In Which I Revisit Parallel Parking As Well As Visit With My Mother, Bash Social Networking, And Provide More Insight Into republicans, Royalty, And Fashion

My Spring Break is pretty much over, and while I am always glad to be At Home rather than At Work, the weather was rainy and awful most of the time, rendering me a Cat-hair covered mushbrain.  But, okay.  At least I have a few Cranial Clots to share, however chaotic they may be.

Dodging raindrops one day, I had to go to a Government Office.  As if that was not bad enough, I had to parallel park.  Which I failed when first taking my driver's test.  (About eleventy hundred years ago.) Verdict:  I still suck at it.  But this time, I find that I don't care.

My son Jared is still trying to get me to start a Twitter account.  (Oh, quelle horreur!)  "Mom!" he commanded earlier this week.  "Your Twitter feed would be amazing.  Seriously.  All my friends already said they would follow you."  Oh. Boy. Jared is in his twenties.  And...so are his friends.  This is pretty illustrative as to why I don't have a Twitter account and do not get me started on Facebook.  Also, I have now typed the word Twitter way more times than I have ever wanted to in my entire life; ditto Facebook.

I was not in the least bit surprised when browsing The Huffington Post's website and, coming across this headline Depression at Work:  10 Careers with High Rates of Depression, to find Number 6.  I didn't see Real Estate Developer/Mogul/Sideshow Barker/Closet Racist in there, nor did I see State Representative/Homophobe/History Revisionist/Clueless Idiot.  Among other things. They're just as happy as...well...they can be.  Ignorance is bliss, as Thomas Gray said.

Okay, now here's a thing.  Imagine, just for the hell of it, that Alfred E. Newman and The Angel of Death could have a child.

Did you?  Because if you did, here's who it would be:               





That's Scotty McCreery from "American Idol"

Finally, even if you could try, there was no way to escape The! Royal! Wedding! What a bigass load of hoopla that all was. I just have two things to say. First, if I were the Queen of England, hell be damn sure I would announce way ahead of time what colour I was wearing and Officially Prevent everyone else from wearing it. I mean, I Am The Queen. OF ENGLAND. If I want to wear a buttercup yellow ensemble, no one else--sitting in close proximity of me, nonetheless!--is wearing that colour. Forget that.  Second, why does the Queen always carry that handbag around? What does she need a purse for at the wedding? Or ever, for that matter?  My mother was at my house yesterday morning, and we were watching a recap of The Royal Wedding, and we had this brief chat:

Me:  What is up with the Queen always carrying a purse?

Patsy:  I don't know, but she always does.

Me:  What does she need it for? Especially at a wedding. Just stick a hanky in her glove. Or have her husband carry one for her.

Patsy:  I know.

Me:  Holy crap, Mom. She's the queen! Whenever Rick and I go anywhere, the first thing I ask him is "do I have to take my purse?" What the heck does she have in there, the launch codes?"

Patsy:  Well, she's what, over 80, so maybe she carries her Poise pads in there. (laughs)

Oh, one last thing about the Royal Wedding.

Never.

I Need(ed) A Break! And After Reading All Of This, You Might, Too

It's SPRING BREAK, BABY!  And I could not be happier or more relieved.  It was a long slog to get here, believe me.  I thought March was bad, but these 20 days of April were brutal.  Brutal, I tell you.  But I made it, and now all that is left to do, really, is to clear out a few Occipital Oddments left clattering about in my cranium, and I'm good.  I can cross "put up a post at the Dept." off my list, move on to vacuuming, uncork a red, and figure out dinner.

I mentioned in Comments in the last post how awful our copiers are in our Brand! New! High! School! Well, this week we had yet another Epic Paper Jam, and because I had time, I set to work on it.  Under the watchful eye of Kathleen, I systematically began to clear the mangled copies out from the interior of the machine. "Damn it!" I exploded.  "It keeps lighting up the same error spot."  Kathleen calmly surveyed me kneeling next to the copier.  "Is it number 6?" she asked knowingly.  "I got stuck at number 6 forever last time. Forget it. There's no way to get in there."  I pulled out another drawer, undeterred.  "It says something about a conveyance in number 1.  Well, number 1 can go fuck itself at this point. I really don't...Holy shit!  Look at this!"  I withdrew a handful of tightly pleated copies.  "The Digestive System," I read aloud from the top copy, showing it to Kathleen.  "All this was stuck right in the middle drawer!"  Kathleen looked at it wryly.  "Oh, the irony," she said.

Another Workroom Diversion occurs when teachers read student work aloud.  Sometimes it's for entertainment purposes; sometimes it's out of frustration; sometimes it's because we are blown away by the high calibre of its quality and we're just plain impressed.  The best fun is Vocabulary Sentences.  Often, the nuances of usage escape students, regardless of their level.  My honors students, even, will misuse a word because they can't grasp the finer points of its usage.  For example, one of their words this week was schism.  A vast majority of them used it in this context:  The will left each of the children an equal schism of money.  See what I mean?  Here are two of my favourite vocabulary sentences shared by the team teachers Lisa and Karen this past week and a half:

*Amanda onslaught her boyfriend because he was messing with her car.

*The pizza was discernible from the living room.

You cannot put a price on entertainment like that.  Of course, we do not give points for Entertainment Value, but as we so often say, Life Is Not Fair.

Not so long ago, Jared--the son who used to co-author a blog with me--grew weary of thinking of segues or polite ways to introduce new topics of conversation.  (Sam, my youngest, used to use a Five-Second Rule:  that is, he'd wait five seconds, and if no one continued the current conversation, would simply jump in and start a new topic.)  Now, Jared simply says, "Unrelated" and then carries on with Whatever He Wanted To Talk About.  So...

UNRELATED

1.  I contacted Garnier about the hair gel I loved. Turns out it's not discontinued, only unavailable in my area.  They pointed me to drugstore.com, where I ordered 7 tubes because I'm not convinced.

2.  I think my formerly favourite TV show House has jumped the shark.

3.  Why are there so many cake-themed shows on TV? And why are they so bellicose? Cake is a dessert, people! No one should be battling, warring, building, or sweating and injuring themselves over cake!  Stop it immediately...I was going to say "before someone gets hurt" but it seems a bit disingenuous to say that now, doesn't it?  How pathetically ridiculous to take all the fun out of cake. What is next?  Will they ruin cotton candy and Nutella?  (OH MY GOD DON'T YOU DARE!)

