When Walt Whitman Said, "To Die Is Different From What Anyone Supposed" How Did He Know I'd Be Analyzing Obits?

Perhaps you recall from a previous chat we had here that, almost daily, I read with great interest and care the Plain Dealer obituaries. I am not obsessed with or even remotely worried about Death--far from it--I am fascinated with Life. Not mine, you understand. I am thoroughly bored with mine. I like to read about Other People's Lives, especially now that they are done with them.

I like to read their names, first of all, because I am fascinated by unusual, alliterative, evocative, or just downright funny names. One of my favorites recently was Esther Sylvester. How awesome is that? Her name is a poem. (Way cooler than the Esther who was of one of my Uncle Marshall's customers at his candy shop. He used her for advertising every Easter. He made a huge chocolate egg and put it in the window of his store. On it, in icing, he wrote Happy Easter Esther Oyster! Pretty good name. Right up there with another goofy Grandma-friend name: Flossie Shawbell. But I digress.)

A 97-year old woman passed away at a comforting place called "Nannie's Inn." If I can choose a place to have to die, I want to go there. But here's the thing: her name was Hope, and she was preceded in death by her two sisters...Faith and Charity. I'm not lying; look it up.

And how much did I love the obit of the beloved Very Irish husband, last name O'Something, whose kids' names were Kathleen, Timothy, Sean, Maureen, and Patrick? But the best part of all was that his real name, Eugene, is listed, and then, in quotation marks, the name "Geniehoney." I smiled and felt my heart melt and my eyes tear up just a little. Can't you just hear his wife calling him that all the time? So much so that it became his name? I love that the family put it in the paper.

You already know how I love the non-traditional photos for obituaries. I forgot to save/remember the one of the middle-aged woman wearing the Teletubbies sweatshirt. I had to read that obit because I had to know more about her. Turns out, if anyone had a reason to sport a Teletubbies sweatshirt, it was she. She was only 58 years old, but had something like 14 kids, 38 grandchildren and already many great-grandchildren. Wow!

But the photo in this obituary still seems odd to me. The woman died at the age of 84; the picture shows a much younger lady. Yet, the photograph is not antique-looking, and the photography doesn't look as if it was from the era of the 50s when she was a model. (It might be a mixup, but I doubt it. There has been no correction online or in the Monday print edition.) That's not the most intriguing facet to this obit, however. If you read farther into the article, you come across this incredible sentence: In later life she was afflicted with a shower of frogs. That's it. There is absolutely no context surrounding this amazing statement to give you Clue One as to what it refers to. And that is why I love it. This woman had a fantastic life and, obviously, a fabulous family or group of friends who continue to celebrate her personality even after she is gone. Is she lucky, or what? I don't give a damn about the frog shower or what it really means. I just love the fact that it's in her obituary--inexplicably and unapologetically. Probably a lot like her.

In Creative Writing I & II, I encourage my students to steal from the dead, and by that, I mean to grab pieces of ideas for poems and stories from the obituaries. It's a great place to look for names, snippets of plotlines, characters, and glimmers of ideas. Occasionally, a poet can even find a cool line.

Something like, In later life she was afflicted with a shower of frogs.

My Perspective On Irony, Or How I Choose My Victims Carefully And Toy With Them First, But Oh So Very Gently...

Perspective is something I struggle with, and perhaps it's because I seem to see the Irony--the Ridiculous Irony--in so many things.

Consider these scenes.

Scene I.

High school classroom. Students are in their seats. Teacher at front of room behind lectern. Finishing up instruction. Checks clock, sees that there are four minutes left.

Mrs. D.: Okay, everyone. Take the last four minutes to double-check that you have the assignment written down correctly. Are there any questions? (surveys room. sees no hands raised) Great. You've got the last few minutes to yourselves. Wow. Are you lucky, or what? Have a great day, and that's an order.

(as if by unseen decree, half the class rises and begins to shoulder huge bookbags; they wander towards door. teacher, shocked, halts them)

Mrs. D.: Um...where on Earth do you think all of you are going? I do believe that this is still room 245 and that all standard rules and regulations still apply. Stay in your seats until the bell rings.

(general moaning, bitching, crabbing ensues as wanderers roam back to seats)

Mrs. D.: Holy crap. How ridiculous. Can you just imagine the phone calls I would get from Mumsy and Popsy if my rule said "All students will shoulder their fifty pound book bags four minutes before the bell and stand in a huge herd like bison in front of the door. They are absolutely forbidden to sit in their seats to wait for the bell but instead must press their bodies against one another and jockey for position like marathon runners at the gate." ? You are, all of you, insane right now. Here I am, giving you four minutes of respite from those gargantuan bookbags and the terror of the hallways, and this is the thanks I get? Never again!

(Students roll eyes, sigh, a few smile. Bell rings for dismissal. On their way out, several are heard to say, "She's right, though." One actually whispers to teacher, "Sorry!")

Scene II.

(Living room. Mother and "adult" son are sitting on couch. Completely annoying commercial for Ford Edge comes on television in which girl in nasally voice extols virtue of "texting hands free while driving" because she is "constantly on her cellphone texting and talking anyway.")

Nance: Jared. I want you to listen to me right now and with a completely open mind. Can you do that?

Jared: Oh god. I don't know. Yes. What now? Oh no.

Nance: Seriously. Pretend that it's about ten years ago. And I'm telling you that you have to type email messages on a very small keyboard that is approximately one-twelfth the size of your laptop.

Jared: Okay...

Nance: And that you have to do it very fast. And that you have to pay for the privilege to do it. And that most of the time where you want to do it, it will be illegal.

Jared: I get it.

Nance: Do you hear how incredibly ridiculous that all sounds?

Jared: I know, right?

(Nance smiles triumphantly and victoriously, almost as if she has discovered the cure for AIDS and Rush Limbaugh all at once. Sadly, it is all meaningless because not only are AIDS and Rush Limbaugh still very much with us, so is rampant and inane text-messaging. Sigh.)

Scene III.

(Classroom. Students are chatting; some are finishing up work, others already done are socializing. Teacher is circulating.)

Liz: My brother lost the cordless phone again. It's ridiculous. He's such an idiot.

Jessica: Doesn't your phone have a pager thingy? Ours did. We just all have a cell now, so we cut off our house phone.

Liz: I don't think ours does. Anyway, the battery is dead. He's in so much trouble.

Mrs. D.: You know what would be great? If the phone had something like a cord attached to it so that it didn't get disconnected from the base. That way, it wouldn't ever get lost. It couldn't!

Liz: Yeah! That'd be awesome! You should invent that, Mrs. D. That's genius.

Jessica: (rolls eyes) Are you serious? Liz. She's screwing with you. All phones used to be like that back in the day. That's why your phone is called a cordless phone. Hello? BECAUSE IT HAS NO CORD. ANYMORE. DUH.

Mrs. D.: (winks)

Liz: Oh. I get it. Good one, Mrs. D.

(Teacher pats her head, grins, and moves on. She has more minds to...illuminate.)

