit cards, begun borrowing library movies rather than renting them, and put in a garden. "It's fabulous!" says this real estate investor and wife of a plastic surgeon, whose home sits on the 12th hole of a Cincinnati country club. "I'm enjoying this!" she says, even though her family is "comfortable."

Oh, Becky. Becky, Becky, Becky. Come over here, Becky. I have something for you that's also quite fabulous. It will give you a brand new perspective on Life In General. It's called The Reality Tour, and there are no golf courses at all. At the end of it, there is a Little Surprise.

The article goes on to chat about Cooper Marcus, age 36, of San Francisco, who has gleefully cancelled the family Netflix, his premium cable package, and his wine club membership, too, all in his quest to be part of The New Frugal For Fun Movement. He even uses an app on his iPhone to find cheap gas! Oh, that Cooper! He just laughs it all off, saying, "I'm frugal and loving it!" Imagine, having to go and get your wine yourself! Now that's cutting back!

Hey, Cooper? That iPhone? How much are you paying for that, per month? Wanna feel even more frugal? Here's a phone for you! And a little something extra.

I don't know about all of you, but I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Like the auto executives who showed up, palms upturned and tin cups at the ready, on Capitol Hill after alighting from their private jets, ready to beg for a bailout, these pseudo-skinflints Just Don't Get It. Whereas they're cutting back on fancy coffees and manis and pedis, some families are cutting back on college and a car and medicines and rent. It's not a little contest and it's not a hobby. It's survival.

Some people, the writer of the article included, need to Get Out More. The tint on those limo windows must be awfully dark, or those lenses awfully rosy. Either way, get in line! I'm all warmed up.

Hostage Crisis Ends Without Bloodshed, But Casualties Are Dignity, Sanity, And Intellectual Capacity

Seriously, I wasn't going to do this, but after seven hours of Parent Conferences (aka The Tuesday/Thursday Hostage Crisis), my intellectual state is at...oh, let's say, Tepid Oatmeal. I want you to imagine putting in a full day of Teen Wrangling at The Rock from 7:40 A.M. to 3:00 P.M. and then facing a gymnasium full of parents from 3:30 until 7:00 P.M. Yes, 120+ staff members, two per table, all herded into the gym, where cattle-call conferencing takes place. Twice.

Le sigh.

Anyway. I had planned to post something far more cerebral and witty and sophisticated, but frankly, it's just not there. So instead, I will regale you with this stunningly illustrative anecdote from my second evening at conferences. It will make everything in my professional life so abundantly and magnificently crystalline for you that you will never again wonder why I manage only to post about once a week.

My roommate Andrew and I shared a table. We try not to listen to each other's conferences, but of course, with such close proximity, it is difficult. The parents, however, don't usually seem to be too worried about their privacy. At one memorable moment, I had a parent at my table whose lovely daughter was expecting a B+ on her report card in my sophomore honors class. She had taken a dive from her usual "A" due to a particularly rough outing on her test over The Great Gatsby. Uncharacteristically, I decided to boost her the 5 points and give her the A-. Here is how the conference went, pretty much verbatim:

Me: Did you get a chance to pick up your daughter's report card?

Mom: Yes. No. I don't know.

Me: I see. Did you stop at the tables at the front?

Mom: Oh, yeah. Is it in here with all this stuff? I don't know anything.

Me: Yes. At any rate, she got an A- in English.

Mom: Oh, she'll be happy. She was upset 'cause she thought she got a B.

Me: Well, I looked at the body of her work this quarter, and she really is not a B student. She had one tough test, but the rest of her work is excellent. And she was only 5 points away, so--

Mom: Oh, I always knew she was smart. She was smart the minute she first came out.

Me: Oh?

Mom: Yep. They gave her right to me and she started nursing right away. It wasn't three minutes and she was nursing.

Me: (sideways glance at Andrew who is blushing furiously, head down, trying to read or write something)

Mom:...oh, she just (makes exaggerated "chomping" demonstration with mouth and head) got right on and nursed away! She knew right what to do! Now, my other ones, they had all sorts of trouble. They couldn't get on and I had all kinds of problems. But not her! (Smiles proudly; waits for my feedback)

Me: (at a loss) Well, there you go! Anyway, she has her "A", but this next quarter, she'll need to step it up and work hard to maintain it.

Mom: Oh, she will! She's a smart one! Well, thank you. (gets up and leaves)

Me: Andrew?

Andrew: (looks at me, face red, shakes head uncomprehendingly) I'm...what...?...that's it.