4.  In my spare time, I worry about Richard Engel, Middle East correspondent for NBC Nightly News. First of all, is he adorable, or what? Great teeth, great hair, so well-spoken...but he has no regard for his personal safety!  He is constantly in a war zone, speaking Farsi to the locals and playing dodgeball with missiles and anti-aircraft fire.  (All the while looking fantastic and somehow cuddly and dashing at the same time.)  If he doesn't knock it the hell off, I am writing an impassioned letter to his mother.

Now then!  I think that will hold you all through Easter.  Or whatever you may--or may not--celebrate.  I'm going to have a lovely Break. Do take Some Time for yourselves, won't you? 

I Make A Superhuman Effort To Return To The Interwebs And Make You Think About Your Own Superpower

Last week was one of The Longest Weeks In The History Of Education.  My colleagues and I put in two twelve-hour days, thanks to the dreaded Parent-Teacher Conferences, which are held from 3:30-7:00 pm.  We call them The Hostage Crisis--among other things.  As a result, on the days following, we are delirious and incoherent in the workroom, which begins to take on the atmosphere of the old lounge back at The Rock.   (Ah, those were the days!)

Scene opens in the teacher workroom.  It is crowded and, uncharacteristically, noisy.  Some teachers are at computer stations, others eat lunch at the long tables.

Sue:  (from computer station)  Remind me to go to the bathroom.

Kerrie:  (looks up from her lunch, wide-eyed) Oh!  Oh!  That reminds me!  Nance! Now I know why You-know-who is your arch-nemesis.  I was standing in front of the bathroom, with my hand practically on the door handle, and she just tottered right in front of me and went on in!  I was furious!  Just because she has that thing on her foot or whatever.

Nance:  (peers around from computer) She's horrid. And she would have done that without that plastic cast on her foot.  She's just rude.

Sue:  Remember Sharon?  She did that all the time with the bathroom.  You could be standing there at the door with your hand on the knob and she'd just sneak right past you.

Nance:  I know!  Angie called her "The Zephyr."  She blew past you like a breeze. Sometimes, you didn't even know you'd been Zephyred, and you'd walk on in, and there would be Sharon!  It was her superpower!

(everyone laughs)

Nance: That, and disdain.  Disdain was her other superpower.  Remember when she said to me at her retirement party last year, "Moving into a new school and doing all that unpacking and settling in to a new place just doesn't interest me. I don't know why anyone would do it."?  As if we all had a choice?!   Like the rest of us could just retire too and avoid it?  Gotta love Sharon.

Kerrie:  I know!  All year last year she kept barging into my desk in the bookroom and grabbing my three-hole punch and using it and calling it "The Department Three-Hole Punch."  I didn't have the heart to tell her No, it's MY THREE-HOLE PUNCH ON MY DESK THAT I BOUGHT WITH MY OWN MONEY AND I'M LETTING YOU USE IT.

Nance:  Hey.  It's getting awfully cold in here.  Why is it belching ice-cold air all of a sudden?  Sue!  Did you turn down the thermostat over there?

Sue:  Huh?  No.  I haven't touched it.

Nance:  (sighs loudly)  I bet.  You know, you menopausal women in here...

Sue: (interrupts and shakes finger at Nance) Watch it, now. Watch what you say! I have the thermostat over here!  I have it right above my desk.  That's my superpower!

End Scene.

Why Is My Life So Hard? How Corporations Have Ignored My Loyalty And Stolen From Me (Shamelessly, No Less!)

Boy oh boy, there is nothing that frosts my cupcakes like finding a product that works for me and staying loyal to it for years and years, only to have the Geniuses At Corporate decide--on a whim--to yank it out from under me with no warning whatsoever. Here is a brief sampling of specific items that have been capriciously and callously stolen from me:

1. Reynolds Plastic Wrap

2. Bath & Body Lavender Vanilla Body Spray

3. Flex Extra Body Shampoo

4. Fructis Body Boost Styling Gel

5. PurinaOne Healthy Weight Formula Cat Food

Allow me to bitch...er...elaborate:

1.Reynolds Plastic Wrap was the most brilliantly conceived product ever in the history of kitchen conveniences. This food wrap came in a box with a sliding cutter attachment, which completely rendered obsolete the treacherous and hazardous metal serrated cutting Edge Of Death. It also allowed you to avoid wrangling the plastic film, which automatically sticks to itself rather than the surface you are trying to cover. I actually emailed and called Reynolds, and begged them to find me a Secret Stash in a warehouse someplace in Area 51. They informed me that they had no more and had no plans to revive this product, for which there had been "insufficient sales overall." My heart is still broken.

2. Every single fragrance I have ever loved from this store has been discontinued. Every single one. Now, I know that they constantly add new ones and "retire" scents. But their Lavender Vanilla "Sleep" fragrance was an all-time fave that was almost immediately pulled as a body spray. It stuck around as a candle, lotion, and some idiotic thing called a "pillow spray," but within the space of several months was gonzo as a perfume. I wanted to smack someone. I don't like strong perfumes or ridiculously expensive colognes. What a racket. But so much for having a "signature scent." Mine is always discontinued.

3. Did you know that Flex is no longer? Me, either! Like many products, it simply disappeared. Rick used this shampoo for eleventy years, and it smelled wonderful and did great things for his hair. Tough shit. It's gone now, and forever.

4. Longtime Dept. readers know that My Hair is an epic battle/journey, and that I prefer to spend my money on shoes. I had finally found an inexpensive and reliable styling gel that was not sticky but gave my hair nice volume. About a month ago, I noticed that I was having trouble finding it. I began buying two or three tubes at a time. Now, it's nowhere, and I've discovered why. Fructis has gone all pseudo-natural and organic and is making hair gel with some tree sap. I'm screwed again. Can I go back to Pantene Volumizing Gel? No, I cannot because they no longer make THAT, either.

5. Piper's flabknot is an ongoing source of concern and mortification for me. Marlowe, less so, but I am having success with Purina's Healthy Weight formula. Both cattens are friskier and it has 15% fewer calories. The last time I went to buy some, I had to go to three stores to find it. This weekend, I went to SIX and none of them had it. Apparently, Purina is discontinuing it and I have to figure out something else. Those of you with pets know that you cannot just fill the bowl with a new food and move on. Especially with cats. And have any of you seen the price of pet food lately? It's all premium unless you just sling in an off-brand and call it a day. The cattens will, in effect, be eating prime rib and filet, so to speak. It's ridiculous.

