Of Food, The Facebook, Fantasy Sports, and Former Students--Life Is Good, You Know?

It's back to Real Life for me, I promise.  And with a vengeance.  Temps here have levelled off and although it's sunshiny and green outdoors, a quick step beyond the warm confines of the Dept. interior and I'm smacked in the yap with 44 degrees of More Sensibly March In NEO Weather.  And that's okay.  This is still the first winter in which I haven't had to wear my heavy coat more than twice.

A whole bunch of doodads have been bustling around in my brain this week.  I'm turning them loose for your consideration.

^)(^ Station KCRA of California, in an apparently slow news cycle, polled its listeners? viewers? fans regarding their most hated foods.  Of the list of 25, astonishingly, several are actually my favorite foods.  And of those remaining, I can honestly say that I would refuse to eat only two (okra and oysters).  Three of the most hated were actually on the menu of my childhood pretty much every Monday night during the school year--liver and onions, and lima beans.  I am not overly fond of:  raisins, tofu, and buttermilk (to drink), but I wouldn't say I hate them. I cook with raisins and buttermilk. Tofu...eh.  Not a fan.  I almost wept to see avocados on the list, and who could hate mushrooms?  And, really, peas?  Dear little peas?  Do NOT get me started on broccoli.  Or sour cream. What is wrong with America?

^)(^ Of course, you all know how I feel about The Facebook.  Apparently, however, I am on The Facebook completely against my will and on The Twitter as well.  This is thanks to my children, Sam and Jared, who have been so helpfully and kindly posting some of my text message conversations with them on their TwitFace accounts.  As you may recall, I am the owner of a Fantasy Basketball Team (and I made the playoffs, too, beating Jared out of a spot).  Many times, we discuss trades and do a little "trash talking" via text.  You may also recall that I can be rather profane colorful in my speech when I am...impassioned.  The boys think it is "funny" to post these on their TwitFace accounts where many of my former students see them and then make comments like, "I love your mom" and "The next time I see your mom, Imma gonna ask her to marry me" and "Ask your mom if she wants to be an owner in the NFL fantasy league" and "I love me some Ms D" and "I wish I could talk to my mom like that, that shit be crazy."  Again--and some of you want me to be on The Facebook! 

^)(^ Speaking of former students, I had an experience with one last week that reaffirmed for me just how privileged I was to have worked with my creative writers.  I had Eric in the 80s when I first started the creative writing program at my high school.  He swore he wouldn't write any stupid poetry, that all he wanted to do was write Stephen King-type stuff.  Long story short, I begged and got him to take my class.  He was brilliant, and we went on to continue a writer/editor relationship that developed into a deep friendship.  His work has appeared in a myriad of magazines; he has had a novella published as well as a couple of collections of poetry.  For years he made time to teach my class, many times for free, for a week.  Last week, he invited me to teach his.  I presented for a couple of hours on the topic of creative nonfiction using my blogs as examples.  Eric also presented me with an artist's copy of his latest book.  As usual, I burst into tears.  "You didn't even see the best part," he admonished me.  Turning to a flyleaf, he held it open, and showed me.  It was dedicated to me.

It's become fashionable to have a Life List, an inventory of places to visit or things to experience before Time Is Up.  I'm not a fan. I know myself too well.  Driven by Crossing Things Off, like so many To Dos or Chores, I'd lose sight of the Spontaneous Wonderfuls, like Having A Book Dedicated To Me, or Not Wearing A Coat In The Winter, or Owning A Fantasy Team, or even Trying Okra One More Time.

A Lot Can Happen In Two Weeks, Let Me Tell You

Wow.  So I'm pretty much meandering through my orbit as usual, you know:  doing my Retirement Thing, embracing the early spring, scooping up the unexpected pleasures of recently cheap avocados when my cellphone rings a week or so ago and it's my contact in New York whose charity I promo here and at The Report.  I answer it immediately, and she says instead of hello, "Nance!  Don't you ever check email?"  Once I assure her that, yes, of course I do, she tells me that she is calling to inform me that an associate of hers has been trying to reach me via email for nearly a week now.  "You'll want to talk to him; trust me," she promises.  "I'm giving you his number.  Call him now.  He's expecting your call."

First thought?  Check that spam folder.  I trust this woman implicitly, but there is no way I'm making a blind phone call.  St. Patsy didn't raise no fool.  My Dept. mail account gets a ton of spam, and it took forever to go through it.  Several looked like they could be legit offers for advertising at both my sites, and several were from NYC addresses with vague business ventures.  None mentioned my contact's name.  One was for a marketing venture, but didn't deal with specifics.  None of the phone numbers matched the one I was given.  I sighed, tapped the number into my phone, and waited.

"Hello, this is Mark."  Confused that I had not reached a business, I simply said hello, gave him my name, and said that I had been given his number and a message to call him from our mutual associate since he had been unable to reach me via email.  And things happened like lightning from there.

Briefly, he had been a fan of The Report and involved with the charity.  He was at another event where he spent a good part of the time chatting up an American designer (you'd definitely know the name if I told you) who is going to start up a sort of quirky menswear line which skews edgy and fashion-forward.  It will be primarily sold online.  As they were chatting, Mark said that he said, "You should get the woman who writes The Brian Williams Tie Report to do the ties.  Not only could she design them, but she could write the descriptions for them. Like J. Peterman, but better." 