Me: This is one for the Dept.

Technical Difficulties

Not only did I miss what looked like a pretty good episode of House tonight, but I also wasted about two hours and a pretty creative premise for a post, thanks to Blogger's bullshit and some other effing crap that happened along the way.

I have no idea why everything went crazy and, at one point, changed the color of my freaking header, even, but the whole shebang is gone and what really frosts my cupcakes is that it's only the latest in a series of computer issues here at Dept. Central.

Sigh.

And tomorrow, I have...(insert Jaws music, or other suitable Anthem of Doom)...PARENT CONFERENCES.

From 3:30 till 7:00. That's P.M. After school and before dinner. (insert crescendoing violins and maudlin weeping.)

All of which is to say that it will now be at least a couple more days until I can get my act together and post something for you. Stay with me, won't you?

I'll try my darndest to make it worth your while.

Driving Miss Nance

(Scene opens on interior of car. Rick is driving; Nance is in passenger seat.)

Rick: (points out side window) Right there! Did you see? Two deer.

Nance: What? No, where?

Rick: We're past it now. They were over there, in that field. You missed them.

Nance: This is so typical. How is it that you always see deer when we're out driving? I never see deer. I see, like, Canada geese. They're everyplace. I mean, right now, over there, there are Canada geese. Look.

Rick: I don't know.

Nance: It's terrible. You know what I see? I see fake deer. I see those horrible concrete deer. That's what I see. I see them every morning on 6th Street when I go to park my car. There's one in a big side yard, just standing there. That's what I see, a bigass ugly fake deer.

Rick: It's a question of priorities.

Nance: What? How can you even say that? It's not that I want to see tchotchke yard art! I feel like I'm actually assaulted by it! No--I am victimized by tacky yard art!

Rick: Well, I don't--

Nance: Look! A hawk! Right there on that bank! Did you see it? It was standing there, ripping into something! It must have caught something!

Rick: No, I didn't see it. There, now see? I rarely see hawks. Once in a while on a fencepost or something, but not very often.

Nance: It's true. My hawk-spotting skills are unparalleled. I am unmatched in hawk-spotting. Remember the one I saw in the backyard above our pond, ripping into that sparrow?

Rick: Yep. There you go. You see hawks. I see deer.

Nance: But you also saw two wild turkeys on our way in. Still not fair.

(End scene.)

It Was An Honor Just To Be Nominated, But Now That I've Won, You Have To Sit There And Listen To Me Ramble On And On And On And On And On And On And O

Holy crap. I am so stuck for a post this week. Don't even let me start to bore you with all the reasons why. I'm about to do something I never do, and that's compose a post on the fly--right here, right now.

I know. Uncharted territory. Live. It's what Jared would call "batshit ridiculous." Basically, I'm going to yank the random junk out of my head and shake it and write what falls out. Okay, so:

^*^J. gave me an award (which you can see at the bottom of my sidebar) and then promptly gave me a meme-esque task as part of the award. It's always nice when people recognize you for your work, and while I'd rather give a long, rambling speech like they do at the Oscars and wear something swanky and controversial, I like J., so I'll at least do part of the deal. I'm supposed to acknowledge 6 things that make me happy. I already did that, sort of, in my Pieces of Eight post awhile back, but here are a few more: 1. A good cheeseburger; 2. Lately, no snow; 3. When my husband thanks me each evening for making dinner. That's plenty for now. And I just have to mention that the spelling of the award (Kreativ) is totally killing me. Totally. I might have to get into the code and correct it. Seriously. How sad am I?

^*^Can I just say right now--and I am not judging anyone, really--that if I hear the words Facebook and Twitter one more time that I am going to stab myself in the face? Even our Cleveland news station has a brief segment on every damn night where they show some stupid photo and say, "Would you like to be our friend on Facebook? This is fill in the blank with some random name. If you'd like to be our Facebook Friend, go to yada yada yada dot com and yada yada yada JUST KILL ME NOW." Good heavens. Even the effing Congress of the United States of America was TWITTERING DURING THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES' ADDRESS TO THEM REGARDING SERIOUS MATTERS OF STATE. Has everyone, symbolically, returned to junior high? This is the equivalent of passing notes in study hall. There is NO ONE, and let me repeat that, NO ONE who I want to know my business all day long, day in and day out. There is nothing that cannot wait until I can make a discreet telephone call, emphasis on the word "discreet." What in the hell has happened to people? Are we so madly in love with ourselves to the point that we must overshare even the most infinitesimal minutiae of our lives? And to strangers? "Follow me on Twitter!" we urge those completely unknown to us. Privacy is a dying commodity, it would seem. I jealously guard mine.