Let me just say this: I am resentful and irked. Who the hell do these people think they are? Why did they not consult with Me first? Why can't stuff I like be left alone? Is that too much to ask? And I bet you've had things stolen out from under you as well. Go ahead; vent in Comments.

Cars, Cattens, Contagion, and Critique--I Sacrifice My Health To Bring Them All To You (My Benevolence Knows No Bounds)

Hello? Is this thing on?

Sigh. I apologize for the Overlong Hiatus, I really do, but Things happen, and in the intervening time, I have also broken one of my own Sacrosanct Edicts and--insert dire sounding music here--gotten sick.

I know.

It is beyond horrid. I have a sinus infection, an ear infection, a...well, TMI already. It is hideous. I am snotful and coughing and miserable and I BLAME RICK. The people at his offices keep on passing around this Vile Contagion, and he has brought it home to me. Probably he should have stayed at a hotel or something until it finally died out or whatever. Suffice it to say that I am annoyed and feeling much put-upon, no--victimized at this point.

I have had to abandon my job for two days, abandon weekend plans, and abandon this blog. I am, however, fighting through the pain to be with all of you and bring you some of the cerebral scrap being edged out by all the mucus in my head.

{*}Rick and I bought a Prius last weekend. He finally got rid of his truck, which was traumatic. It made sense for us now, though, since he no longer needs a truck for his job and gas prices are what they are. The boys cannot believe their father does not have a truck; he's always been a Truck Guy their whole lives. Sam, who once sold cars, was quick to point out that we are the Cliche Prius Owners. "You're over fifty, empty nesters, Democrats, and already own a hybrid. You, Mom, are near retirement and fixed income status. It was your destiny."

{*}Piper and Marlowe had their First Birthday on March 10th. This means that they are officially Not Kittens any more. I have a hard time with this because I have referred to them collectively as The Kittens since they came to live with us in May. Just like Sam and Jared, who are soon to be 23 and 26 respectively, will always be The Boys, Piper and Marlowe will be kittens to me. I am trying out the transitional term "The Cattens" for now. They could not possibly care any less, believe me, as long as I fill their dish at 6:30 AM and 5:30 PM. Has Piper lost any weight? I like to think so, but everyone else will say No. They have gotten more active--yes they have, Sam and Jared; you are not here all the time!--but Piper still has a flabknot and eats so fast that he gets hiccups after every meal.

{*}Interesting critique session during Creative Writing II the other day. A student had a line in his poem about algae squishing around his feet. Several students took issue with the tone of the line in relation to the rest of his poem. He defended it vociferously. I offered a criticism as well. He responded with, "Well, Mrs. D., if you ever in your life had been in a lake..." Okay. Again I am confronted with student perception of my image. I immediately stopped and took a survey:

Mrs. D.: Okay. Show of hands. How many of you doubt that I have ever been in a lake?
(in a class of 14, more than half raise their hands--probably 10)
Mrs. D.: WHAT? You are serious. Why on earth would you think that?
Poet: Oh, come on. Look at you. There is no way you're getting into a lake. I mean...
Angela: You already told us you don't know how to swim. And, that you don't like to go in the water.
Dylan: Yeah, and lakes have mud on the bottom, and sand. And you hate the beach.
Poet: Don't even try it.
Mrs. D.: Give me a break. All of you. You forget one thing. I was not born at the age of 51. I had a childhood, remember? I have been in lakes, plenty of them. Geeze. You remember the craziest stuff.

That's all for now. I am overcome with sludginess. I am spraying stuff up my nose, cramming stuff down my throat, blowing junk out of my head, and in general, feeling like this:

And, why do things always get worse at night? By 5:30 or so, I end up feeling more like this:

It is such a Tragedy.

The Defender of The Language Returns, For Evil Never Sleeps In The Minds Of Those Bent Upon The Destruction Of English

Once again, the Defender of The Language will use this space to take questions from vexed readers residing all across this Great Land of Ours. She will try her best to repair these breaches in that Sacred Trust. First to share a concern is Reverend Nigel Ellsworth, from Maine.

Oh, Defender, cheers! I had the most embarrassing conversation with one of my parishioners. She wanted my guidance with regard to her teenaged son. He had started hanging around with a bad lot of friends, and she was worried about him starting up with drugs. She wanted my advice as to how to, in her words, "nip it in the butt." I almost wept with embarrassment! Surely that is not an accepted alternative to the idiom, is it? Isn't the proper saying still to "nip it in the bud?"

That must have been embarrassing, indeed, Reverend, for both of you, although your congregant was oblivious to her mangling of this common idiom. You are correct. The saying is "nip it in the bud," and if you visualize it, you can imagine exactly what the metaphor is behind it. It means to deal with a problem when it first appears, before it has a chance to grow larger. Now you, and even your hapless parishioner, can see why "nipping it in the butt" is both awkwardly embarrassing and nonsensical. Certainly it is painful for the problem at hand, but it's illogical: how would nipping anything in the...er, butt solve the problem?

Next, Chrystal from Providence has a question. Chrystal? Chrystal! You're up! DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION OR NOT?

Huh? You don't have to shout at me. God! Whatever. My question is this. My boyfriend has this big paper due tomorrow and I'm helping him with it. His grammar and stuff is terrible. We just had a humongous fight over two stupid words, everyday and a lot. He keeps pushing both of them together, no matter what. I told him like twenty times that he's totally wrong. He won't believe me. Can you tell him he's a big freaking idiot so that I'm not the one he's mad at and I can still go to Prom?

Well, Chrystal, tear the tags off that dress, my dear. You are going to the prom. Let's deal with everyday first. When written as one word, everyday is an adjective, and it means "commonplace, ordinary, usual." It would be describing a noun. You could use it thusly: These are my everyday shoes. If written as two distinct words, it then describes a time--"each day." You could then use it in this way: I eat cereal every day. Your second issue, a lot, is somewhat easier. As a skilled and careful writer, you should simply avoid it, especially in a lengthy, scholarly paper. It is inexact and flabby. You are, however, correct. It is always, always, always written as two words, whether describing a great deal of something or, more correctly, a parcel of land upon which you might place a building. I would prefer that you only use it for the latter.