In CW2 This Is How We Roll

Creative Writing II is All Poetry, All The Time. But, in our Quest For Good Poetry, it usually becomes All Life, All The Time. And because writing good poetry is often about baring your soul, we have become a very intimate group. That's the way CW2 goes. It's an upper-level elective, and I run it like a studio class: each student receives individual instruction in conference and is graded on his or her progress as the semester goes on. Poems are read aloud, then frankly critiqued by the group. Sometimes in our Quest For Poetry, we go off on incredible tangents. We discuss Life In General. Nothing is Off Limits. Nothing. We laugh, we cry, we advise, and we snack. (The day that I brought in a tub of Trader Joe's Ginger Cat cookies, the place went nuts.)

Teenage poets eat a lot. It helps them create.

Earlier this week, the following scene took place in room 245, period 3, CW2--or as my writers call it, The Red Pen Massacre:

Scene opens in classroom. Teacher is perched on high stool at lectern at front of room. One student, Lindsey, the editor of the literary magazine, sits frowning, at teacher desk, working at computer. Several other students are sitting at desks in classroom. One student, Carlos, is sprawled on couch, surrounded by papers and notebooks. He is writing furiously while looking from two copies on either side of him, obviously blending the two. Two black students, one boy and one girl, are seated at desks next to each other on one side of the room, reading each other's work.

Terrence: I think it needs more development. The tone is good, but you don't have any positive imagery in there like you said you were going to.

Kashala: I know! I said it wasn't done yet. I'm experimenting with some alliteration in the first stanza, though, so I want some feedback on that, please. Also? Did you notice how my diction changes here (indicates a line) when I started using more fricatives? That took me all night! (Takes a plastic baggie containing chicken wings out of her purse; opens it, takes one out, begins to snack on it.)

Terrence: (immediately crestfallen) Oh no! No. You are not--

Kashala: Don't be hatin' on me right now because I have some fried chicken up in here.

Terrence: (looks longingly at the food and shakes his head; looks up at the teacher as if to say, "Aren't you going to say anything?") That is just hurtful.

Mrs. D.: (to girl, with mock admonishment and horror) Do you know how cliche you are right now? Holy crap! You are African-American. You are eating fried chicken. You used the slang terminology "be hatin' on me" and "up in here." You have a bunch of braids in your hair. AND YOUR NAME IS KASHALA! What on earth is left?

Kashala: I could get me some ropes and do the double-dutch!

After All, Wine Does Come In Red And White, So It's Pretty Patriotic Already...

You know, I'm just flabbergasted by all the uproar and falderal about this Tea Party bullshit. Now there's a Coffee Party that was started on that most serious of all political forums, Facebook, and while I respect all exercises of The Democratic Process, I still think both of them are missing the boat. They really have no clear agenda or goals, and neither one is willing to be completely organized or take ownership of anything.

Well, Dept. Readers, you know what that means. Time for me to step into the breach and start bossing people around. I'm starting my own movement and I'm calling it The Wine Tasting. Here's what we're about: restoring civility, couth, intelligence, and authentic leadership to America and American Government. Period.

The Wine Tasting will not take pride in being a vast, decentralized movement/network of militiamen, conspiracy theorists, birthers, cultish Wal*Mart shoppers, gun-toters, and scooter-riding wrinklies on Medicare who maintain they want the Government to keep its hands off their healthcare, or people who think that being a mom/waving at foreign countries qualifies you to hold high government office.

In short, wackos.

Rather, The Wine Tasting will be a highly organized and elite (not a dirty word!) group with a carefully selected membership with an actual leader who will be responsible for its actions and influence. For the time being, as the Founder And Originator of The Wine Tasting, I volunteer to be its first...Host.

And, as Host, I propose the following rules be adopted immediately:
1. There are no "rallies." All Wine Tasting events are billed as just that: Wine Tasting Events.
Example: A Wine Tasting Event will be held on Saturday 6 March at the (insert name of pleasant indoor venue here) in support of the candidacy of _________."
2. All Wine Tasting Events are held indoors.
3. There will be an Official Spelling And Grammar Checker for any signs, placards, pamphlets, etc. and no signs may have illustrations or pictures of any kind.
4. Guests and Members must wear appropriate dress--business casual, minimum--to all meetings/Events. Men will never, ever wear hats.
5. Members of The Wine Tasting must prove that they read more than just the TV Guide, People magazine, and the Twilight series of teen novels. Subscription to at least one newspaper is required.
6. Potential Members will be asked to take an impromptu quiz with no Googling privileges. Questions may include, but are not limited to the following:
A. Which American historical document contains the famous phrase "We the people..."?
B. How many sitting federal Supreme Court justices are there?
C. Which Constitutional Amendment gave women the right to vote?
D. Did your state go republican or Democrat in the presidential election of 2008?
E. Under what circumstances did there become both a North and a South Korea?
7. Members must be registered voters.
8. Host reserves the right to disinvite any Member of The Wine Tasting if said Member displays or advocates any behavior that is embarrassing to or contrary to the organization.

So far, that's what I've got. I'm still working on it all, but I know you'll help me out in Comments. After all, if a Facebook group is going to try to save us, the least the Dept. can do is step up and further refine the process.

Another Timely Public Service Announcement From The Dept. of Nance: Oh, Hey. It's What We Do!

Once again, it would seem that there is a need for my services. As Longtime Readers know, I have volunteered to make the Dept. of Nance an actual government entity, one which will take care of such things which seem to fall under no one else's auspices but need to be done immediately and with all good taste and alacrity.

Before I go on, let's all check today's date, shall we? It is February Twentysomething, 2010. Thank you.

Allow me, then, to make this announcement which, it would seem, some members of Our Society have been waiting to hear:

IT IS TIME TO TAKE DOWN YOUR CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS OUTSIDE.

Perhaps I need to be more specific. Gladly:

1. Illuminated reindeer in your front yard are not "wintry." They are "Christmassy" and should be removed.

2. A fake pine wreath with glittery ornaments on your front door--outta there.

3. The life-size manger scene celebrating the birth of a baby who would be 2 months old by now and already out of the manger--history.

4. The fence draped with fake evergreen swags and red bows isn't "Valentiney," it's Noel-ish and Valentine's Day was almost 2 weeks ago.

5. Pretty soon you'll have to scoot Santa Claus over in that sleigh in your yard and make room for either a leprechaun or the Easter Bunny.

6. If you aren't going to take down those icicle lights, at least stop turning them on every night!

I could go on, but I think you get my drift. (Is that a pun?)

I'm starting to rethink my position that everything bad can be blamed on the republicans and instead, I can start blaming it on these people. Think about it. All this snow? The groundhogs came out, saw all these damned Christmas decorations and thought it was still December! Thanks a lot, Lazy Decoration People! Flattened housing market due to unsold existing properties? Well, who the hell wants to buy a house next to one with lit-up reindeer in the middle of February? Thanks a helluva lot, Lazy Decoration People! The house can't sell, the family can't move to a cheaper property, the parents can't make their payments, the house forecloses, the family is homeless, the dad loses his job because his credit is trashed, the family can't buy the necessary goods and services it needs to survive...Thanks a whole effing bunch, Lazy Decoration People! You've just destroyed An American Family AND the American Economy!