^*^ How much do I love this article, which posits that in this time of economic and political stress, those of us who are spelling and grammar sticklers are really having a heyday as we struggle to seize control of something in our lives. (See my visceral reaction to my New Award, above!) I'm not sure that These Tough Times are really exacerbating my grammar and spelling fetish; it's always been there. I've always detested running across "I've got to loose ten pounds" rather than "I've got to LOSE ten pounds", and nothing sets my teeth on edge worse than the gratuitously used apostrophe: Fresh banana's rather than the correct Fresh bananas. And I absolutely want to shoot someone when he or she mispronounces or misspeaks an idiom such as For all intensive purposes rather than the correct For all intents and purposes. And students lead the league in this horror: would of , as in I wish I would of studied harder. Sigh. And I wish I would have changed majors and become an art teacher.
Naturally, the comments after the article are rife with snarking, sniping, and nitpicking as the smartypants people go after each other in a nastyfest of all-out grammar warfare. What fun!

Okay, J. Here are a few more: 4. Properly spoken and spelled English; 5. My Privacy; 6. My loyal readers, and I really mean that. It sounds contrived and convenient here, but it's true. No one wants to speak to an empty row of chairs. Thanks, all of you, for coming.

...And Now You Know Why There Are No Ads At The Dept.

It's absolutely no secret that I'm getting old (50 in May!) and that I'm becoming something (more) of a curmudgeon. Every single day I catch myself acting a little bit pricklier, and yesterday, after guilting my son Sam into going grocery shopping with me, I uttered some statement or other in the car and actually said, "Wow. Did that sound elderly or what?", at which time he gave me a very sympathetic look and said, "Yep. You sounded exactly like Grammy."

And then he patted my knee.

Oh well.

So it comes as no surprise to anyone that I complain bitterly and constantly about commercials on television. That they are too loud. And that there are too damn many of them. And that the music in them is terrible. Or that some of them just are stupid and don't make any sense.

But you know it's true. And some of you are not as old as I am.

I thought the whole idea behind commercials was to make me want to buy something. Didn't you study advertising in school at one point? Because I did, and at one point, I even had to teach it. All those terms like bandwagon, testimonial, plain folks. But the whole focus of those propaganda techniques was to make me want to buy something. I can honestly say that the vast, overwhelming majority of ads on television right now do not make me want to buy a damn thing. I mean it.

Today, Rick and I were watching some Morning Show or other to postpone the inevitable Starting Of Our Day, and this commercial came on for a DVD series called The World at War. The spokesperson snarkily intoned, "If you care about the war, you'll want to order this amazing set." That statement provoked the following dialogue:

Me: Wow. That was bossy. And nasty.
Rick: What is he trying to say?
Me: If you have any patriotism in your disgusting, black, tar-covered soul...
Rick: If you give a damn about America and aren't a terrorist bent on destroying it...
Me: If you aren't some liberal commie pinko fag...
Rick: If you aren't running guns for some third world nation...
Me: If you aren't already left soulless by watching nonstop episodes of "Family Guy", "The Simpsons", and pay-per-view porn...
Rick: Then get out your credit card, your NRA card, and your flag and order this set. Hell, order two!

Honestly. By the time we were done eviscerating that ad, I didn't even remember what war it was about. Who did that guy think he was? Or was dealing with? Screw him.

(But this commercial is, for me, a bit of an exception. There's something sexy about this guy's mouth. Am I going to go buy this? No. But I watch the ad.)

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

I've become so disillusioned with so many television shows over the past year or two. So many favorites have let me down, and hard. It's difficult when you've become invested in a character and he gets killed off, or a plotline suddenly veers off unexpectedly and "jumps the shark." Or even a nightly lineup gets shuffled around, and there goes "Destination Television!" Sometimes, the network simply cancels a show right out from under you. It's bitter, so bitter. But this time, I have to do all the dirty work myself. I have to break up with someone who I used to enjoy spending time with. I liked her down-to-earth chatter and her no-nonsense but still good food. I'd come home from school, change into my comfies, grab something to drink, and plop on the couch and spend a half hour with down-home Butter Goddess, Paula Deen.

But not anymore.

Now Miss Paula has joined the ranks of Giada DeLaurentiis and Sandra Lee as my Armageddon Brigade of Kitchen Idiots. I cannot stand to watch any of them, even to sit and constantly criticize, snipe, harp at, and malign them as they "cook."