Finally, we will hear from Felicia, stationed in Guam.

Hey, Defender! Memorias, everyone! I realize that I'm in a whole different country over here, but I still speak English, and the majority of the people I deal with on a daily basis do, too. I've noticed a disturbing trend, and I wondered if I missed something since I've been stationed here. Did "have went" suddenly become proper? Am I the wrong one?

Felicia, thank you for your service. The short answer to your question is a resounding NO. The perfect tense of the verb "go" is and always has been "gone," whether it is with the helping verb "has," "had," or "have." It is, therefore, correct to say I had gone to the gym rather than the horrid I had went to the gym. As to the reason why you are suddenly hearing such dismaying speech in Guam, I have no idea, but I am as distressed as you are. What a terrible ordeal for you so far from home. Buena Suette.

As always, if you have a question or concern for the Defender of The Language, leave it in Comments or email Nance here at the Dept. of Nance by clicking the email link in the sidebar. Questions and issues will be addressed in the next column.

To Grandmother's House We Go

On nights that I can't sleep, I sometimes take a memory walk through my grandparents' house in Ashland, Ohio, on East Liberty Street. As soon as I enter the front door, I smile because of the couch: there it is in all its rose-pink glory. What a family scandal that davenport caused, and what a topic for conversation it became for years. I was so enamoured of that couch, and I couldn't wait to tell Grandma so. "Grandma, I love that couch! It's gorgeous!" I said to her as I walked in and hugged her. She looked up at me from her chair at her sewing machine--where she always was--and her eyes were positively sparking with orneriness. Holding my hands, she said, "Oh you do now, do you? Well, it's pink, anyway. There's some that don't like it so awful much. Supposed to be rose. The color, I mean." She looked a little thoughtful for a moment, then still holding both my hands, said, "Well, I'm glad you do. And the rest'll still sit on it, either way."

I don't remember who actually picked out that couch--maybe an aunt or even a decorator--but it was the boldest piece in the room. Even the red glass chandelier above the stairway (which one uncle once likened to something seen in a bordello) couldn't compare to it. As I linger in Grandma and Grandpa's living room, I am drawn to the serenity of one corner where her chair waits patiently each evening, the floor lamp hovering beside it. Here, at day's end, Grandma sits and reads her Bible like a devoted scholar of the Word. I used to watch her, quiet and careful, to see if she was getting comfort, peace, happiness, or enlightenment from this daily ritual. Each time I observed her, she seemed to be studying, learning, almost...girding. My grandmother, who saw the Reverend Billy Graham as a sort of ecclesiastical superhero, was gritty about her Bible.

As is the case with many homes, Grandma and Grandpa used their dining room for everything but dining. Theirs contained Grandpa's desk, a dark mahogany trove of drawers which seemed to contain something new and exciting every time we visited; an exquisitely carved tall writing secretary that would make an Antiques Roadshow host salivate; one of Grandma's several sewing machines (I think this is the one she won as a prize for something); an actual drop-leaf dining room table shoved up against the wall; an incredibly comfortable but noisy rocking chair which all the grandkids loved because it rocked so far back that it was almost dangerous; and a frosted glass light fixture hanging from the middle of the ceiling that all of us kids called The Wedding Cake. This light fixture was huge, looked handpainted, and did look exactly like a wedding cake. Sometimes, my little sister and I would lie on our backs just to look at it. And on one memorable visit, we found an ancient pack of cigarettes in the desk drawer.

In the kitchen is where the defining character of Grandma and Grandpa's marriage becomes clear. On any given day when we would come to visit them, we would be likely to find Grandpa washing dishes or setting out the lunch dishes (only, they called the afternoon meal "dinner"; the evening meal was "supper") or puttering at some chore or other. Grandma was invariably at her sewing machine--the primary one--in the kitchen. She had a couple of machines she used, and her Number One was a treadle machine. There it is, at the back of the kitchen behind the table, right under all the windows. Next to it is a little half-bath. Grandma's kitchen is, to me, huge. And the cupboards seem to go all the way up to the ceiling. How can they reach all the way up there? It isn't a big deal, though; all the everyday things are down low, and the Important Things For Grandchildren are stored in the lowest cabinet of all. Those things are the cookies. I can see them now: thick, brown molasses cookies and her "white" cookies made with sour cream, both soft and fat and as big around as a baby's head. Oh lord, those cookies. Some years, I was all about the brown cookies; other years, the white. And it didn't matter when we came to visit, there were always cookies! How did she do it?

It is a kitchen of Many Little Miracles. Horehound drops and pink wintergreen discs. Creamy homemade mints from my Uncle Marshall's candy shop. Pies with strange fruits like ground-cherries and elderberries and my all-time favorite, rhubarb. Pennsylvania Dutch pot pie, which isn't pie at all, but doughy dumplings and ham hocks and rich broth. Grandma and Grandpa canned everything, and we had corn that tasted like summertime, even in the grey doldrums of winter. Grandpa was famous for "cleaning up the last" of everything, leading to odd mixtures and creations on his plate. Once, Grandma scolded him for eating peanut butter and baloney, and he made a funny face at her behind her back to make us laugh.

It was decades before the idea of the Man Cave, but that's what Grandpa's basement and garage were. Downstairs, Grandpa had built himself a workshop for turning out whatever hardware was necessary for the latest of Grandma's sewing projects. For the longest time, it was fancy doll beds that Grandma was making skirts and sheets and coverlets for and selling at the Senior Citizens' Center. Grandpa made the actual beds for her to dress. Also downstairs was a sawhorse with a real saddle that we grandkids would ride to let off steam, the canning stove and equipment (perfect for playing house), and the door to the garage. We didn't go out in the garage without Grandpa, and my memory is very dim here. Stories abound, however, about Grandpa letting cider "go hard" out there. I'm not sure I believe them, partly because I can't imagine Grandpa ever being without full possession of his faculties, and partly because I can't imagine Grandma putting up with that behavior because, believe me, there was absolutely no way it could have occurred in secret.