This also affects me personally in my state, where property taxes fund the schools. Had to be said.

So. I think I've made several important points. So, Lazy Decoration People, just do it. Don't make me come over there.

If You Are A Fan Of Tim Pawlenty, Thomas Jefferson, Or David Gregory, You Might Want To Read Something Else Today. Like, Perhaps, My Pet Goat

Even though I have broken up with David Gregory and Meet the Press, Rick has not, and against everyone's better judgment, I sat in the livingroom this morning, perusing the Plain Dealer while Gregorius Interruptus played softball with Governor Tim Pawlenty. Tragically, I had already read the more...cerebral sections of the paper by this point of the show and had moved on to the Target ad, so more of my brain was available to process the republican bullshit that was plopping from Pawlenty's maw. This particular exchange, however, made me riproaring, hooting mad:

MR. GREGORY: Finally, a more personal question, I, I heard your remarks this week and something caught my attention. You're an evangelical Christian. And when you talked about the conservative movement, you said what comes first for you is that God is in charge. Describe your relationship with God.

GOV. PAWLENTY: Well, the founders of this nation embraced, also, that same perspective. They said that we were endowed by our creator by certain rights. We're not endowed by Washington, D.C., we're not endowed by the state government or the local government. And so I believe that there is a divine power, I believe there is a God, that God is in charge. And if it's good enough for the Founding Fathers of this country, it's good enough for me.

Now, I'm used to the republicans co-opting God. Believe me, I don't give a crap about any of that. Pretty soon, they'll take sole credit for Him, and that's okay, too, as long as they take credit for all the trouble that organized religion has caused as well, like the Salem Witch Trials, for instance. No, I'm talking primarily about that last sentence uttered by the governor/presidential hopeful from Minnesota. "...if it's good enough for the Founding Fathers of this country, it's good enough for me." ... Wow. Really?

In his defense, Mr. Pawlenty is not the only republican/presidential aspirer who does not know his history. (Or his grammar, for that matter.) But how sad is it when this man not only deliberately misrepresents the intent of the Declaration of Independence, but also---well, let me elaborate:

I. Bless his heart, Mr. Pawlenty did paraphrase pretty well the Declaration's lovely prose, which reads, in part: We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. But he conveniently forgot the next qualifying sentence. Here it is: That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its Foundation on such Principles, and organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

Pardon me, for I do not wish to be tedious here. I am always blissfully and proudly aware of the intelligence of my readers at the Dept. Certainly all of you can see Mr. Pawlenty's tragic error and are shouting at your monitors as I did at my television. How pathetic and sad he is that he cannot see how he is, in fact, not in disagreement at all with anyone. He is merely reiterating the role of government, period. To secure citizens' rights. Who is arguing that? What, then, is he really saying? Was he elected by the consent of the Governed? Oh, Tim. Shut up. Before you hurt yourself. Some more.

II. I think even Tim Pawlenty would agree with me that Thomas Jefferson was a Founding Father. After all, as a primary author and signer of the Declaration of Independence, and our country's third president, his credentials are stellar. So, if Mr. Pawlenty's measuring stick is merely "if it's good enough for this country's founding fathers then it's good enough for me", I think a little History Lesson about Founding Father Thomas Jefferson might be in order. Allow me:

--Thomas Jefferson was not a Christian. He believed in God, but completely rejected the idea of the divinity of Christ. On June 25, 1819, he wrote to Ezra Stiles, "I am of a sect by myself, as far as I know."
--Jefferson owned 200 slaves. He often wrote dreadfully of freed slaves being permitted to remain in the United States, expressing a disgust that they might intermingle with whites: "Their amalgamation with the other colour produces a degradation to which no lover of his country, no lover of excellence in the human character can innocently consent."
--The above becomes all the more incredible when we recall that Thomas Jefferson had a biracial mistress, the famed Sally Hemings (whom he never freed, by the way), with whom he fathered at least one son, who he never acknowledged, but possibly as many as six illegitimate children.
--Finally, this Founding Father believed that women, "to prevent depravation of morals and ambiguity of issue, could not mix promiscuously in the public meetings of men." It was not, therefore, even a remote possibility, that a woman could vote, let alone run for public office because as Jefferson said, "The appointment of a woman to office is an innovation for which the public is not prepared, nor I." Remember, this is the man whose close confidante and adviser was Abigail Adams, one of the Great Ladies of the Age, and until Barbara Bush, was the only woman to be married to and mother to an American President. (You have no idea how much it destroys me to type that sentence. None.) Jefferson also had a great distaste for women who read novels. They risked "a bloated imagination, sickly judgment and disgust towards all real business of life. For a like reason, much poetry should not be indulged." As far as I know, Jefferson did not mention anything about "barefoot and pregnant", but he did say, even to his own daughters, that the happiness of a woman's life depends upon pleasing her husband, period. All other things are secondary, and to his credit, he said "even their love for [him]."

So...this is what is "good enough" for Tim Pawlenty?

My point, and I do have one, is this: Before Mr. Pawlenty--and other republicans who like to toss zingers from America's historical documents and former presidents (like Ronald Reagan, who is now a god for them, even though his trickledown Reaganomics never really did work)--they should do their complete research and know of what they speak.

Or, perhaps most sorrowful, they know that they really don't have to. The vast majority of Americans lately seem to be of the "teaparty"* ilk. They deal in soundbites and one-liners and suck down like pap everything they hear from whom they most want to hear it. It's sickening. No one is calling them on their shit. Well, I am.

*I'm just not capitalizing this dumb organization, either. So there.

You Can Dress Me Up & Take Me Out, But That Doesn't Mean I'll Be Happy About It (With A Random Emily Dickinson Reference To Class It Up)

A few days ago, one of my students told me that I was turning into a modern-day Emily Dickinson, and I fear that he was right. I have developed such an aversion to The Public that I cannot go Out There without being cataclysmically...affected.

Let's just say that, shall we?

Rick and I went to The Great Big Home & Garden Expo! (formerly known as The Home and Garden Show but so much more of a bigass deal now that it deserves more adjectives and an ampersand), primarily because we had free tickets, but also because we were lured by the prospect of escaping the eleventy inches of snow on the ground and the idea of seeing actual flowers and trees in bloom. Sadly, all of NE Ohio had the exact same idea, and we were shocked to see people actually standing in long snaky lines of more than a hundred just to walk through a pretend house.

I was similarly stunned to see that "Great Big Home and Garden" also meant several identical booths of meat jerky, fake pashminas, and powdered dip mixes. As we wandered through this incredible bazaar of the bizarre, I started to feel more and more as if I were on some alien planet. Come with me:

It started on our way in. I saw a woman in a bouffant hairdo clutching a sign of plasticized cardboard. It was about 18"X18" and had metal prongs on it so that it could stick in her yard. She looked positively enraptured. It was clear that this sign was a Major Score for her. On it, in bold, black capital letters were two words, one atop the other: KING JESUS.I was immediately befuddled. What would be the purpose of this sign? If it were in the imperative, a command, how could someone do that? That would take a mighty big checker, number one, and number two, with Jesus being the Almighty and all, isn't He pretty darn capable of kinging Himself? If it were merely declarative, well, then, okay... Now what? If she puts it in her yard, then is she saying that He lives at her house, or what? It's not very interactive like, say, "HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS." And the odds of her having a Jesus statue with Him wearing a crown and her saying, "Damn, I really need a sign that indicates who the hell this is" just seem remote, don't they? I just don't get it. I mean, kudos for minimalism and all, but really, what's the deal? And honestly, let's say you're driving down the highway and see a house with that sign in the yard; what's your reaction? See what I mean? Later, Rick and I saw the booth in the Expo where the sign was being sold. It was a tiny booth with a bunch of "inspirational" signs, all on the same material, all black letters, all meant to be used outside. I still don't get it.