Yada yada yada yada, fast forward, and The Designer knows The Report!  And loves the idea!  So I'm making arrangements to go to NYC to take a meeting (!!!), packing all my cool clothes in mostly black (of course), and reminding myself to breathe.  I get there, take the meeting, things look wonderful, sound even better, I breathe every now and then, my shoes look terrific, and we start hammering it out.  The Designer does not do The Details.  That is what The People are for.

The People:  Okay, Nance.  Great.  This looks great.
Nance:  I think so.
The People:  Before we get into any of the business particulars, can you think, off the top of your head, of any dealbreakers?  Anything that might keep this venture from going forward?  Anything, for example, that you don't want to see happen?
Nance:  Yes.  I don't want any republicans to wear the ties. (smiles)
The People:  (exchange somewhat bemused glances; forced chuckles) Ha ha.  Anything else?
Nance:  Actually, yes.  There is one thing.  And I feel very strongly about this.  Will the ties, at least, at the very least, be made in America?  I don't want my name associated with some sad, sweatshop scandal in Honduras.  I don't want to be Kathie Lee Gifford.  And I don't want people to say I sold out and abandoned my principles when there was fame or cash in front of me.
The People:  Well, certainly The Designer looks to encourge growth in the American labor markets.  But because The Designer is an international name, it would be shortsighted to outright eliminate foreign suppliers, be they goods or labor.  We look to all outlets to bring the highest possible quality product to the consumer for the best value.
Nance:  So, no, then? No, you cannot promise me that the ties I design and describe will be made in America?
The People:  What we're saying is that--
Nance:  (interrupting gently but firmly) I'm sorry.  Can you promise me that one thing or can't you?
The People:  No.
Nance:  That is my dealbreaker.  I'm sorrier than you can possibly ever imagine.  But I just cannot do it under that one single circumstance.  The ties at the very least have to be made in America.  Period.  I appreciate everything you just said, and I appreciate this opportunity more than you can know.  I do.  And if it's possible, I'd like to tell The Designer personally--how much I appreciate this, again.  But that is my line in the sand.  I'm so sorry.

So, that's how we left it.  Or, at least, that's how I would have left it had this whole thing actually happened.  None of it did.  I have no real excuse for the ridiculously long time between posts.  I was lying fallow, bereft of ideas, and enjoying early spring in NEO.  I beg your indulgence and hope for your forgiveness.

These People Are The Plastic Silverware Of The News Business

Probably it is A Good Thing that I have not lost my ability to be astonished at the age of almost fifty-three.  It would be mitigated considerably did I not watch quite so much News Programming.

I swear to you that I do far more talking to the people on television who irritate me than I do to those actually in my presence.  Can just anyone get an On-Air Gig these days?  It sure seems like it because some of these "on-air personalities" say such goofy stuff that, once I hear it, I sit there open-mouthed, blinking and furrow-browed, wondering if it is Bring A Bystander To Work Day.

For example:

~*~Was I the only one who heard the blurb for (I think) Inside Edition in which the personality breathlessly directed viewers to join them for their report about the Costa Concordia disaster, "a real-life Titanic!"?  Oh, help me now.  I like to call this The Disney Effect.  Just like the vast majority of America's children have no idea that there ever was a story/fairytale of Snow White or Cinderella or Beauty and the Beast first, (or that Pocahontas was a real person), some yahoo at Inside Edition honestly believes that the Titanic is simply a boat in a movie. Or just a movie. Period.

~*~A couple weekends ago, when the film The Vow went wide, some reviewer was on a morning show.  She was asked, "Who is this movie for?"  This woman went on to say this (and this is not a direct quote, but I am damn close. Seriously.): "Oh, females will definitely want to see this.  This is a film for women.  And girls will definitely want to see this, definitely.  And men.  This is a film for them as well."  Why does this female/girl/woman have this job? I definitely don't know.

~*~This week, there was a string of horrible storms in the South.  Alabama got hit with tornadoes that did terrible damage.  CNN cut live to a location where a local reporter was ready to talk to a host named Robin and give her an idea of the extent of that damage.  Here is how it went:

Robin:  Now we'll go live to H---, Alabama where a local affiliate has a reporter standing by.
Reporter:  Hi, Robin.  As you can see, residents here are coming back to little more than rubble here in H---.  The tornado destroyed homes, uprooted trees, and left massive piles of debris behind.
Robin:  Wow.  Quite a scene there.
Reporter:  It's amazing.  And here, just to show you the mighty power of that incredible storm...look up in that tree.  (camera pans up into a nearby tree)  That...is a pillow.  A pillow up in that tree.
...............................................................

Okay...what?  Listen, I am five-four and have had a shoulder surgery and I can throw a freaking pillow up into a tree.  I can also make a regulation three-point shot with a basketball and haul a 42-pound box of cat litter to and from my car, yet no one has ever described me as a "mighty power."  At least not for any of that.  My point is, that tornado levelled the entire town and you are impressed with a pillow in a tree?  If it was a tractor, then we have something to talk about.  If it was a pillow sticking through a tree, then, yeah, we can be amazed.  But come on! 

In the Age Of The 24-Hour News Cycle, it would seem "professional journalism" is on its way to becoming an oxymoron. 

Losing My Religion: Two Views

Now that our country is in the throes of constantly reminding itself how Puritanical it is, it seems that all things Christianity-based are News, so even if I wanted to remain unaware of the arrival of Lent, I could not.  I am a Recovering Catholic, so Lent is still a Presence in my life, and while I do not traditionally observe it, I use it as a catalyst for reflection and renewed resolution.  This lax attitude would have dismayed the nuns at St. John the Baptist's back when I went to catechism classes, but I blame my mother, St. Patsy, who Longtime Readers have met here before.