Sometimes, if it's a particularly sleepless night, I even drift all the way up the steps with their comfortable, familiar creaks and pause in the bedroom where I used to sleep when we'd spend the night. The wallpaper is greyish blue with sprigs of dogwoods, and the bed is soft and springy. Outside, I hear the sounds of mourning doves and the occasional car as it travels the brick street, stops at the intersection, then continues up the slight hill on its way. I know the pictures on the skirted vanity--wedding pictures of my aunt, my mother, and all their attendants. I can hear the soft murmurs and laughter of the grownups down below as they talk about relatives, kids, the past, and the future. I can feel the crocheted fancywork on the end of the case as I turn my pillow to the cool side and fall asleep in the big, wide bed at Grandma's house.

How Can This Be Only February? My Tragi-Meter Points To At Least Late March, And Self-Pity Springs Eternal

Sorry to take issue with T.S. Eliot, but I'm here--barely--to tell you that it's February that is the Cruellest Month. When the weather chick gets breathless announcing that we'll climb into the mid-twenties (!!), you know things have reached Maximum Suckage And Holding.

As a result, I'm scattered and fragmented and In The Slough Of Despair, and even Walt Whitman can't lift me this time. (Especially to hear him droned and desecrated by disengaged juniors who, unless Walt has, like, a MyTwitFace presence, really, like, has, like, nothing to say, like, what page is it on again?)

Yet, I press on. Allow me to shake loose a few clingy clutterbits from my random-bin, and we'll see if anything entertains.

+:+The snow, my lord, the snow. There was absolutely nowhere else to put it, and the driveway had two inches of ice on it. Yesterday, the temperature skyrocketed to almost 40, and I was able to go outside and actually look around a little before getting into the car, which prompted this dialogue as I walked near the side of the garage:
Rick: (nonchalantly) Oh, by the way. I hit the garage over there with the snowblower.
Nance: (surveys damaged area, eyes widening, mouth agape) Oh my god! Why...well...what on earth did you expect me to...do with this...information?
Rick: (calmly, not looking at her) Process it and try to move on. And when it gets nicer out, remind me to replace those pieces of siding.
Nance: (staring at him as if he just landed on the planet) What?! Are you...? Do we even have those pieces of the siding?
Rick: (already in the car) Of course.

+:+ Somehow, Piper and Marlowe are...well, fat. On just dry cat food and water. Do not laugh. I am beyond distraught about this, and I have put them on A Diet. I bought diet cat food, and I only feed them twice a day, the recommended amount each time. No table food, and the treats they get are only 2 calories each, and they do not get them every day. Needless to say, they are Very Unhappy, and Marlowe lets me know. Often. Equally distressing is our daily session of Forced Active Play. Piper's idea of playing is to lie there and watch Marlowe play. "Wow," he seems to be saying, "that is a lot of moving around that you are doing over there." He might roll over if a toy comes near him and then bat it with his paws, and sometimes he might stroll interestedly after the laser dot, but not much beyond that. Marlowe is much more athletic, which is due, in part, to her constant and flagrant disregard for the No Cats On Counters rule. And now that she is STARVING, she is up there all the time. A couple of days ago, my brain now turned to mush by School And Snow, The Deadly Combination, I uttered this memorable admonition to her when I found her hungrily scrounging in the (clean) kitchen sink:
"Marlowe! Look at you! Get out of that sink! What are you, some kind of animal?"

+:+ Speaking of felines, Sam's new kitten Madden may have been misnamed. Kaeleigh, Sam's girlfriend, brought up the login screen for her online class and then left her laptop on the table to go get something she forgot. When she came back, Madden was waiting for her next to the computer. Kaeleigh picked up the computer, and in the login box was typed "ben." He still answers to Madden, though, so maybe it's his middle name.

+:+ Politicians have to stop saying that they trust or have faith in the wisdom of the American people. What in the hell gives them this sort of confidence when there is so much proof to the contrary? I can show you, real quick-like, 6 reasons not to have any faith at all in the collective wisdom of the average American: US Representative Michele Bachmann, Candidate Sarah Palin, television show Jersey Shore, spray cheese in a can, the re-election of Bush 43, tea party sign carriers. I could also add reality television and TLC network, really. Birthers. Kardashians. Comme des Garcons toe shoes. Make me stop. Hurry.

The winter is Endless. I can't concentrate on anything, and I have been reading the same book for eleventy weeks. It's good, but I can't read and comprehend right now. I have adult ADD. Or Seasonal ADD. Or, I am just crabby and fussy. Either way, I need...oh, crud. I don't know what I need. Be wonderful for me in Comments.

The Defender of The Language Never Rests, And She Takes Questions

This week, the Defender of The Language will be answering questions posed by irritated readers from across the globe. Let's start with Jill, from Oregon.

Hi, Defender. Like you, I find myself physically sickened by these morons who can't use the apostrophe correctly. Can you talk about the signs I see on people's houses that say things like The Taylor's and The Smith's? That's not right, is it?

Certainly I can comment regarding that. Those signs are not displaying the correct usage of the apostrophe and are, in fact, both egregious and upsetting. Unless the residents of those properties are known by a nickname like Donald Trump, who goes by "The Donald," those signs should have their apostrophes relocated. The houses are owned or occupied by all of the Taylors and Smiths; therefore, the apostrophe should reflect that and be placed at the end, thusly: The Taylors' and The Smiths'. The fact that commercial signage cannot be trusted shows in what a sad state we find Our Language. How abysmal, really.

Now let's hear from Costa in New Mexico.

Thanks, Defender, for being there and for taking my question. I know idioms are sometimes regional, but why are some people so stupid about them? For example, the idiom "cut and dried." If I hear one more person say "cut and dry," I think I'll shoot someone. Or am I the one who's wrong?

Oh, believe me when I say that I share your vast frustration. There is even a blog out there in the ether with the erroneous version of this idiom in its title. The correct idiom is indeed "cut-and-dried," and complicating matters further for lazy writers is the necessity of hyphenating it when it is used as a plain, not predicate, adjective. Sometimes, simple common sense can be useful in understanding some idioms. To say something is "cut and dry" just sounds awkward, both in tense and parallel structure. Makes me shudder.

Finally, someone calling himself ZuuZuuu in Pennsylvania writes:

Yo, Defendah! You're cool and all, but what's the big deal with spelling everything so perfect all the time and whatnot? Plus, English doesn't make sense, the way its spelling is, like, so random! Like, a double-o in "moon" is pronounced "ooh," right? So why is this sentence wrong? That girl is fat, so she needs to loose a few. Later, Big D.