Here, therefore, is my open Dear Paula Breakup Letter to Miss Deen. Sigh.

Dear Miss Paula,

Believe me, it pains me deeply to have to write you this letter. For years, I watched you faithfully and enjoyed you immensely. How fearlessly you tossed stick after stick of butter into every recipe! How your Holy Trinity remained Butter, Mayonnaise, and Canned Creamed Soups despite our nation's Obesity Epidemic. I defended your folksy southern pronunciations: "spatchler" for spatula; "awl" for oil. I even overlooked your use of "cheese" as a verb, as in "Y'all can wait for the last fifteen minutes to cheese your casserole", meaning "to top with cheese." I simply grinned indulgently when you constantly looked obliviously into the camera as you massaged oil into a cut of pork and said rapturously, "Y'all know how I like to rub my meat." I simply ignored your use of the term "tin foil" even though foil has not been made of tin for...well, EVER.

But when your popularity began to soar in the past couple of years, something happened. You began to market your Countrified Schtick Personality. And magnify it. Suddenly, your accent became more pronounced. Down-Home Expressions peppered your commentary like Cajun seasoning. You got another show, Paula's Party, and on it you acted like a Saturday Night Live actor doing an extreme caricature of you. On crack. And Spanish Fly.

And then there was the crap you started making on your regular show.

I think one recipe says it all: Cheesy Ham and Banana Casserole. Good Heavens. The title alone is gut-wrenching, but the ingredient list (deli ham, bananas, bacon, cheese, potato chips, and, for that little je ne sais quois, nutmeg) is enough to set anyone off on a vegan and Luddite lifestyle. Urk.
At the risk of losing readers--and my own gastric wellbeing--here is a picture:
What were you thinking? Were you hoping for instant inclusion in The Gallery of Regrettable Food?

In any case, it's over between us. I can't have any self-respect and go on watching you, and I can't have any love for food and go on watching what you do to it. Goodbye, Paula Deen, goodbye.

Moving on to Anne Burrell,

Nance

If You're Not Stressed Already, You Can Read This Post And Jitter Vicariously

If you're like me--and believe me, I sense your panic through the Interwebs already just at the thought of that--you've been feeling kind of stressed lately. And it's not any one thing, either. It's an all-over, total-body workout sort of stress that makes you feel as if one minute you're wading through wet concrete with a toddler strapped onto your back, and the next minute as if you're wearing rollerskates and careening downhill. After drinking a double-shot of espresso. In a Red Bull.

I get you. Hoo, boy do I get you.

When I get like this, everything's a crapshoot. There might be dinner; there might not be. I might make it past 7:30 pm before I fall asleep, mouth open like a 90-year old rest home resident on the couch; I might not. And work? Let's not even go there. I cannot even begin to tell you what it's like because every single teacher at my school is living this too. I've never heard so many creative uses of The Eff Word in the lounge in my life. And while many of them are, in fact, coming from me, a helluva lot of them aren't.

So.

While I've got a bit of a head of steam built up here and you're a nice enough audience, I'm going to blow some off. You know, work through it a bit, and see if I come out on the other side. Here goes.

HEY! I get that the weather here has sucked really bad since Christmas. We've had the worst, coldest, snowiest January on record. Some people have not been able to take down their Christmas lights/decorations. But it's February, so WHY ARE YOU STILL TURNING THEM ON? Also, we did have several days above 40. Couldn't you take the wreaths off your houses at least? Holy crap. Who are you people, anyway? How holiday-challenged are you?

GO AHEAD! I'd like to take all these self-righteous republicans and tell them to go screw themselves. I'm sure you've heard the latest: some republican governors are loftily asserting that they will refuse the federal government's stimulus package funds. This is, to quote the ageless cliche, cutting off their nose to spite their face. Something tells me that if Alaska and Louisiana (those poor, poor people--again abandoned by an idiot republican politician!) don't want the money that's coming to them, I bet my state of Ohio will be glad to take their share.