One booth made me do a double-take and made my stomach do a backflip. I have no idea what the guy was selling, but in front of him on a counter were feet, human feet--all cross-sectioned to look like they had been dissected. Suddenly, the man took a huge forkful from behind them and put it into his mouth and started chewing. My eyes flew open wider and I almost gagged. As we hurried past, I had to turn around and look more closely. The feet were plastic models, thank goodness, and he was eating a taco salad that he had placed behind the row of them. But still, it wasn't until we reached the Patio Enclosures booth that I realized that I had been holding my breath for more than a minute.

Almost equally disturbing were the Booths Of Vibrating Devices. It is important to note that both times I passed these booths, the Devices were being...sampled by men. One of the Devices was a sort of vibrating balancing board. The men on them were standing wide-legged and simply vibrating. A LOT. With an intense look on their faces that could best be described as...(send the children away) pre-orgasmic. The same could be said for the men on the chairlike Device which actually had a sort of...codpiece thingy that, well, let me just say that it looked like a carseat for grownups but it vibrated. A LOT. Again, the expression on the faces of the men was...heavily engaged. Rick offered to take photos/video with his cellphone for this post, but my gentle breeding (and my concern that there was no sign forbidding firearms in the Expo) forbid it.

Sometimes, the names of businesses are worthy of discussion. Rick pointed out Chip Painters. My favorite was Master Deck Builders, but they are not capitalizing on their name. I wanted desperately to give them a makeover. I envisioned them all wearing black, for starters. Then, I wanted them all to wear menacing black hobnail boots like these. Better yet, how about the boots that Gene Simmons from Kiss wears? Okay, maybe too much. Anyway, then, I think they should have a whip coiled up and hanging from a big, studded, black leather belt. Now those would be some Master Deck Builders!

When we had walked the entire Expo and had seen quite enough--of everything--Rick and I decided to go. I had worked titanically hard at behaving myself and it had taken a toll: I was exhausted. Not once had I remarked (loudly enough to be heard) regarding awful/clever spelling (Custom Decks by Klassic--Proffesional Builders!), nor had I said Word One about the number of people who behaved as if pushing a stroller made them immune to the Rules Of Common Courtesy.

That's what I have the Dept. for.

I'm A Political Visionary

Someday, if the world cooperates with My Vision, republicans will be kept in zoos and the Rest Of Us will be able to just observe them and remark upon their odd and strange ways.

Perhaps that statement is too...visionary. (Did you think I was going to say "harsh" or "strong" or even "partisan?" You must be a New Reader! Welcome to the Dept.!) Those of you who know me know that I was being rather tame and subdued, especially when it comes to the adjectives "odd" and "strange." I'll leave it to you to play Mental Thesaurus and fill in those spots with what I really want to say. But I digress.

I've been collecting little informatoids about republicans for you, and I'm ready to set them free in order to bolster my Visionary Plan. Let me know if you are on board.

I. The Lights Are On, But Nobody's Home: A Daily Kos/Research 2000 poll of republicans in the wild found that 53% believe that Sarah Palin is more qualified to be president than Obama, with 14% who believe Obama is more qualified and 33% who said they were not sure. Holy crap. Let's remember that the former Governor of Alaska, who quit for still-inexplicable reasons and who touted her international experience as being able to see Russia from her house, has no idea how South and North Korea came into existence. She couldn't name a single newspaper that she read, yet she claimed to read "all of 'em." Perhaps those republicans just admire her business savvy; after all, she is keeping her book on the bestseller list by using her PAC to buy up more than $63,000.00 worth of them as gifts to donors. This is more than she's been donating to other political candidates in her party. That's some hardcore maverickin'. But presidential brainpower? Duh.

II. A Woman's Place: Why any woman or gay individual or person of color would ever, ever identify himself or herself as republican is beyond me. This party is so provincial and Old Boys Club. But don't take my word for it. Oh no. Give a listen to Jan Larimer, Republican National Committee co-chair, on the republican party's strategy to recruit more women candidates: "Women sometimes need a little more handholding, or they need their friends to help them make a decision. And by our going in and talking to them and recruiting and educating and training them to either get involved in a campaign or become a candidate, we're giving them the tools so that they can do that on their own."

The fact that Jan is a woman makes me want to cry. Or scream. Or hurt someone. So much is so wrong so completely with this statement that a stuffed moosehead could enumerate the points. To a doorknob. With crystalline clarity and brisk alacrity. Allow me, if you will, dearest Readers, to address Jan Larimer for a moment.
Jan--republicans sometimes need a little more faceslapping, or they need Democrats to help them make a decision. And by our going in and civilizing them and giving them a dose of reality and educating them and taking them out of their nineteenth-century wayback machines, we're giving them the tools they need so that they can someday join the twenty-first century where women have brains, control over their lives and destinies, and are, in short, not Stepford Wives or mistresses of republican senators looking for a little action.

III. Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Don't Remember: See my above first sentence for II. In 2006, Senator John McCain was asked about the military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy regarding gay people serving in the US military. Now, we all remember the senator's glowing, stellar military service record. He made damn sure of that during the presidential election. Damn sure. And I, along with everyone else, thank him for that service. His opinion on military matters should be given consideration, given this experience. Here's what he said regarding the DADT policy: "The day that the leadership of the military comes to me and says, Senator, we ought to change the policy, then I think we ought to consider seriously changing it because those leaders in the military are the ones we give the responsibility to." Okay, Senator. But...now, with President (Democrat) Obama in office and DADT about to be repealed, is (Up For Re-Election) Senator McCain ready to trust the leadership of the military? Let's listen in: "At this moment of immense hardship for our armed services, we should not be seeking to overturn the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy." Hmmmm....! Let's take a count, shall we? Defense Secretary Gates? Repeal. Chairman of Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Mullen? Repeal. Former Secretary of State and Former Chairman of Joint Chiefs of Staff and retired general of the Persian Gulf War Colin Powell? Repeal. Is this enough "Military Leadership" for you, John McCain? Guess not. Not when your seat is in play and you haven't had any other job for about eleventy thousand years. Life is tough.

But, don't despair, John McCain, Jan Larimer, and clueless republicans. If my vision is realized, you'll be well taken care of. I'm sure we can find a nice spot for all of you. Safe, homogenized, and very Beaver Cleaver. You can wave at us as we wander by and marvel. Just like Sarah to the Russians.