It is with great restraint that the Defender of The Language will address only the issue germane to your last query and leave the myriad concerns of your...commentary for another time. Now, then. What you are really bringing to bear is the age-old Lose Vs. Loose battle that is, in a word, never-ending for those of us on the Front Lines of Language Defense. Let me just say this: In the English language, we already have a word spelled "L-O-O-S-E." It is an adjective meaning "free from restraint; unfettered, unbound" and it rhymes with other words spelled similarly, such as goose, moose, and caboose. Occasionally, the word loose can also be used as a verb, but it still means to set something free, to unfetter it, to release it from its restraints. Most usages of this are archaic or poetic. "L-O-S-E" is an active verb, and it means to fail to retain something; to come to be without an object. If you become confused because these words don't follow some sort of rules, simply accept that fact and resign yourself to the fact that part of being a mature writer is remembering a few important things on your own. Certainly that cannot be too terribly taxing, can it?

If you have a question for the Defender of the Language, leave it in Comments, or contact Nance here at the Dept. of Nance by clicking the email link in the sidebar. The Defender of the Language will respond weekly.

I Wish Everyone Would Get This Passionate About, Say, The Proper Use Of The Apostrophe...

Let's just go ahead and stipulate that I watch an inordinate amount of television/read a great deal of information regarding Food. It's one of my interests, along with Politics and Shoes. (And Cows. Let's not forget Cows.) Having said all of that--and digressing shamefully, as is my wont--I've become increasingly aware of downright ridiculous fawning over a particular food lately. It's completely absurd.

It's not like this is a trendy, foreign, newish food, either, like sushi, although sushi is all of a sudden a bigass deal too, even among teenagers in Podunk, Ohio, where I live. No, this is a humble, everyday food that most of us grew up with and ate at least once a week here in the Midwest. But now it's a Celebrated Star in the Culinary Galaxy. It is swooned over, idolized, and has even been called a danger to certain groups because of its incredible, sexy allure. What is this mighty foodstuff, you ask?

It's bacon.

I know, right?

But everyone I know waxes poetic about bacon. Hell, one of comedian Jim Gaffigan's most popular bits on You Tube, with over a million hits, is the one about bacon, in which he calls it the "most beautiful thing on earth." "Even the frying of bacon," he points out with the air of interpreting prophecy, "sounds like applause."

Vegetarians everywhere are on High Alert around it! And well they should be, for bacon is The Gateway Meat for vegetarians. Scientist Johan Lundstrom, who once had a girlfriend who eschewed her own vegetarianism thanks to bacon, posits that bacon's double whammy of "odor and emotion, and odor and memory"...is the culprit. "When you pair that with the social atmosphere of weekend breakfast and hunger, bacon is in the perfect position to take advantage of how the brain is wired." Bacon is one-third to two-thirds fat and contains protein; it speaks to our evolutionary needs. We are, in short, powerless against it.

With this in mind, certainly, this website was born. Who doesn't need "Daily News On The World Of Sweet, Sweet Bacon"? Or Bacon Events, Bacon News, Bacon Recipes, Bacon Reviews, Bacon Desserts, and heaven help us, Bacon Books. (I searched in vain for any of Sir Francis' writings, but found instead a mildly humorous warning against reading A Day no Pigs Would Die.) Noteworthy, I think, is the article at the bottom of the site: Headline reads "People in Canada Choose Bacon Over Sex." (Note to self: Google birthrate stats in Canada, also per capita consumption of bacon, also email friends in Canada for info on same.) Next to the Popular Articles are Hot Bacony Deals. If you are Hot for Bacon Lip Balm, though, too bad. Baconfreak.com is sold out!

But never let it be said that the Dept. of Nance is not here for you! Thanks to the 2011 Ubiquity Of Bacon, we have Options. Just look! Have you ever seen so much Bacon Shit in your Whole Damn Life? And I'm even behind the curve on bacon: Back in October 2010 in NYC, a bunch of hightoned society types threw an autism fundraiser called Bacon-Palooza. Bacon was chosen as the theme of this three-day gala because not only did they believe it was "the hippest food", but that it "crossed all social lines. If there's one thing that everyone can agree on, it's bacon."

Okay, but...no.

And I'm not even going to "go there" with regard to the obvious PETA or vegan/vegetarian issues, neither of which are my personal concerns.
I just...don't get excited about bacon.

As a matter of fact, I don't care if I never eat bacon again. Bacon is...overrated. Except for the occasional BLT in the summertime, I assiduously avoid bacon. It's too overpowering. Once you put bacon on something, it's over. That food has been BACONIZED. You can't taste anything else but BACON. Why ruin a perfectly lovely cheeseburger with bacon? Why put bacon on a chicken sandwich? It has now become a BACON sandwich. If you wanted a bacon sandwich to begin with, then you should have made/ordered it.

Bacon is bossy and obnoxious. It shows up and takes all the credit. It's the kid in the class who hogs (sigh, a pun) the discussion. It's the John Hancock on the Declaration of Independence. It's the "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" part of the Beatles song. (Do you even know there are any other lyrics? Do you??) It's just too much. I don't like the over-the-top flavor of it. It's not interesting or complex to me. Bacon just doesn't have a lot going on for me. It's too in-your-face smoky and strong. It tastes like my livingroom fireplace when Rick can't get it to draw right away and the trails and puffs of woodsmoke start escaping into the room and I have to worry about the smoke alarm going off and the kittens getting upset. I don't like that.

And I don't like bacon.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: The teaparty Diary Entry

How hard is it, teaparty teeshirt maker, to spell the same word the same way twice? Correctly? And then to omit, simply, the S? Just what was your thought process here? Allow me to hypothesize:

teapartier 1: How do you spell "lose"?
teapartier 2: L-O-O-S-E. I think.
teapartier 1: That don't look right. And we want to put "loses" on here, too.
teapartier 2: Oh. Right. In that case, it's L-O-S-S-E-S.
teapartier 1: You sure? Well, shoot. Now I'm all confused. And we need to get these here shirt orders done in time for the rally on Monday. I have to hurry and pick up a few things at the Wal*Mart before it's time to get Earl at his NRA meeting. Our truck is in the shop.
teapartier 2: Oh, let's just put one of each. It's not like anyone'll say anything. Everyone'll know what it means, and that's the important thing. It's the picture that I don't get. Is that how Obama looked in college or something? I just don't get it. Is it a gay thing?
teapartier 1: I think it's about being soft on the Mexicans and immigrations. Or maybe it's about his birth certificate. Anyway, let's just get this done so's I can get on to Wal*Mart. We're outa dog food and I think I'll just get a frozen pizza for dinner now.

picture found here

Et Tu, Teachers? The Ides Of Education (It's All Here In Black And White)

Scene opens in teacher workroom. Some teachers are at computer stations, others are at long tables either eating lunch or grading papers. All would rather be someplace else, so no real names will be used here, except for mine.