AAARRRGGGHHH! Speaking of shares, I'm finally getting mine, and I'm talking about grey hair. I turn 50 in May, and heretofore I have not had much grey hair that's noticeable. Thanks to the stress levels I've been enduring in the past several weeks, there has been an Explosion Of Grey Hair on my head. I pointed this out to Rick today as we were out running errands (shortly after I pointed out--for the umpteenth time--that he was still over-accelerating our hybrid, thereby reducing its fuel efficiency; it was even at the exact same place that I pointed it out the last time! When will he learn?). Rick said (without even looking), "You can't turn grey in such a short time, Nance." I said, "Certainly you can. If someone is under extreme stress, she can turn grey practically overnight. It's been documented and scientifically proven." He smiled and said, "One of my customers told me I've gotten a lot greyer lately." This is typical. It is A Rick Strategy when he doesn't want to argue with me. It is called Divert The Topic Away From Nance. Sigh. At least I prefer this strategy to the other one he employs which also follows the smile. It is called Chuckle And Tell Nance She Is So Cute.

PFFFTT...Well, I feel a little bit better. At least it's the weekend. And this winter can't last forever, can it? And pretty soon, I'll probably stop watching the news, except to see Brian Williams' tie. That might help. And the grey hair? Oh, hell.

Politics Inspire A Revival Of The Snarku! (All This, And A Long Weekend Too! Hey, That Rhymed!)

The Muse is upon me, Dear Readers, but I'm still feeling pretty snarky about a lot of things, especially the Political Landscape. This can only mean one thing: it's time to revisit the Snarku. For my longtime readers, you may recall this poetic form that I created back in the summer of 2007. For those of you who are new to the Dept. or who may not recall what the Snarku is, here's a quick refresher.


The Snarku retains the original syllabic structure of the haiku: the first line is 5 syllables, the second line is 7 syllables, the third line is 5 syllables. But, the Snarku differs in that it is 2 stanzas, not just one. This allows the writer/crafter of the Snarku to really build up and then blow off the head of steam he or she has about the topic being expounded upon. The only other "rule" of the Snarku is that by the end of it, there should be some residual sense of snarkiness.

Now then, let's get snarking, shall we?


To The Minority Party, In Hopes That They Recall Their Status

Hey! Republicans!
Remember THE ELECTIONS?
Reality Check--

Your way didn't work.
In fact, you broke the country.
Now let us clean up.


Their Sense Of Entitlement Is Breathtaking

Here's an idea
For all U.S. senators
pay your damn taxes!

Don't try telling us
"Oh, it was an oversight."
We're not idiots.




Take The Gloves Off

Bipartisanship?
Honeymoon's over, Barack!
(They're sore losers.)

We all saw you try.
Now it's time to kick some ass.
(We'll take down their names.)





Vanity, Thy Name Is John

What's with Boehner's tan?
This guy is from Ohio,
Capital of Clouds!

How vain is this man?
Foundation? The tanning bed?
Metrosexual!




Go ahead and get your Snarku on in the comments section. Or your plain old Haiku. You'll feel cleansed and poetic. Kind of like a...colonic for the soul. Or not. ?

Stop That Stimulus Vote! I Want To Add A Few Billion To Combat Rampant Stupidity

All right, everyone. The time has come for the Dept. of Nance to answer the call of duty...er, hold on. Make that The Call Of Duty (there, that's better; if ever the shift key were called for, this is it). There is just way too much Stupid going on out there, and it is High Time that someone did something about it. It's patently obvious that no one else is stepping up, so once again, I am offering my services. Certainly, President Obama can do far worse than to offer me a position in his Administration. My credentials are above reproach, my wardrobe is impeccable, and my admiration of President Lincoln and his wife is indisputable.

But I digress.

My point, and I am well on my way to making it, is this: Stupidity is once again running free in America, and the media is perpetuating it as a legitimate news source rather than calling it what it is or, better yet, ignoring it because it is...stupid. My job, which I will eagerly and cheerfully undertake, is to smack down the stupid. Immediately and with great zest. If necessary, I will provide intelligent commentary, replete with polysyllabic words just to counter the effect that the stupidity may have had.

Had I already been on the job, here are a few Stupid Things I would have already taken down.

Item: The No-Jacket VS. Jacket in the White House Controversy. "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you all for coming. Let me assure you, President Obama is never unaware of the gravity of his responsibility, both to this great nation and to the Office of the Presidency. His sartorial presence is but a miniscule part of the Oval Office, a room in which the defense of your rights, the Constitution, and the refurbishing of America's image across the globe must take priority. At this epoch of economic distress, it may be that the visual metaphor of your leader sitting down in shirtsleeves, ready to roll them up and engage in hard labor to get you back to work, is perhaps more encouraging than you know. Now haven't we all got something far more deserving of our distress? Because, really, this is, in a word, stupid. Good day."