Saturday: Thinking About Trucks, Television, And All The News That's Fit To Fabricate

So I'm watching Judge Judy, one of my guilty pleasures. (Don't start with me. I already know I watch entirely too much television as it is, and I cannot be tasked with watching only quality programming all the time. I've already cut out most Food Network shows, having broken up with almost everyone over there. But that's another post entirely.)

Anyway. Over the course of several months of watching Judge Judy, I've noticed something curious. There seems to be a growing trend of young single women who drive trucks. Not semis or eighteen-wheelers, like for their jobs; I'm talking personal vehicles. Like a pickup truck. I cannot begin to tell you how many times a young woman will begin her testimony--as a defendant or a plaintiff--by mentioning her truck. Either it was damaged or someone owes her money for one or it was supposed to be a gift or whatever. And let me tell you--this truck ownership crosses racial and socioeconomic lines as well. These young women are black, white, Hispanic, Asian, and mixed races. They are seemingly well-to-do as well as appearing down on their luck. The Judge Judy show is filmed in New York, but her cases are from all over the country.

I am honestly befuddled by this apparent movement of Young Woman Truck Ownership. Why is this occurring? Why is the pickup truck so attractive to these young ladies? Do they have things they need to haul? Do they have a lot of friends who move? Do they not want a back seat, thereby eliminating the need to provide rides for lots of people at once? Are they sending a certain message, and if so, what is it? Do young men find women who drive trucks "hot?"

I find it all very intriguing. Perhaps the common denominator is that young women who drive trucks are either very litigious or very unlucky; failing that, they are hooked up with people who go to court an awful lot.

On a related note--marginally, at best--there is a television commercial that I find highly irritating lately. It is for a new laundry product by Purex called the 3-in-1 laundry sheet. In the ad, a woman with terrible-looking red hair says that this product "makes her life ONE THOUSAND TIMES BETTER."

Holy crap. Seriously? How miserable is this chick's life? And how much of it revolves around laundry? You know what? When Jared told me about using Control + F, it made my life easier, but mainly when I'm trying to search through hundreds of entries in my resident archives of the Brian Williams Tie Report , and not 1000 times. And again, only when I'm writing silly little blurbs...about ties. Someone needs to get some perspective, Redhaired Laundry Slave, and it isn't me.

Finally, there's this, just for...well, just for. (Mainly, so you all feel good about your families being ONE THOUSAND TIMES more normal than mine.)

Scene opens with Nance in bathroom drying her hair. Jared enters casually.

Jared: Hey. This just in. Dad says he doesn't like you.

Nance: Yeah? So what?

Jared: Mom. Hey. I don't make the news. I just report it.

Jared saunters out. Nance continues drying hair. Rick is in living room feeding logs into fireplace, innocent to all which has taken place.

Finis.

Variation On The Thumper Rule: If You Can't Think Of Anything Smart To Say, Then Shut The Hell Up--The Political Version

Mark Twain once said, "It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt." So many people in politics would do well to have that quote tattooed upon their forearms or, at the very least, with them, visibly, at all times. Here are a few examples that I've been collecting lately for your consideration. Hey, everyone needs a hobby.

Case 1. Ideally, we want our leaders to be brilliant. We want them to be smarter than we are and not the kind of ...entrepreneur that puts himself through law school by posing naked for a hotsy-totsy publication. Or the kind that uses his historic (the first time a republican has garnered a Massachusetts Senate seat in over 30 years) acceptance speech to pimp out his daughter. Senator-elect Brown is not your typical republican in many respects--he is pro-choice, he supports his state's subsidized health care system--but he needs to smarten up. Here is a delightful quote that says it all for me: "I'm a history buff. I love the Museum of Natural History." Oh, boy. Come on, Scott. Do you even know what is in a museum of natural history? Heavy sigh.

Case 2. I liked Elizabeth Edwards and stuck up for her when people--male people in particular--said unkind and disparaging things about her. (Same thing about Barbara Bush, by the way, who I always liked until she opened her snobby elitist and out-of-touch yap about the Katrina victims.) You know, the snotty remarks about how she (and Bar) looked old enough to be her husband's mother, how Elizabeth was matronly, overweight, and all that crap. Then, as the media circus was finally settling down and she and her kids could just live their lives and she could focus on managing her terminal illness, Elizabeth wrote her bestseller and dredged it all up again. Okay, whatever. I say, "Stick it to the cheating bastard and make him squirm." But just as John "The Haircut" Edwards is finally facing the music, what is Elizabeth doing? Well, among other things like running a furniture store, she's giving an interview to POLITICO, in which she seems to make excuses for him. Oh, Elizabeth Elizabeth Elizabeth. Here's what she told them about Babydaddy John-boy: "The things he wanted to do weren't going to be natural for continued public life anyway. He honestly cares about poverty." Hm. Well, it's nice that he cares about...something.

Case 3. Speaking of John Edwards. (In the interest of full disclosure, I used to like him. As a matter of fact, he was My Guy way back when. I saw him, as I may have said in a much-earlier election blogpost, as a sort of Kennedy/Clinton clone. Obviously, I STAND CORRECTED. The guy is a slimeball.) Anyway, does this guy strike you as a modern-day Reverend Dimmesdale from Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, or what? Remember him, the minister who got the Puritan woman pregnant, let her take the fall for him, stayed silent for eight years while she raised her daughter alone and was vilified by the community, and then, as he was dying, gave a pseudo-confession with his last breath, and was still seen as a Christian martyr by many in the community? One of Dimmesdale's midnight promises to his daughter Pearl is that he will one day legitimize her by standing with her and her mother. When Pearl asks if it will be the next day at noon, Reverend Dimmesdale says no, it will be another day: Judgement Day. In an eerily similar vein, here's a little quote from John "Call Me Rev." Edwards: “I have been able to spend time with her during the past year and trust that future efforts to show her the love and affection she deserves can be done privately and in peace. It was wrong for me ever to deny she was my daughter and hopefully one day, when she understands, she will forgive me.” Oh, PS. Little Frances Quinn Edwards-Hunter is TWO. At least she only had to wait ONE year for her father's acknowledgment.

So, yeah, I get it; I get that being under constant public/media scrutiny is tough. You can't filter your mouth nearly enough. But these? These are...just terrible. These people chose a public life. Now they need to choose their words, too, and carefully. Or just shut up.

The First Step Is Admitting That You Have A Problem: But That's A Helluva Big Step, You Know?

How sad. I am completely bereft these days of anything valuable to say on any topic of Real Significance. This fact became all the more apparent after I had one martini on an empty stomach on Friday, grabbed Rick's PDA during dinner out, and jotted down what I thought would prove to be incredibly brilliant notes for a blogpost.

I'm still using them here. I'll leave it to all of you to decide if there should be a new organization called WADB: Writers Against Drunk Blogging.