My mother, who was born and raised a Lutheran, converted to Catholicism in order to marry my father in a scandalous liaison more than sixty years ago.  She immediately became a pariah in her own family and a better Catholic than my father, who sporadically attended mass, if at all, for the rest of his life.  To this day, however, I have no idea if her Catholic Rules are based in The Church, Vatican II, or simply a combination of Maternal Common Sense And Frustration. Under her spiritual tutelage, all four of us siblings learned the following tenets of Family Catholicism in the Church of St. Patsy:

1.  You could still take communion if you didn't eat 15 minutes before mass.
2.  On Sunday, you could have what you gave up for Lent.
3.  A headband counted as a head covering for girls at mass.
4.  Going to the Lutheran church with Grandma counted as going to mass.
5.  It was okay if you missed confession; you could still take communion. What, did you murder someone?
6.  If you were sick, Lent didn't count.  You're sick!
7.  If your birthday was during Lent, Lent didn't count.  It's your birthday!

As you can probably imagine, these rules were vastly different than Sister Marguerite's rules for Lent.  Sister Marguerite was a tough old nun of choking wimple, voluminous black skirts, and in spite of her impossibly tiny stature, intimidating mien.  Every Monday from four to five in the afternoon, we Public School Children trudged into St. John's classrooms to be instructed in religious doctrine.  Sister Marguerite started every session by telling us that our parents did not love us enough to make the Ultimate Sacrifice by giving us a Catholic Education, so she had to save us.  Here are Sister Marguerite's Rules For Lent:

1.  We cannot love Jesus as much as He loves us.
2.  No matter what we may sacrifice, it is Nothing compared to His. He gave His LIFE!
3.  We must do more.  And then even more.  Is that all we are doing?  There must be more.
4.  Come now.  Think of our sins.  How terrible we are! We will go to confession as a group each week during Lent.
5.  We must tell our parents that we want to go to Catholic school.
6.  No eating after midnight on Saturday before mass and until the communion wafer is in our mouths.  Not even a breath mint or aspirin.
7.  Absolutely no meat during Lent. Ever.
8.  Only mass in the Catholic church counts as mass.  Observe all high holy days, which also do not count as attendance at mass.

Is it any wonder I had a debilitating headache each and every Monday?  I could not wait to get home to my mother, who was cooking one of her wonderful, comforting dinners.  I would walk in the side door and into a steamy kitchen, smell mashed potatoes and pan gravy and see my mother in her apron at the stove.  I don't remember ever telling her a blessed thing that happened in catechism, but I do remember telling her the day I made my confirmation that I was never going back.

And I didn't.  To her credit, she didn't even try and make me.  My father didn't even weigh in on the matter.  My religious life was complete, my basic sacraments accomplished, and I was free to coast home on Mondays.  Free!

But those of you who are In The Club know that Catholicism is the original Gift That Keeps On Giving.  Hell, there's even a teeshirt for us.  Despite our best efforts to the contrary, we all suffer (now and then) some pangs of residual guilt.  The whole religion is built on it.  It and its twin, Shame.  Just look at Sister Marguerite's diatribe--and that was primarily for Lent!  She had quite a repertoire of standards at the ready for all occasions, be it Lent, Easter, Christmas, or anything that might arise, such as tardiness, incorrectly defining Grace...you name it, she could reduce any elementary school kid to a blushing, teary-eyed bag of guts with ease. 

Sigh. 

I don't feel guilty for leaving the church.  Not one bit.  That's not what I mean.  What I mean is that, like the Puritanism of colonial times, living the code of a religion that proscriptive, that harsh, that strict...well, it's defeating.  It makes you feel as if you can never truly live in its image, never meet its demands.  You are destined for failure.  That, of course, was the eventual fate of the Puritan church in America.  And while the Catholic church is enduring, it goes without saying that it is gasping for breath.

Of the four of St. Patsy's children, two of us have left Catholicism.  The remaining two are, shall we say, extremely liberal Catholics.  Just like St. Patsy herself.  She would laugh and be dismissive were I to call her a radical, if I were to tell her she was ahead of her time, in the avant garde of the new Catholicism.  So maybe I will tell her, just to hear her laugh.

A Weekend At Nance's

Every so often, one or both of the boys will decide to have a Spendover at the Dept.  This is usually initiated by Jared, who is a less frequent visitor because he hates driving almost as much as I do.  He decides that he has had enough of the Fraternity Atmosphere of his place on the weekend, or that he wants to watch Cleveland Cavaliers basketball with his father, or that he wants real home cooking, or that it's someone else's turn to assume full responsibility for Othello, the household cat.  Invariably, Sam appears, and we are a Whole Family once again.  Once it's all over, I discover the following:

 Things Which Occur After Sam & Jared Have Spent Time At Home

1.  We are out of potatoes
2.  And the fancy pretzels
3.  And barbecue chips
4.  I have to clean up beard trimmings around the sink and soap dish again.
5.  There are way more recyclables to go out
6.  Oh, and we are out of salami, too
7.  I have inherited some miscellaneous laundry

Briefly, allow me to comment:

1.  The boys--and yes, they are in their twenties, but will always be boys to me--exist on restaurant food and pasta.  Jared will make baked potatoes, but neither one of them makes mashed potatoes with gravy (why would they?), so when they are going to eat here, I make sure they get a Traditional Sunday Dinner, if possible.  I roasted a turkey this past Sunday for them, and made a ton of mashed potatoes and gravy.