Elaine: (tiredly) I may not even show the movie. I mean, it's in black and white. The regular kids just make such a big deal over it. I can't deal with their comments. (whiny, mocking voice) This is in black and white? Is the whole movie like this? How old is this movie? ( deep sigh.) Ugh. It's just not worth it.

Nance: You know...(leans over conspiriatorially) you might want to do what I did when I used to show the original Julius Caesar with Brando, James Mason, and Sir John Gielgud. The newer color version is crap, as you know--

Elaine:--Oh, God. That thing is such a piece of shit. Jason Robards is asleep during the whole entire thing. Anything is better than that. Has to be!

Nance: Exactly. Well, the original is wonderful, but it's ancient and in black and white. So, I used to tell the kids that some now-famous stars or celebrities were in the crowd scenes--you know, as extras. They'd sit there, eyes glued to that film, waiting to spot that person. Now, this was back in the early 80s, so I think I said, like, the actor who played Greg Brady or maybe, oh, I don't know, some hair band singer or someone. I used to even offer bonus points, and--

Jennifer: (rubbernecking from behind her monitor) Now that is so mean! Are you serious?

Nance: Absolutely I am! I'd even stop the film and the kid would walk up to the screen, all proud and authoritative, and point out the person. A lot of the time, I'd say, "Yep! Good eye! You got it!" And I'd give him five points. Why the hell not?

Tina: I love it. But didn't anyone ever figure it out?

Nance: Oh, once or twice I'd catch the eye of one of the brighter kids who could do the math and realize that there was no effing way that the Mystery Celebrity could have been in that movie. But they were always satisfied with being "in the know" and just sort of rolled their eyes and smiled.

Elaine: I should try that. I really should. I have this one kid who is such a complete and total jerk. I'm talking all the time. No, wait. I take that back. Actually, he's been really quiet lately. A relative who moved in with them is really sick and is dying. Or died. Either way, he's completely different. Is it awful of me to wish that he had other relatives in a bad way so that he stays quiet and does all of his work?

Lori: (suddenly piping up from the back table where she's been smothered by a stack of literary analysis papers) Maybe he could foster elderly pets. Then, everybody wins!

End scene.

Happy New Year And Watch Your Back

It is New Year's Day. Rick, Nance, and eldest son Jared are gathered in the living room. Nance is tucked into the corner of her huge easy chair, encased in fleece. Rick is similarly relaxing in his chair and Jared, sprawled on the couch, is drinking Diet Pepsi and eating...something...again. On the television is a Lockup RAW marathon.

Me: Is this really all that's on?
Jared: (rolls eyes at me; speaks only to his father) Dad, if you were in prison, what gang would you join?
Rick: Wow. I don't know. Hmm. Let me think about it.
Me: Seriously? This is our New Year's Discussion?
Jared: (ignoring me completely) I'd probably join the Latin Kings. Yeah, that's the one.
Me: No way. They cut people too much. That's all they do is cut people.
Rick: Yeah, that's true. They're always in knife fights in these prisons.
Jared: (authoritatively) That's just the way they operate. Sometimes you have to cut you some bitches to show 'em you mean business.
Rick: They cut, like, five people a day.
Me: I get up early anyway. If I was in prison, I'd cut five bitches before breakfast.
That way, everybody would know to leave me the hell alone.
Jared: That's what I'm talkin' about, Mom!

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: History 101 (D-) Design 101 (F)

Can we deal with the smaller sign on the left first? It contains an oft-repeated misquote attributed to Founding Father Thomas Jefferson that has been co-opted by foam-at-the-mouth teapartiers everywhere, and I'm pretty sick of it. Jefferson's actual quote is, "if we can but prevent the government from wasting the labours of the people, under the pretence of taking care of them, they must become happy." You can find the quote, in its proper context, here. The original document, even, is here. Interestingly, the aforementioned letter is a peek into Jefferson's brain and ranges into his opinions regarding a strong free press and his distinctly anti-Federalist views. You know those Federalists--the ones who opposed a little document near and dear to the teapartiers--The Constitution.
Also, that sign breaks my Big Rule: Not Succinct.

Now to The Main Event: What a disappointment that sign is, even to the teaparty. It is So Bad on So Many Levels that I might wear out my caps lock key. But humiliate it I must. Onward.

Firstly, from a solely Construction Standpoint, this "sign" is a travesty. Do you see that it is a sign ON a sign? Was this a Take-Home Project, and it still looks this terribly shlocky? I think it's even four sheets of 8 1/2 x 11 copy paper gluestik'd onto the posterboard. What's more, I think it is taped onto a snow shovel or some other implement. Look at the size of that handle and the two strips of broad, strapping Scotch tape that are straining to hold it all together. Yikes.

Now let's consider the Graphics on this sign. They are just hurtful to look at. There is a haphazard mix of upper and lower case letters. The positioning of the words is chaotic and thoughtless. The interrogative punctuation mark is, astonishingly, pleasantly wrought, but sags below the word line. And there is the egregiously unnecessary use of three exclamation points. Perhaps this may be acceptable if the teapartier in question is, possibly a seventh-grader discussing Justin Bieber on Instant Messenger, but if not, and if the teapartier is attempting to be Taken Seriously In His Outrage, then he has failed. And I digress. More befuddling is the overall color/design--or lack thereof. The observer is led to believe that the theme is blue & green, yet suddenly a bloody swath is cut by the S in "STOP." But not entirely! Either the red marker (and the blue and green ones, apparently) ran out and the signmaker did not have sufficient saliva to keep it going, or, like so many teapartiers, it had the perseverance of Governor Palin and quit halfway.

Finally, what teaparty sign would be complete without Inept Spelling? Homonyms are such a challenge for this group, ourn't they? There just sew dumb. And they don't have a handle on plurals either. At least they didn't spell it tax's. Then we'd all have to grab our axs and go over their and teach them a thing or too.