*)(* People everywhere need to stop ordering and drinking White Zinfandel!! (Ed. Note: This was written after I noticed the waiter bringing a gargantuan bottle of White Zinfandel to the table next to us. They eschewed the waiter's suggestion of La Crema pinot noir or another lovely Chardonnay and instead got this two-liter of WZ.)
Rick: It's not even "white," it's a BLUSH.
Nance: Yes! True. And here's a shocking truth. I'm just putting it out there. I'M A SNOB.
(Ed. Note: I'm pretty sure I sat back with a sort of "so there, act surprised, but there it is!" expression on my face. I probably am a little bit snobby about a lot of things, but in all fairness, I don't think I'm really a snob. Completely. )
Rick: (laughs)
Nance: And I just want to take that huge bottle of white zinfandel and smash it on the ground. And then I want to take this purple crayon and write on this paper tablecloth: STOP DRINKING WHITE ZINFANDEL. FOREVER!! (Ed. Note: We were at a Macaroni Grill, hence the crayon and the paper overlay on the tablecloth. That chain still likes the cutesy idea of the waiter writing his name on the table. I don't get it, personally, but okay. By the way, their new appetizer--which I wish had arrived much earlier so I wasn't already half in the bag--of marinated olives and parmesan bread, is very nice.)

*)(* A Singing Waiter! What a lovely voice, but he only sang one time and then we never heard him again. Probably one reason why was because EVERYONE ELSE SIMPLY IGNORED HIM AND KEPT SHOVELLING FOOD INTO THEIR YAWS. HARDLY ANYONE EVEN LOOKED TOWARD HIM! Typical Ohio mentality: feed your yap and not your soul. (Ed. Note: He was not our waiter. He waited on the table behind us and a few tables over. At one point during his song ("If I Loved You"), one of the diners at the table harmonized with him, which was surprising and pleasant. Both Rick and I turned toward him; our waiter, who had arrived to take our orders, stopped and listened with us. We inquired politely about the young man, who we discovered is trained in opera. All in all, it was an unexpected pleasure which was largely unremarkable to most of the other patrons, it seemed.)

*)(* My Perfect Blackberry! It would be red or pink and less square and I'd call it a raspberry. NO KEYBOARD. I would speak clearly into it, and then I'd say "stop." I would be able to edit the message before sending it by SPEAKING THE CORRECTIONS into it. Then say, "Send to Rick" or "Send to whomever". Again, the most important thing is NO KEYBOARD. (Ed. Note: I am flexible on the Raspberry name. And the "roundish" aspect. But the idea of typing on a "phone" device is completely abhorrent to me. I detest the phone, and the idea of sending messages on the fly is appealing, but teensy-tiny typing is NOT.)

I know it seems horrifyingly impolite that I was taking all these notes during a nice dinner out with my husband. Let me assure you that it took only moments to record them because, as you can see, they are fluffy little bits of nothingness. And I was everso discreet. At least I think I was. After all, I was deep into a gorgeous vodka martini, up, slightly dirty. Isn't it just tragic how little it takes to get me...thinking? And about such deep, deep things, too! Sigh. Ah, well. Let someone else win Nobels.

It's Not Just A Job, It's An Adventure: Snow, Easels, Etch-A-Sketch, And Some Etiquette

Well, I'm back at The Rock after a bit of a Break, and trust me, it was a Monumental Struggle Of Epic Proportion for everyone concerned. Thank goodness that The Longest Week Ever In The History Of Education was cut short by a Snow Day on Friday. (Best Christmas present of all!)

Here for you are 3 vignettes from Room 245, where the students are sometimes very human, and all of us learn more than just English and American Lit.

I. D's & Sympathy

Scene opens on active classroom. Students are paired off discussing the life and works of Emily Dickinson in preparation for presentations. Teacher circulates while keeping despairing eye on windows which give a wide view of ever-increasing snow outside.

Dylan: (calls teacher over for assistance) Mrs. D., can you help us a minute?
Mrs. D.: Of course. (walks over, sits down next to student)
Dylan: Are you alright? You look...I don't know. Not real good. (quickly) No offense.
Mrs. D. : That's okay. No, I'm fine. I just detest this weather. It won't stop snowing, it's freezing, the sun hasn't been out for a hundred years, and I just hate it. It's absolutely miserable and horrid. I just hate it here.
Dylan: Yeah. I know. (pats her hand sympathetically) How long ago did you move here?
Mrs. D.: What?
Dylan: How long ago did you move here? Where did you live before?
Mrs. D.: Right here! I've always lived right here. And I've always hated it. Now (brightly)...what was your question, sweetheart? About Miss Emily, I mean.
End scene.

II. Easel Does It

Scene opens on empty classroom during class change. As students begin to filter in, teacher is at the front of the room adjusting the easel to be used for visual displays during Emily Dickinson presentations. Students Brandon and Elijah come up to seats near teacher desk.

Brandon: Wow! An easel! Just like elementary school. I remember how my teacher used to use the easel for this big writing paper, and she used to show huge letters on these big charts.
Mrs. D.: Those were the days, huh, B?
Brandon: Heck yeah!
Mrs. D.: You know what I used to love in elementary school? FELT BOARDS! You probably have no idea what that even is. I used to absolutely love when my teacher would put the felt board on the easel, take out the big box of felt shapes, and use them to tell a story...or do math, even. You probably had a SMART board or something like that when you were in elementary school. How terrible. How sad. Technology is ruining childhood.
Elijah: Man, I always loved me some Etch-A-Sketch.
Mrs. D.: Oh, yeah? Me, too! What a great toy!
Elijah: (gazes off, face softening, eyes dreamy; he is completely lost in a reverie and smiling) I could take a Etch-A-Sketch and a cup of applesauce all day!
End scene

III. Just When You Think You're Talking To A Brick Wall...

Scene opens in a quiet classroom as students begin to drift in for 7th period junior "regular" English. As usual, only a few girls arrive promptly. They quickly clique up and begin to gossip as the teacher sets up the overhead projector and transparencies for the day's notes on Adjective Subordinate Clauses.

Angela: ...I know! And she has a face like a bird's.
Faith: That's because she has a nose like a chicken.
Kourtney: Well, I--
Mrs. D.: (interrupting because she can definitely hear all this and has to say something) Ladies! What a terrible thing to say! None of that is very nice at all. I certainly hope that you're not talking about anyone in our class. Remember, we all have to get along, and--
Kourtney: (interrupting with a matter-of-fact tone and expression) We're talking about The New Girl.
Faith: None of us like her.
Angela: She's a troublemaker, Mrs. D. You don't know her.
Mrs. D.: Good heavens! She just got here. And I expect the three of you--and the entire class--to treat her with respect.
Faith: She was in this school before.
Mrs. D.: I don't care. Good heavens. I had no idea the three of you felt this way!
Kourtney: ( head cocked and slyly smiling) That's because we all have to get along and treat each other with respect. Right?
End scene

Reflections: Or, A Holiday Postmortem Complete With Underwear, Dendrology, And My Brief (Retail) Sex Change

Later this afternoon I'm going to bribe Rick into taking down the tree and completely deChristmasing the house. I'm tired of all the opulence and luxe and extra stuff. Mostly, I'm tired of the Extra. Extra sweets, extra lights, extra decor, and extra extraneousness.

(Bah Humbug. I know, right? Sigh.)

But before all of that--and playing endless games of newly rediscovered Snood (how terribly sad)--I wanted to inflict upon you share a few reflections with you regarding my Holiday Adventures.