2. & 3.  Kind of self-explanatory.  We have a cupboard devoted entirely to snacks, hence its name "The Snack Cupboard." They both hit it pretty hard.  As far as fancy pretzels, they are Snyder's of Hanover Pretzel Pieces.  I highly recommend the Sea Salt and Cracked Pepper variety with a nice chilled Chardonnay.

4.  For some reason, they trim up here and cannot see those teeny tiny hairs behind the faucet and on the wall-mounted soap dish. I am positively manic about it--always screeched at them concerning it when they lived here--but still this skill eludes them. 

5.  The Pepsi consumption is unbelievable.  Jared is observing Sober February, or there may have been several brown bottles in there as well.

6.  Sam and his girlfriend stopped in yesterday.  He had a headache, and neither had had any lunch.  I told them there were coldcuts in the fridge, including salami.  Except...that there wasn't.  Jared had eaten it.  All.  In a day.  Okay.

7.  Where did this white sock come from?  Whose teeshirt is this?  What is this pair of boxers doing in the towel hamper?  Is that Sam's work outfit under the livingroom chair?  Sigh.

Why did I have all these bigass children?

Mothering In The 21st Century via Microsoft Outlook With A Side Of Basho

On a fairly regular basis, my eldest son Jared takes time from his busy workday and corresponds with me from his desk.  You all remember Jared, co-author of the relatively shortlived blog Stuff On Our List, where we took turns making random lists of things and then commenting upon them.  The blog is still extant, though dormant; perhaps one day we'll take it up again.

But I digress.

This correspondence between us, via email, is largely initiated by him and takes the form of a Haiku Throwdown.  One morning, I sent him a quick email about the Cubs trading wacko pitcher Carlos Zambrano (a favourite of ours for sheer entertainment value) to Ozzie Guillen's Marlins.  He responded: 

You are on your shit
Today with all of the sports.
Nice work outta you.

How’s your matchup looking this week?

He's talking about our NBA Fantasy League, and as this was early in our enterprise and I was, as I am wont to do, obsessing over it and hating the learning curve, I returned:

I am looking for
Someone else to take my team.
I’m not having fun.


It is like a job.
Too much stress and follow-up.
I’d rather consult.

Needless to say, he had none of that.  We moved on from there, and like most moms, I can't even stop nagging via the Interwebs or in verse:

On another note:
Did you leave all those cookies
To rot in your car?


And I keep at Dad
To pack up some leftovers
As lunch for you guys.

I have probably
Enough lunch stuff in the fridge
For at least a week.

Bless his heart, Jared at least keeps his sense of humour (but really, you should see all the crap in this man's car!), and I get this:

No. Cookies half gone.
Noah liked them and had some.
They are delicious.


Imma tell that man
That I want more ham salad.
Enough for a week?


I bet that y'all have
Some flyass dinners that make
Bombass leftovers.

I really do make some flyass dinners.  Y'all would love 'em.  Noah--one of the housemates--can vouch for my cookies.  And my ham makes Bombass Ham Salad.  Just sayin'. 

Every once in a while, I have to get on Jared about his accuracy.  I don't nitpick too terribly often, but accuracy is important, and you know how we Defenders are.  Once, I felt kind of lousy about the nit I picked, so this brief flurry of email occurred:

Me:

Hey. Don’t you just hate
How these retired idiots
Nitpick all your shit?

Three minutes later from Jay:

Sometimes it’s good though
Or I might start to think that
I might know something.

Touché.

In Which I Leave A Note, Write A List, Have A Laugh, And Make A Plea Against Nevermore

January is over!  Now where did the time go?  Finish taking down those Christmas decorations, (You know who you are!  Honestly, how can you stand yourselves?) and I'll see what little Leftover Thoughtlets are leaping around.

##Here is a note I left for my husband last week when I went out to dinner with one of my ladyfriends:  If Rondo doesn't go, move Iguodala to Rondo's spot at Guard; move Noah up to Forward (Iguodala's spot)!  Sigh. I know, right? On the one hand, some of you are in awe--and rightfully so--at my awesome fantasy roster!  On the other hand, the rest of you are shaking your heads and saying, "Holy crap.  What the hell is wrong with her?" and plotting a massive Virtual Friends Support Network Rescue Project wherein you will each agree to have me live with you for a week until I remember that I should be acting far more loftily and artsy, not worrying over Rajon Rondo's extended wrist injury and the fact that his absence is killing the West Egg Gatsbys' lineup right now.

##How hilarious are the republicans right now?  I know...who?  We have one Serial Adulterer endorsing another (after he inexplicably endorsed "We, The People" on the dais with a real Comedy Channel candidate), and the party that espouses capitalism and big business and tax breaks and keeping your own money is ripping into the candidate who is the Poster Child for all those things.  I don't know about you, but I'm waiting for Michele Bachmann to endorse.  After all, she said God told her to run for political office.  Now, I'm not sure how He felt about her quitting and all--do you think He weighed in on that, or was that totally her call?--but I'd love to hear who He thinks should be President now that He's changed His mind about her.  (Hey, maybe Mitt can use that as an example of why his own flip-flopping is really okay.  Even God is a flip-flopper!  There ya go, Mitt.  You can have that.)