One More Gift--But This One Is Already Wrapped

Somewhere amid the noise and cacophany of conversations, under the cookies and wrapping, away from the clutter and tangle of responsibilities, I hope you find One Special Moment For You.

My best wishes for a Happiest Of Holidays--whatever you may celebrate--from all of us at the Dept. of Nance.

Perhaps If You Are Out There Still, You'd Like To Read This, In Which I Simply Chat A Bit About Things In General, And There Are Secondary Characters

This time of year, when most people add to the General Clutter of their lives, I now take the opportunity to get rid of some of my Cranial Clutter by dumping it out here at the Dept. So, ready your Virtual Dustpans and Dustbins and press on.

Today I finally put up all the Festivity on my fireplace mantel. I had to replenish my supply of Overpriced And Classy Candles, courtesy Pier 1. The nice thing about getting my candles there is that they last about eleventeen years since I only use them at Christmastime, the scents are long-lasting and comforting without being cloying, and they come in designery colors other than Rudolph Red and Pine Green. As I was unwrapping them, I happened to read the label on the bottom: Burn within sight, it says direly. Keep away from things that catch fire. Keep away from children. Hm. Seems to me that last part is redundant. I feel like "things that catch fire" sort of says it all. Most children I know do burn.

Continuing with candles, one of the ones I bought was a sort of seaweed color scented with patchouli. I bought it for the color and the size, mainly. I gave it to Rick to smell and said, "This one is patchouli, that typical hippie incense scent. Here, smell and tell me what you think." He said, "It smells like marijuana and protest rallies and--" At that point I just grabbed the candle.

My Creative Writing I students are writing their one act plays. One of them came up to conference with me about a possible idea. He has a propensity for writing horror and always wants a twist ending. Also, everyone has to die at the end. Everyone. The plot is really not important, the machinations are endless, the characters incidental: everything is invested in the twist at the end. The conferences are exhausting, but I find this student delightful in every way. On Friday we had a Typical Nick Conference and, in the middle of it, when I was feeling like a limp dishrag and desperate for a double vodka martini, I stopped him. "Nick," I said. "A conference with you is like eating crablegs. At first it's like a fun adventure, and you love the delicious little chunks you get as you work away. But after a while, you start wondering if it's all worth it for the payoff at the end. You start feeling like you've invested a lot more effort than what you're getting out of it. I adore you, but you are absolutely wearing me out right now. Don't make your play do the same thing to your audience. Know what I mean?" And he absolutely did.

On Friday Rick and I decided to go and bang out the bulk of our Christmas Shopping and then get some dinner. Part of that plan was a Good Idea. The other part was A Nightmare. Shopping went well, but we decided to eat at A Certain Restaurant , and it was rather late for NEO diners, 8:45. Let's just say that the service was...nonexistent, my Cosmopolitan never saw a drop of real cranberry juice, our meals were definitely the tail-end of the cook's pantry, and we left hungry and with everything still on our plates and the meal comped--at well past 10. But one of the most horrifying parts was the buxom blond girl who, left over from a huge party, stood for almost an hour with her two friends directly in the aisleway and in front of another table of diners, talking and laughing loudly and, at one point, dragging a hairbrush through her long hair. It was at that point that I wished I were carrying a licensed firearm and had no moral upbringing. Seriously.

It is snowing profusely right now, and we are under A! WINTER! WEATHER! ADVISORY! Can you possibly imagine that getting a snowstorm in Northeast Ohio is incredibly newsworthy and amazing? It is the lead story on all the Cleveland newschannels. What really kills me is that lots of snow and bitterly cold temperatures in Minnesota led the national news this morning. Really? My sister lived a year in Minnesota, and believe me, we heard all about how much snow they got (lots) and how cold it was there (bitterly). Geeze. Bring me some real news or shut the hell up already, NBC.

You sound like a blog.

Send Me Your Pictures Of A Sane, Warm Hanukkah

Welcome to the Dept., where The Holidays are in full swing. How will you know this? The recycle bin is full of empty wine bottles, I am suffering from alternating bouts of Intense Malaise and Ninjalike Snarkiness, Rick is stopping at Home Depot today to get me a space heater, and I have to keep reminding myself that ringing sound is just Salvation Army volunteers.

Sigh.


After a mild and sinisterly pleasant November, we turned the page to December and Winter immediately slammed into NEO. I'm constantly freezing, it's snowing, I hate it, and naturally, my freshman homeroom has never seen snow before and oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god! "It's only X-number days until Christmas, Mrs. D!" a couple of students chirp out to me daily. Hey, you students. I don't take kindly to threats, and I don't appreciate your tone. Shut up.



How many Loyal Readers remember this post just last year in which I swore, yet again, to downsize Christmas, starting with the tree? So, this year Rick and I go to the tree place and again, I charge him with the responsibility of helping me to choose a smaller tree, since I have no perception of size. He is on board with this. Soon, he is standing trees up and steering me around the tree farm (in, yet again, temperatures of, oh, about eleventy below zero--every year!), and we find a nice tree. We take it home, he puts it in the stand, and...it is another bigass tree! I ask him, "How on earth did you let this happen? AGAIN?" He says, "But it was so light! I could carry it with one arm! I carried it on my shoulder!" WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?! Then he tries to blame me! I can sum this whole argument up by listing jobs we have had: Me, bank teller and teacher; Rick, carpenter and estimator. Case closed.

(actual tree, with Kittens!)

Jared and Sam came over to help decorate the tree. Also under their purview is the nativity scene. As with many family nativity scenes, it has grown over the years to include several, er, characters that were likely not present at the Original Event but have now taken their Places Of Distinction, for one reason or another, in its re-creation at the Dept.


Sigh. I know. I can't even begin to tell you the Origins or the Symbolism behind each and every Individual In Attendance here. All I can tell you is: Baby Jesus is being held by Larry Hughes (left), Zydrunas Ilgauskas is riding the camel, LeBron James is face down in shame under the camel's derriere, yes, that is Pluto (front left), and Satchmo Armstrong is playing the part of the angel Gabriel (right). Oh, and there are, indeed, two Zydrunases (Zydruni?). Think of it as a sort of Cirque du Soleil nativity scene...thingy.

Or maybe it's best not to Think Too Much Of It At All. Any of it.