Item: "Everything I've ever needed to know I learned through sports," chirped Sarah Palin to Esquire magazine. Among other g-dropping, folksy, inexplicably goofy things. Really, Sarah? Everything? You know, Esquire, after she said that, I would have stopped the interview. Because that's just stupid. I've never played sports in my life. Millions of people, millions of them much smarter than both Sarah and I are, never did either. This quote is the equal of Sporty Sarah's avowal to Katie Couric that she did, in fact, read "all of the newspapers." Why is the media still covering this woman? I'm torn here, you know? On the one hand, she's a complete embarrassment to the republican party, and if she's their face and frontrunner for 2012, I couldn't be more delighted. On the other hand, however, she sets Women back about 200 years every time she opens her mouth. She might need a little Back-Room Stupid Smackdown: "Look, Sarah. I know you cannot possibly help yourself at this point, and I appreciate any woman trying to run a little game on the Big Boys in politics. But do yourself a favor and read a hardcover book, subscribe to a newspaper and read it, and since I know people like you subscribe to Reader's Digest, start doing the "Word Power" section. If possible, try not to speak any more until you perform these small tasks. Thank you."

Item: Octuplet Mom Is Swamped With Media Deals. Because so many people want to know how they can be the unemployed single parent of 14 kids, and live with their parents, yet claim that their childhoods were "dysfunctional" and that they "just longed for certain connections and attachments with another person that [they] really lacked,...growing up." That they "...didn't feel as though, when [they were] a child, [that they] had much control of [their] environment. [They] felt powerless." Remember, this woman's parents (who perpetrated the claimed dysfunction) now live in the home and provide child care! The Octomom, 33-year old Nadya Suleman, is now being repped by a public relations group who is sifting through book and TV deals. The PR firm has already had to discount published reports that one offer was for Suleman to host a television show on parenting. Now that would really have been the Epitome Of Stupidity. But this whole thing is stupid, stupid, stupid from beginning to end. And don't even start with that "Who are you to judge" bullshit. I'm a rational, sane person, that's who. And if you're 33, living in a house with your parents, have no job, already have SIX KIDS, then you don't go and have EIGHT MORE. PERIOD. Especially if part of the reason you were out of work is because of anxiety over the last time you had a baby. And because your back is injured. Do you know how much backwork is required in being pregnant and caring for SIX kids, let alone EIGHT? And what the hell happened to Doctors' Ethics? A big dose of STUPID, that's what. I don't know if a plain old Verbal Smackdown will do it in this case. I might just have to get physical.

LINE 'EM UP !!!

Ahem.

This is only a small sampling of Recent Stupidity that needs to be smacked down. Michael Phelps, grab a towel and get over here. Your poor mother.

When Right Is Wrong And Simple Gets Complicated

(This was mentioned in an email by my buddy Shirley as a possible topic to explore here at the Dept., and when it came up in the comments section on my other blog, I thought it deserved discussion.)

Have you ever noticed how damned hard it is to do the right thing anymore? We were told to start drinking more water, so we all ditched soda and began buying bottled water. Now we're being carped at about how gullible we are for spending money on water, of all things, and worse, for overloading the landfills with more needless plastic containers. Then, we find out that--horrors to end all horrors--the reusable bottles we opted for to save the environment are made out of Bisphenol A and phthalates, which are detrimental to our health and may linger in our bodies far longer than first thought. Holy crap. What the hell are we supposed to do? I guess just dehydrate or get hammered on wine, which, depending upon the studies, may or may not be good for us.

We're all trying so hard not to add to the general clutter of our planet and our lives. The mantra for the last ten years seems to be Simplify, Simplify. I like the concept. I really do. I used to get two newspapers a day. I subscribed to four magazines: Vanity Fair, Newsweek, Entertainment Weekly, Bon Appetit. Then I realized something: when each one came, I sat down immediately and read it, cover to cover. Then it sat on the coffee table where it used to get knocked off by someone (Jared or Sam) propping his feet up or a rambunctious cat event, or used as a coaster. I had to keep moving it to dust or look for something. Eventually, I'd recycle it, then wait for the new one. And I hated Magazine Gleaning--you know, the time you take to first rip out all the stupid subscription cards, overpowering perfume samples, and freefalling ad cards that inhibit your reading enjoyment. Finally, I stopped renewing, and I don't miss any of them. I read lots of interesting stuff online. Where there are no annoying cards, no smelly perfumes, and I feel like I'm being environmentally-conscious as well.