##Marlowe moved to the top of the Most Favoured Cat list.  Admittedly, this is a short list and subject to caprice and fits of snark by its originator.  Earlier this month as Rick was in the shower and I was in the kitchen, she emerged through the cat door from the basement.  She trotted very proudly toward me with something in her mouth.  My eyes grew wide.  I hollered in to Rick, "Rick!  Rick!  Marlowe caught a mouse!"  She had, indeed, caught a very large brown field mouse in the basement.  Good heavens, who am I kidding?  The thing was huge.  And dead. Really, really dead.  Marlowe was so proud, and Piper was mildly interested. Rick finally came out of the bathroom, completely unclothed, and calmly took a paper plate, said, "Okay, Marlowe, I'll take over from here," and took it out to the trash.  I proceeded to lavish treats on the cat and only later did I realize what it all meant:  There was at least one mouse in my home. 

##Nancy, longtime reader and commenter, sent me a terribly sad news item that I wanted to share.  Knowing my fondness for all things Edgar Allan Poe, and my championing for his legacy, she knew that I'd want to know of the apparent end of the Poe Toaster tradition.  This is the third year in a row that the mysterious visitor to the author's grave did not appear with the usual cognac and rose.  That did not move me anywhere near as much as this part of the article did:  "Baltimore recently cut funding for the museum at the rowhouse where Poe lived with relatives from 1832 to 1835, before he found fame as a writer. It must close if it does not become self-sustaining by June."  I find this heartbreaking.  In 1875 a local schoolteacher started a campaign called "Pennies for Poe" in order to fund a dignified and suitable monument for this important writer who was wrongly characterized, vilified by his worst enemy in an obituary and biography which stood as the only sources for this man's life story for a generation.  The Pennies for Poe campaign has been revived on a small scale; I'm saddened that the president of the Poe Society hasn't hit up the big name horror authors who have credited Edgar with inspiring them; perhaps he will. All the same, he sounds like he's given up already.  I'm adding a link to the campaign to my sidebar.  I don't think Baltimore having a football team named the Ravens is enough of a remembrance to Edgar and his legacy.

Now that's a real sports fantasy.

Daring To Wear Black: Confessions From A Cathouse

Let's face it:  A good deal of my day now includes The Cats.  (Whether I like it or not.)  Especially this winter, when I am not so much Out And About due to cooler weather, we are indoors together for hours on end, and if I am inert, one of them is often on my lap or trying to get on my lap, making meaningfully sinister and baleful glances at the laptop desk which is in His Or Her Spot. 



Most definitely NOT allowed here

 I don't mind the Idea Of It so much as I mind the hair.  Good Heavens, The Hair.

I know, I know:  I signed up for this when I brought them home, as my mother, St. Patsy reminded me not too long ago, but holy crap!  Not only are they covered with it, but they spread it all over.  Constantly.

And it does not matter how often I brush and comb them--and that is an ordeal, let me tell you, because they walk all over the goddam place and will not sit still--they shed and shed and shed.  These cats shed like...oh, I don't know...like they simply cannot help it and they must do it.

And will someone please tell me why Cat Beds are made of polar fleece, which is the single most cat-hair clutching material known to mankind, second only to sticky tape?  I spent approximately eleventy hours last weekend vacuuming the cat beds--with my Dyson--and even then could not get all the cat hair out of/off of them.

It's abusive.

My bathrobe (also made of fleece) looks like I am trying to make a Halloween costume in order to be either A) a very large cat or B) a sad old hoarder. 

Here is Rick's Helpful Suggestion!  "Nance.  Did you ever try vacuuming the cats with that brush attachment?"

I kept my Helpful Suggestion for him to myself because I am still on my personal path of Continuous Improvement which includes Patience and The Thumper Rule.

Finally, in a related conversation:

Nance:  (reading from newspaper aloud)  Rick, there is a cat show ad in the paper.  Can you imagine?  It says there will be "vendors selling cat toys, cat trees, and other cat accessories."
Rick:  Oh, I bet.

Nance:  Will there be a booth with crumpled paper balls, milk jug lids, and twist ties?

Rick:  And wine corks?

Nance:  Or one with Amazon.com boxes and clothes baskets?

Rick:  Had we known, we could have rented a space and made a little extra money.

That's Okay, I'm Just Not Into Martians, Either

Those of us who have been married for eleventy thousand years snicker at books like Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus or even the more recent He's Just Not That Into You because they are like studies that tell us we'll eat more from bigger bowls. 

Duh.  All obvious info. 

Consider:

Scene opens on living room.  Nance is in her chair, reading from newspaper.  Rick is lounging on floor, messing with iPhone and various apps.

Nance:  (finishing news item aloud)...So!  How about that?  How does that sound?
Rick:  (not looking up, barely audible)  We could do that.  That would be okay.  Maybe then you would stop hating me so much.
Nance:  (rather impassioned) Hating you?!  Rick, don't even joke like that.  I could never hate you.  You could disappoint me, or make me sad, or make me angry with you, but I could never actually hate you.  Not ever.
(pause)
Rick:  (intently looking at his phone)  Why isn't there a single Arby's anywhere near where I work?

End Scene

Whoever Said "Things Can Always Get Worse" Should Say It To Stamps.Com. Never Mind--We Can Do It!

A recent commercial for Stamps.com advises, "There's nothing worse than going to the post office and waiting in line."

Really?