:-) On one of our Marathon Shopping Outings, Rick and I searched for the desired underwear for Sam and Jared. JC Penney seemed hell-bent on not only honing our math skills, but on presenting as many confusing options as possible: boxers, boxer briefs, briefs, bikini briefs, buy one get one half off, buy one get one free, all depending upon the dizzying array of brands available, all of which were placed in varying areas not entirely lined up with their corresponding signage. I was stroking out, but Rick persevered, and undoubtedly using the Pythagorean Theorem, chose this particular brand and took two packages to the cashier immediately before I needed EMTs:

whereupon they rang up incorrectly. Of. Course. Rick politely pointed this out, and the twentysomething woman called her manager over and said--and I quote, "Hey, Eric. These Boulevards aren't ringing up correctly." No. I am not making this up. Can you only imagine what I began to go through, as a real person with education and human sensitivity? Neither Rick nor I dared look at one another. And yes, the manager asked her to repeat herself AND SHE DID. Even as I type this, I want to throw something. (And, just to satisfy anyone's curiosity, here is the origin of the name BVD.) Still not over it.


:-) I am still trying to figure out why we have such a bigass Christmas tree. I distinctly remember saying, when we went out for our tree, "Let's not get such a bigass tree this year. It's time to start downsizing." Yet, we have an absolutely enormous tree. Everyone who walks into the house says, "Wow! That is one huge tree. That's probably the biggest tree you've ever had." What the hell happened? My sister Patti has had a fake tree for years and years and has never looked back. My brother Bob, a major real tree holdout, informed me at the family gift exchange that his tree this year fit on top of a tv snack tray. Then he said, and I quote, "Look at Nance's face." Because I sat there, horrified and mouth agape, realizing that I was the only sucker left in the family (besides my younger sister Susan, who still has two younger kids) who goes all out and gets a bigass real tree. Bob then went on, "Yeah, it's a little fake tree and all the ornaments fit in a shoebox. The lights are already on it." I turned to Rick immediately, and he said, "Nance, you're the one who picked the tree out." Which is ridiculous, of course; reread the top of this section! Next year, for sure: DOWNSIZE IS THE KEY WORD. If only people would listen to me!


:-) This is the first year that I, for various reasons, was a Last-Minute Shopper for Christmas. (I felt downright Manly. Hee hee.) Two words: NEVER. AGAIN. I cannot tell you how many times I physically stopped dead in my tracks in the middle of the mall and told myself, "Nance. You are a Grownup. You can do this. It's Just Shopping." In my defense, I must tell you that I was shopping for The Most Uninspiring Recipient Ever. Who Shall Remain Nameless. And for whom every year, I get to shop for "gifts" like socks, underwear, white teeshirts (V-neck), tennis shoes, and crapola like that. Or a Power Tool for which there are no distinct parameters, for example "a drill," but nothing about voltage or power or if it is to be "3/8 or anything like that. Do not suggest that I take anyone with me, either. Trust me, no one can handle shopping with me. That is how deep my pathology is at this point. No one deserves that. But, I did get it all done and it was fine. Just Fine. But that Last-Minute Shopping Thing will never happen again.


Oh, hey. Happy New Year. This was not The Year I Had Hoped It Would Be, to be sure. Let's keep our fingers crossed for 2010. (Which I refuse to pronounce "twenty-ten." Sounds just terrible.)

Merry Wishes From The Dept. of Nance

There's certainly plenty of both in the Dept. Cellar, thanks to our Friends In Canada, so I'm sure to be well fortified for the Holidays.

It is with deep gratitude to my Dear Readers that I greet you this Christmas. Thank you for your faithful and kind attention. To my Faithful Commenters, you hold an ever-glowing warm place in my heart. You are the ones who let me know that I am not simply strutting and fretting full of sound and fury but signifying nothing (to loosely paraphrase W Shakespeare). You're like a Secret Society with elbow-jabbing in-jokes, knowing nods, and sighing commiserations. I always write for me first, but I always think of you.

May this holiday--Christmas, Hanukkah, Festivus, or anything you celebrate--find you all with something that makes you happy. Even for a moment.

And above all, may you find Hope.

Or, may Hope find you.

Saturday Morning With Sam, His Blackberry, A Cow, And A Wolf: A Play In Two Scenes

Saturday morning at the Dept. Sam makes a rare appearance, mainly to troubleshoot his Blackberry using Rick's laptop. Rick and I are watching the Cleveland NBC affiliate morning news show.

SCENE 1.

Nance: (watching a report about a therapy dog) Hey! That's what I'll do. When I retire, I'll use my minicow as a therapy animal! How wonderful would that be? Just imagine: I could take it to nursing homes to visit the elderly, to hospitals to visit sick children...it would be great!

Rick: I'm with you one hundred percent.

Nance: Sam! Wouldn't you love it if you were a sick child in the hospital, stuck there in bed, sad and afraid, watching The Price Is Right reruns all day, and suddenly a gorgeous and cuddly minicow came to see you?

Sam: (not even looking up from his Blackberry) No. Cows don't do it for me, Mom.

Nance: That's not true! You would love it! You would be happy and excited. You know you would. Everyone loves cows. Rick.

Rick: I'd love it.

Nance: Look there. (points to shot of smiling elderly woman on television) That woman would be thrilled to see a happy, well-cared-for cow visit her. For holiday time, I could even put, say--

Rick: (interrupting) --a hat or--

Nance: (interrupting with a disdainful look that lasers his head off and leaves a burning, charred stump at the top of his neck) Rick! No animal likes to be dressed up. It's undignified. As I was going to say, I could put a small bow on it, like a red or pink bow for Valentine's Day, for example. Tell me that a sick kid or a lonely old person wouldn't love to have a beautiful, cuddly cow come visit him on a holiday. Tell me. You can't. It's as simple as that. Sam!

Sam: Whatever. Cows stink. They smell bad.

Nance: Sam! That's just not true. The animal itself has no unpleasant odor. It doesn't. Sure, its manure smells bad, but the cow itself doesn't. I would shampoo it before I took it anyplace.

Sam: (looks meaningfully at Rick) Yeah, right.

Nance: What? What is that look?

Sam: You mean Dad would be out there washing the cow. No way you're out there washing a cow. Especially in cold weather, outside.

Nance: AHA! But we're moving to a much warmer climate when I retire! SO THERE!

Sam: (shakes head doubtfully)

SCENE 2.

(Segment changes on show. Moves to live weather report from Virginia affiliate. Reporter named "Wolf" stands outside in snow.)

Nance: Sam. Aren't you glad Mommy didn't name you something horrid like "Wolf?"

Sam: Not really. That's kind of cool.

Nance: No, it isn't. It's terrible. Children in elementary school would tease you and howl at you all during recess.

Sam: Then I would bite them.

FINIS.

Grinching And Bitching At The Dept., So If You're The Least Bit Merry, You Might Want To Skip This Post Until You've Had Way More Eggnog

Oh, Heavy Sigh. Today I am valiantly trying to have Christmas Spirit, and no one is helping me. Honestly, what the hell is my problem, anyway? Christmas is not like Easter, a holiday which randomly occurs by some incomprehensible formula devised by ecclesiastical calculations based upon...exactly what, I'm not sure (and please do not feel compelled to enlighten me in Comments). Christmas is the same day every single year. Yet, for many years now, I have been left unready and unmotivated, as if it sneaked up on me like a lurker from the shadows.