But...yikes. Have you seen this? I feel really guilty! So many magazines are folding. So many people out of work! Crap.

Now, the newspaper thing is a little different. I am down to one newspaper a day for an entirely different reason. I stopped our local paper because I just could not tolerate A) the poor level of writing; B) the obvious bias against our high school; C) the delivery person's stubborn refusal to stop tracking through our landscaping. Okay. But my wonderful remaining newspaper, the Cleveland Plain Dealer is having its problems as well. Layoffs! Job cuts! The publisher that owns it and other newspapers sees a grim future. People are getting their news online, no doubt about it. And...that is keeping lots of paper out of the waste stream. And the demand for recyclable material in this economy is down anyway. See what I mean? I'm being green and environmentally responsible! Yet I might be hurting the U.S. economy as well!

I think this is, perhaps, an example of a Catch-22.

So, my question is: Am I part of the solution or part of the problem?

Am I The Only One Keeping Up Appearances? (If So, Then The Martinis Will Have To Be Stronger)

On Friday Rick and I ate dinner out, and I indulged in two of my guilty pleasures, martinis and People Snarking. It's a terrible thing, I know, but I just cannot help but be continually aware of how some individuals simply do not care how they present themselves in public venues. True, we were only eating at a franchised restaurant, but it was still a nice one, and I have long maintained that if one is going out in public, one should bother to put on something more decent than what one finds on the Five-Cent Table at a garage sale and consult the services of, oh, perhaps a mirror before one goes out.

Anyway.

As Rick and I were having our drinks, I noticed a large table directly in front of my field of vision, inhabited only by a middle-aged couple, but set for a party of considerably more. The woman was wearing (horrors!) a baggy could-be-grey, could-be-light blue, who-the-hell-could tell sweatshirt, and her hair was a ratty, 80s modified page boy with feathered bangs and that terrible dry, home-highlighted-with-the-roots-showing look. The husband looked much more decently attired, which surprised me: sweater, Dockers, hair neatly combed. It did not surprise me one bit when their drink order arrived: two beers, a Budweiser and a Miller Lite. What did not arrive, however, sparked the following conversation:

Me: Do you see that? You have got to be kidding me.
Rick: What?
Me: Why on earth would you order a beer in a restaurant and not at least get a glass?
Rick: I don't know.
Me: That's just awful. It just looks terrible. If you have to order a beer, at least drink it out of a glass. Good heavens.
Rick: Well, I like beer, but for you tonight, I've stepped it up and ordered a Captain and Coke. Aren't you proud of me?

Me: Whatever. People could look over here and think you're just drinking a Coke. How would they know it's a rum and coke? They wouldn't. They could think you're a recovering alcoholic.
Rick: Well, if they knew what I lived with...

Welcome To My America, At Long Last

(image from cleveland.com/darcy/)

"I leave you now and you will write it. You will interpret it. That's your right. But as I leave you I want you to know — just think how much you're going to be missing. You won't have George W. Bush to kick around any more."

Okay. So I took a bit of a liberty with that quote. The Angel of Death didn't actually say it, Nixon did. But it's timely and it's fitting. Despite W's overall demeanor during his Farewell Tour, he's been more than a bit edgy from time to time, and he's never been shy about maintaining that he'll be more than happy to have History be his Judge. He should--and probably does--know better. After a momentary fugue by the legitimate press, he has been judged all along. And it hasn't been favorable, Fox/Faux News notwithstanding.

I've said plenty all along, with lots of other Democratic bloggers, and I'm probably not done, but that's not what this entry is about. This post is about my elation, my glee, at what is to come.

For too long, we've celebrated mediocrity in this country, led by a buffoon who crowed about his C average to the graduating class at Yale. The electorate punched their ballots for a "guy who they'd like to have a beer with," and they glorified an anthem with the lyric line of "we'll put a boot in your ass/ It's the American way." This administration was a big, dumb, self-righteous bully who thought it could wreak havoc during the week and by going to Sunday service, ameliorate all its sins and start over again on Monday. We all got bossed around by a bigassed Hemi-driving, hobnail boot-wearing, gun-toting, Bible-thumping, loudmouthed, blinder-wearing heehaw who was born on third base and grew up thinking he hit a triple.

But it's over.