Now, taking into account that the creators of this ad will stipulate that waiting at the P.O. is nothing compared to the truly terrible events that can occur in the course of our lives, such as terminal illness, death of a loved one, shark attack, or even a traumatic automobile accident, here is my



List of Ten Things I Think Are Worse Than Waiting In Line At The Post Office
(in no particular order)

1.  Dropping a new package of Oreos before you even get one cookie
2.  Losing a contact lens down the bathroom drain
3.  Having to clean Piper's back end because of a residue issue
4.  Undergoing a transvaginal sonogram with a Foley catheter in
5.  Drinking the Very Last Bottle of 2007 Cattail Creek Barrel Fermented Chardonnay
6.  Moving the furniture to vacuum
7.  Standing in a store and calculating--in my head--the best deal
8.  Cleaning the stovetop or any of the stainless appliances in the kitchen
9.  Being forced to use self-checkout at the grocery store
10.  Navigating automated telephone menus & listening to staticky, garbled hold music

I find all of these ten things to be peevish and horrid.  Gladly would I trade any of them to stand in the post office line for anyone who would take the bullet on one of these for me.  So, who is willing to trade one of my Ten for a post office line session?  Anyone?

Anyone?  Ah, well.  Then tell me some of your Worse Things in Comments.

It's Time For A Public Service Announcement: Had To Be Said

We here at the Dept. would like to take a Time Out from (somewhat) Regularly (ha ha) Scheduled Programming in order to make a Public Service Announcement.

For the past, oh, what seemed to us...eleventy billion years, a variety of clutch-popping, Glen Beckistan-residing, NASCAR-watching, Walmart-shopping, double-digit-IQ-testing, Sarah Palin-fantasizing, War On Christmas-complaining, homophobic hee-haws have been gleefully hauling out their massive snowblowers during a frigid January blizzard and guffawing, "Whar's Al Gore's global warmin' now, huh?"


Oh, you sad twits.  Where are you now?

Allow me to quote from one of their favourite places, The Weather Channel, where it is noted that "record-breaking warmth engulfed portions of the Midwest Thursday afternoon. Temperatures have reached up to 40 degrees above early January averages in North Dakota. Minot, N.D. (61 degrees) and Williston, N.D. (58 degrees) have both set all-time record highs for the month of January! In Minot, 61 degrees is the average high for late April. "

And lest they think it is only North Dakota basking in such temperate bliss,"daily record highs have been set in Des Moines, Iowa (65 degrees), Rapid City, S.D. (73 degrees), International Falls, Minn. (46 degrees), St. Louis, Mo. (66 degrees) and Fargo, N.D. (55 degrees), to name a few locations" are also toasty this winter.  In fact, allow me to show you some pictures.

This map shows you the high temperatures expected for Friday, today, in the USA, aka The Greatest Country In The World (to the Climate Change Deniers, for whom "global" means the US anyway).  In my town in NEO today, we are currently at a screamin' hot 55.  As of today, I have only worn my winter coat ONE TIME.  And you know how I am. Tomorrow, the high is forecast to be 42. And except for Sunday, which is forecast to be 37, we will not be lower than the forties any day for the next five.  This is January, may I remind you, and in Ohio.

This map shows you how many degrees above average the temperatures forecast for today, Friday, will be.  Holy crap.  Look how hot Iowa is even though all the republicans have already left.  Even the Yoopers are feeling the heat up there.  They are probably in sandals and Bermuda shorts.

So, I'm waiting, all you Global Warming Self-Styled Experts.  You're awfully quiet.  And so is my snowblower.

The DoN Literary Potato Peeler Society: An Exercise In Fiction

I've been writing a little lately, and I find that I've become fascinated by style and voice and diction.  This is probably because I reintroduced fiction after a long absence of it in my reading canon.  And I am continually amazed--truly, amazed--by the power that a writer has to lead the reader around, to make him feel whatever he/she wants him to feel, simply by the force of putting certain words into a certain order.

It's just so...Machiavellian, almost. Come peel potatoes with this woman.

=*= Verdele sighed, grasped the peeler a little more firmly, and pushed it the length of the russet in her hand. It was not a job she liked.  It was what her granny would call tedious, but pronounce it tee-jus, and Verdele heartily agreed.  Push, turn, push, turn; it wasn't hard work, but it seemed silly that it was still done this same way, and in this day and age!  It was just too bad that the Rotato didn't take off.  Now that was an invention that every housewife could have used! Verdele sighed again.  Oh well.  At least when all the potatoes were peeled, she could move on to the quick work of the knife.  Cut, chunk, dice. Nice and fast.  And she could reward herself with a hunk of raw potato, crunchy with salt.

=*= At the sink Verdele gripped the potato peeler, silently cursing.  She hated this chore, hated it. It was mindless and stupid.  Once, the peeler, designed to be drawn toward her to skin the potato, got caught on an eye.  In her fury she pulled harder; the blade dislodged suddenly and bit into the soft flesh of her wrist.  Her husband had laughed when she showed him the wound and told him what happened. Laughed!  She had never eaten mashed potatoes--or any peeled potatoes--again. If he noticed, he never said, and he wanted mashed potatoes tonight.

=*= "Hello?...Oh, hi....No, I can talk if you don't mind being on speaker while I get dinner ready....He's at work, of course....I'm fine being home alone, really....Don't be worried about me....I do just fine on my meds, and I have a nice routine.  Like right now, I'm peeling potatoes for dinner. It's very calming and relaxing.  So repetitive, and it's great in that I can see my progress, you know?  Each potato goes from brown to white, then I can cut them up and cook them, yadda yadda yadda....I mean, it's not so crazy and chaotic and intangible like what I did in the city for all those years, you know?  I mean, it was meetings every day--two or three a day, really--and constantly 'Verdele Verdele Verdele', and putting out fires, so to speak, but never seeing the end of anything, you know?...But like, these potatoes?  I peel them, I cut them up, I mash them, and I eat them. I see it all through. I mean, you know?"

May Your Days Be Merry And Bright

May your Holiday Season be full of light--in your heart, in your home, and in the eyes of all those you love.  Thank you for your kindness here at the Dept. in your constancy, your humor, and your never-surprising intelligence.