It is a strange paradox: I feel stalked and victimized by Christmas.

It's unnecessary for me to rant on about how retailers have begun to allow Christmas to insidiously seep into stores as early as October now, elbowing out Halloween items for shelf space. (When I was little, I used to know that Christmas season had officially begun as soon as I saw the commercial on television where Santa rides the Norelco electric shaver. ) This Holiday Push is nothing new anymore.

What I have begun to feel, I think, is a sort of Christmas Maturation Burn-Out: it's just not fun any longer. It's all a Lot Of Extra Work. Back when Sam and Jared were little, I could wander into Toys-R-Us and zoom down the Fisher Price aisle or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle area and have fun! Or buy zippy crafty stuff like Play*Doh and boxes of Crayola crayons and a Lite Brite, or games and silly bath foam and Spirograph sets. Those littler boys did not have jobs and girlfriends and other commitments that make trying to schedule putting up the tree an occasion for a family meeting.

And buying presents now is...worky. It's all sizes and store preferences and guessing and "I don't know, Mom, I'll email you a list from work if I get time." And don't say, "Give them money or a gift card" because moms can't do that and you know it.

So I soldier on, the Bringer Of All Holidays. I do it anyway. It's My Job. I start up the 30-day Friendship Fruit for the 25th year so I can bake a cake. I throw together a couple of batches of cookie dough. I nag my sister for some ideas for her kids' gifts. I elaborately decorate the fireplace mantel and set out the snowman collection. I buy each of my four long-suffering and indispensable teacher aides a nice gift and make a mental note to get them wrapped and to school before Christmas break. I desperately try to remember how big of a ham I bought last year for the family Christmas Eve open house (held every year at my house) so that I don't have too much left over.

And there's still almost all of the shopping to do. Who are these people who get theirs done so very excruciatingly early? How on earth do they do it? Do they hold the potential recipients at gunpoint and get their lists like, in August? Or do they blithely just get each person whatever the hell they feel like buying for them? If that is the case, then I need to revamp my Entire Gift-Giving Attitude And Approach and get with that program.

TWELVE MORE SHOPPING DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS! some overly perky blond newscaster trumpeted at me this morning as I was trying to have my coffee and read my Plain Dealer at 8 AM. I wanted to hurl my candy cane mug at her pancakey face and shellacked page-boy, but I couldn't because I was immobilized by panic and shock. I have to work until the 23rd! How will I ever get everything done? "Christmas is for children" says a line in one carol. Boy, they're not kidding. Those were the days: all we had to do as kids was write a letter to Santa, show up, and open presents. Even the "being good" part was pretty much optional. I loved Christmas. Now I feel beaten up by it.

Has anyone else lost their Christmas Spirit? Or is it just me? Maybe it's the culmination of a downright crappy year. I'm hoping that, if I keep on keeping up appearances, it will just come back on its own. Wish me luck.

(Oh, and just so you know that I once had a bit more of a sense of humour about This Holiday, here are some of my favorite Christmas Posts Of Long Ago, since my LinkWithin seems to be ignoring them: This about themed trees ; this one about a non-traditional Crocs-wearing Santa ; this one about our family's sacred Christmas rules ; and finally, this one about our rather oddly-shaped Christmas tree a few years ago. I hope you enjoy them as a little Christmas present that I didn't have to shop for!)

I Am Not An Animal! (And Judging By Their Press, I Am Damn Glad!)

From time to time, as many Alert Dept. Readers know, I like to keep you all abreast of Important Doings in the Animal World. (I also like to give my Shift Key a workout and employ Pretentious Eccentric Capitalization, but I digress.) Well, that time has come again, and with vigor. Two of my favourite animals are in the news, and circumstances being what they are--dire--I must bring these bulletins to you.
ITEM--In a shameless display of bullying, China, who holds almost 800 billion dollars of the United States' debt, has decided to flex a little of its leverage muscle and ask for its pandas back. Especially upsetting to patriotic panda lovers is the imminent return of Tai Shan, the cub resident at D.C.'s National Zoo in our nation's capital. Tai Shan, who was born at the zoo in 2005, will be shipped to China early next year, despite the fact that he is American born--a naturalized citizen of these United States! Plus, let's keep in mind that we're giving the Chinese not the old, hand-me-down pandas that they originally gave us! No. They are getting a brand, spanking new panda. How is this fair? I am also assuming that Tai Shan does not speak Chinese. He has been around American keepers his whole life, and I am also assuming that his parents, who have been in this country now for nine years, have entirely assimilated and are pretty much Americans, too. He is ill-equipped, at the tender age of four, to go off to what will be a foreign country and live among strangers. I am worried about his wellbeing and his happiness. You should be, too, if you are serious about pandas.
ITEM--More bad press about cows, and this time, it is all conjecture and forensic revisionist literary history bullshit. Thank goodness again for my Google News Alert feature, or I would never have been aware of this travesty. This inflammatory headline, of course, drew my ire right away, and I knew right then that I had to take the bull by the horns: WAS JANE AUSTEN KILLED BY COWS? "Of course not!" I shouted at my computer screen. Jane Austen is one of the most beloved of all Victorian novelists, and certainly in the sacred pantheon of woman writers. The last thing cows need is her death on their heads. They've already been saddled with global warming, and now this? The headline leads the casual news skimmer to assume that she was perhaps trampled or gored by rampaging bovines. One has to get past an entire lead paragraph and well into the second to finally read the far more tame and tepid crux of the theory: "Austen may have succumbed to tuberculosis contracted from cows." Oh, is that all? A glass of milk? Yawn. Listen, people, in this day and age we can die from eating spinach. Or drinking water. Lay off the cows, already. But, really, they still have it better than the camels. Read on.
ITEM--Listen, I am not a big fan of camels. I rode one once, and it was okay, but by and large, they don't do a thing for me. Still, no animal deserves this. Okay, maybe snakes. Or the dogs in my neighborhood who never shut the hell up. Or maybe certain republican radio show hosts. But not these poor camels. True, no one wants to be invaded by 6000 rampaging anything looking for a drink--that's for sure--but to round them up by helicopter and then pick them off and allow them to rot (read: die in agony if not killed, only wounded) sounds just terrible. First of all, these camels didn't ask to come to Australia; they were brought to the continent. Is it their fault that the experiment didn't go as planned? Why didn't the conservationists and wildlife experts there control the population before the feral herd topped a million? Why hasn't Camel Control been a priority? Besides, look at the photo of that camel opening a door by using the knob! That camel did that without being trained! Don't tell me that some of those camels don't have a future in the Entertainment Business! Why can't Australians look into Camel Exporting? I feel like there are any number of solutions that just haven't been explored here, the least of which might be: Camel: The Other White Meat.

I think you're all up to speed now with our friends in the Animal Kingdom. Remember, they share our planet. When it's all over, who do you think will come back first? Better be nice!