I'm ready to celebrate the Return Of Intellectualism. Ladies and Gentlemen, a person who knows how to speak correctly is taking The Big Chair. This is a man who has corrected his subject-verb agreement on the fly. With a collective pronoun subject. I. Know. This is a man who is proud of his education. He speaks in measured tones and uses the spoken word as a tool to motivate, not instigate and provoke hostility. Civility will be making a comeback. The press didn't call him No Drama Obama for nothing. So far, even Maureen Dowd's worst barb has been to say that perhaps Obama is "neurotically reluctant to make enemies" and "prefers seducing...antagonists." Oooooh. (And W. called her "Cobra?")

Whatever. I'm all excited. It's cool to be smart; I've always felt it to be so. I'm just glad that now the rest of my country will come out of hiding with their fancy schmancy books and newspapers and >gasp< poetry and wine and stuff! Are we Elitist? Maybe not anymore.

Come out, come out, wherever you are. It's lovely--reading, sipping a glass of nice vintage, discussing books or politics, being pleasant and polite. Starting tomorrow, it's The American Way.

The Wild Kingdom (And No, This Isn't About School)

Time once again for Dept. of Nance to alert you to News In The Animal Kingdom. Lest you should worry that I am becoming something of a One-Note on the subject of pandas, I have this time a virtual menagerie of creatures to discuss (although there is, in fact, a panda among them). So grab a handful of kibble or a nice fish or something, and let's dive in!

Many Dept. readers will recall this post I did earlier about the pelican who slammed into a swimmer's face off the coast of Florida. Well, perhaps it was not just a rogue bird after all! According to Jay Holcomb, executive director of the International Bird Resue Research Center in San Pedro, California, hundreds of pelicans have turned up wandering along roadways, crashing into boats and cars. "These birds are on the freeway getting run over," he said. Holy crap! This is happening in Oregon and California! Imagine the trail of death and destruction, I said to myself, that these birds left in their wake from Florida on their way West. But no: some experts think a marine neurotoxin in algae may be the cause; others, that the birds ingested some chemicals, used to fight Southern California's wildfires, now flushed into the ocean. Personally, I liked the image of Badass Pelicans On The Move from Florida to California, slamming into stuff as they move West.

Next, we have the admonition of biophysics researcher Gabor Horvath, who would like us to please, dim our lights before we totally screw everything up for everybody--and by "everybody," he means "animals in general." Artificial light from the world's cities is leading wildlife in wrong directions, and often straight to their deaths. Insects that lay eggs in ponds and lakes are confused by the tall glass-surfaced modern buildings and mistake these structures for bodies of water. Cute little baby sea turtles use the direction of moon and star light reflections off water to navigate to the ocean when they leave their nests on the beach. These babies make wrong turns and migrate toward the big city's downtown lights. So many metaphors spring to mind here, not to mention classic song lyrics: "How you gonna keep 'em down on the farm/After they've seen Paree?", for example. Imagine the poor sea turtle, trying to make it on his own in Vegas or New York City, when we all know how tough it is. Everyone there is a waiter/actor or a maid/singer. Come on! Traffic and rent alone are ball-busters.

Did someone ask for a Panda Story? But, of course! This time, it's Gu Gu, a panda at the Beijing Zoo who has tasted human flesh not once, not twice, but now for the third time! Apparently, a man and his son were playing catch with a stuffed panda near Gu Gu's enclosure, and the toy went over the five-foot fence. (Note to Zoo: five feet isn't much for a panda enclosure.) The good dad went into the pen when he thought the coast was clear, but Gu Gu went on the attack. The victim, Zhang Jiao, did not fight back because as he said, "The panda is a national treasure, and I love and respect [him], so I didn't fight back. The panda didn't let go until it chewed up my leg and its mouth was dripping with my blood." Wow. I hope all that was worth it for a stuffed panda toy, which is pretty much what old Zhang Jiao became at that point. What is it with these Chinese and these pandas? Don't they read CNN.com? Because this is the eleventeenth Panda Mauling Story I've read, and they've all been in China. OKAY.

Thank goodness the Animals are taking matters into Their Own Hands and are helping each other out. In Australia, sheepdogs are being used as protectors for a colony of endangered fairy penguins. These Maremma dogs were enlisted two years ago after the number of penguins in Warrnambool dwindled from 1000 down to 10 due to attacks by non-native predators. These dogs bonded with the flock of penguins, going so far as to lay down their lives to protect them. Does anyone else sense a Disney Movie Opportunity? Happy Feet meets Lady and the Tramp? I'm also wondering how a dog bonds with a penguin. Does it start walking funny? Does the dog slide around on its tummy or wear a tuxedo? And what's in it for the dog?

It's a jungle out there, Dept. readers. And remember, there are more of them than there are of us.