You are one of the Lights Of My Life. 

The Defender Of The Language Is Alerted To Internet Idiocy And Idiom Inconsistency: Bad Grammar Never Takes A Holiday

Once again, it's time for the Defender of The Language to answer a few questions from devoted fans and Readers.  Let's start it off from a fan of the Defender who signs herself Miss M. of Western Reserve,Ohio.  She writes:

Dear Defender, I'm sure you are not a fan, let alone a user of Facebook, but allow me to vent my spleen regarding a universal spelling error I see on that site every single day.  Whenever someone wants to express how cute or precious something is, they type "Awe" or, even worse, "Aweeeeee," which I read as Aw-eeeeee, in two syllables, the last one being the letter E drawn out like some huge scream. Can't we do something about this?  I mean, how hard is it?  Come on, people!  The word is "aww," and it's really not even a word.  It's more of a phoneme, really. This really, really gets me. Can you help? Please? And hurry.

Oh, my.  Miss M., this is indeed aggravating, and I share your irritation at this faux pas.  You are, obviously, correct that the word "awe," which means "wonderment" is sadly abused over and over again on social media sites and in text messages when its simple counterpart "aww" is intended. I suspect its misuse is widespread in traditional writing as well. The reason is not important, is it? It may never be known. We just want this dreadful egregiousness to stop (along with so very many other irksome things).  Your concern is noted, affirmed, and now further publicized.  I shall, along with Readers here, concentrate more energy into educating the masses regarding its foul existence and swift remedy.

Next we will hear from a Reader in New York.  Jake has not disclosed his city or town of residence, so let's pretend he's from Rensselaer!  He emails:

Hello from New York!  I know you often talk about sayings/idioms in your posts, so here's a question about that.  One that really puzzles me is "The proof is in the pudding." Lots of people say that, but I saw one reference that said the real saying is, "The proof of the pudding is in the eating." Can't they both technically be correct? Isn't the first one pretty much implying that the proof of whether or not the pudding is any good is whether or not you can eat it? Do you get what I mean?  Thanks.  I think you're great.

Jake, thank you.  The truth is that the original idiom is "The proof of the pudding is in the eating." This very old English proverb's origins date back many centuries, back to when the meaning of the word "proof" was somewhat different than it is now. It may also refer to an entirely different kind of pudding!  During the medieval times, puddings were more like sausages--savories, not sweets. They contained blood, offal, and were stuffed into animal entrails to be steamed or boiled. It's been postulated that this proverb may refer to the safety of said pudding:  whether or not it was cooked long enough could only be determined or "proven"/tested by eating it.  If those who ate it did not become sick, then it was a good pudding.  This example helps to illustrate the earlier meaning of the word "proof," which was "test." Now if you go back to the idiom in its shortened form, it doesn't make much sense at all. Even the way you explained it, it still leaves a lot of mystery. Proof of what? What pudding? It's all very vague. Better to use the complete version and make a total analogy and sound more erudite in the bargain!

Finally, we have this Language Alert! from Defender Fan Alicia.  She did not tell us where she lives at all in her email.  I've assigned her the homebase of Benkelman, Nebraska.  She chortles:

Defender, I absolutely love, love, love what you do! And I have to show you this. I was searching the Internet for a recipe for an appetizer to take in to work, and I came across this review.  It is the absolute epitome of obliviousness when it comes to...well, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.  Here it is, word for word. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  (But I laughed.  A whole lot.  SORRY!)

"As always, Alton makes something EXACTLY the way I wanted it to taste! It tastes like the best spinach and artichoke dip I've ever had and have tried desperately to find it again in restaurants, homes, or cookbooks....AND I'VE FINALLY GOT IT! Am making it in a bread bowl to serve chilled at a HUGE outdoor party tomorrow...I know its going to be a HIT! I made mine exactly as he states (except I used jarred artichoke hearts but I made mine slightly less fat by using reduced fat sour cream, reduced fat cream cheese, and half and half regular and reduced fat mayo....you dont taste ANY difference or lack of something. EXCELLENT! Thank you Alton!"

Someone needs to know what the word "exactly" means, right?  And are you still waiting for the other part of the parentheses? I know I am!  Have fun with this one.

Dear, dear, Alicia.  Really, you shouldn't have. I counted six basic mechanic/usage/grammar/punctuation errors alone, and that does not include the bothersome idea of cold spinach artichoke dip or the idea that she is substituting a cadre of low- or no-fat ingredients for this appetizer which is clearly supposed to be an indulgence.  I also did not count errors in logic in this tally.  I wish I could share your mirth; I honestly do, but this recipe review is a sterling example of what I must battle every single moment of every single day.  I cannot rest.  I cannot falter.  I must defend The Language, for its marauders never cease.

Thanks to Miss M., Jake, and Alicia for their questions and Language Alert.  For the Defender Fans and Readers, don't forget to submit your questions and/or Language Alerts to Nance here at the Dept. of Nance via email by using the clickable link in the sidebar.

In Which I Do Not Grouse, Piper Almost Gets Doused, And The Tree Gets Soused (Seemingly, Anyway) And What Have You All Been Doing?

Not sure if you're aware, but it's December now and The Holidays are Imminent. 

I know, right?

This year, as you can imagine, I have Way More Time, and as a result, I am All Over It.  My tree went up last weekend, my shopping is 99% done and wrapped, and my Serenity Level is...well, goes without saying.  Way different than The Old, Working Nance. Do I still think that Christmas = Work? Yes, I do.  The difference is, this time I can make Christmas my only job.  What a luxury!

Anyway, couple of things:

~*~ While out shopping at a Retail Haven For The Upscale, I turned the corner in one store and almost ran directly into one of those Bigass Humvee Strollers. (You know the type--upholstered and uparmored and flagrantly expensive and ridiculous.)  I instinctively looked up at the Pusher to apologize.  She was about forty, dressed head to toe in winter white cashmere and a rabbit fur vest.  Her manicure cost more than my car.  She wasn't even looking my way, so instead I looked to the denizen of the stroller.  In it were two Schnorkies--Yorkie and Schnauzer mixes.  They stared at me with a bored, arrogant look, as if to say, "That's right, a stroller.  Got something to say?  I didn't think so. Now get the fuck out of our way before Mumsy calls security."  I wanted so badly to stick around and wait for the very no-nonsense lesbian couple who I had been chatting up earlier in housewares to discover this...tableau, but I had other shopping to do.  Besides, if I stood there much longer, open-mouthed and gaping, I was afraid I'd dry out.

~*~ Never in the history of the Dept. has the Christmas tree been without adventure of some kind or another.  Watering the tree is always an awkward job, what with the low-hanging branches, shifting the tree skirt, Cattens grooming my hair as I lie under the tree, and maneuvering the water pitcher, all as I keep a couple of fingers inside the stand to monitor the water level while I pour.  "Geeze," I commented to Piper the other day while I tipped the pitcher against the boughs, "this tree is taking a ton of water!"  As I emptied the pitcher entirely, suddenly Piper jumped backward.  A small pond was rapidly growing beneath the tree, sprouting one significant tributary headed toward the coffee table.  I had missed the interior of stand entirely--somehow--and was cheerfully and studiously pouring water down the stand and onto the carpet below.  Thankfully, Rick and I had just emptied a bottle of Old Vines Chardonnay 2006, which I rescued from the recycle bin*, and now I use it to water the tree far more accurately.

*It was a Christmas Miracle!

So, how are all of your Holiday Preparations coming along?

Sign, Sign, Everywhere A Sign: Is It Just Me, Or Is Advertising Hilarious Anymore?

On Sunday we had a mission:  work pants for Rick.  Anyone who thinks that women are picky about pants needs to go shopping with my husband for his Work Jeans.  We went to several stores and he tried on approximately eleventy hundred pairs of jeans in about thirty-two different cuts and sizes and labels, all of which had problems.  I meekly pointed out a few other types, but let me assure you from the charred and smoking stump which used to have my head attached to it that they are not the kind of pants/jeans that he wants to just wear for work!!!  Okay?

As you can imagine from the above, I realized that I could...er...take some time for myself and wander around a bit to look at...other things in the vicinity.  I spotted this sign in the men's department and got a bit confused.  See what you think: 

Maybe it's just the Mom In Me, but when I see the words Lightweight Training Pants, I think "teaching toddlers how to use the potty." This is further reinforced by the phrase below: "Duo Dry Technology." What are diapers doing in the men's department!?  ("Champion" ones, or no.)  Then I looked at the rack under the sign.

Nope.  Training Pants referred to these--regular old sweatpants.  You know...come to think of it, I never did think to look inside of them to see if they had a little spot for some Depends.

After our ordeal had ended (without pants, it must be noted), Rick rewarded my forebearance with a stop for ice cream.  Nearby was this strange little...shop:

Why, here you can buy your Hoover and your anaphylaxis! Or, do you open the door and immediately get sucked in to a giant ball of pollen and...oh, I don't know...peanuts?  This store--oh, excuse me, WORLD--suffers from an identity crisis of vast proportions, for if you can see the small sign in the lower left, it helpfully offers "Sewing Machine Repairs & Sales" as well.  (And please, do not ask me what that horrifying thing is on top of the place.  I didn't even notice it until I looked at the photos at home.)

You know, if I had not felt mollified by a little peanut butter, chocolate, and vanilla treat, I might have been really upset that VACUUM & ALLERGY WORLD was closed.  Getting sucked into a vortex after hours of fruitless ManShopping would have capped off my week pretty well.

A House Is Made Of Walls And Beams But A Home Is Built With Love And Dreams Screams: Why I Might Be Pureeing Thanksgiving This Year

Thanksgiving 2011.  Above the snowy tablecloth, heads are bowed in gratitude.  One by one, each person speaks a blessing--something for which he or she is thankful this holiday.  It is Nance's turn next.  She lifts her head; her eyes become misty and her lip trembles slightly.  Her hand reaches for a piece of cutlery.  "I...I...I am grateful that my house has not made me kill myself.  Yet."

Why is it that Things go wrong and fall apart in bunches?  Consider:

Monday afternoon, the refrigerator repairman is in my kitchen on his cellphone and my guts are in a knot.  Sunday night, after over two hours of buzzing in two-minute intervals, my side-by-side gave up. So, Rick and I loaded up all our chilly comestibles into laundry baskets and trucked everything to the tiny basement fridge and crammed it in. When I brought home the turkey, I had to use brute force to get it in there.  Mr. Repairman has now made two trips to his truck, each time carrying a wire-sprouting thingamajig.  More on that later.

Earlier this month, my garage door opener...didn't.  I needed to go someplace, pushed our inside button and...nothing. So, I did what everyone would do in this situation.  I pushed it eleventy million times really, really hard and screamed the Eff Word.  Hard to believe, but this did not work.  "Oh, did you simply take your key and go in via the service door?" you may be asking calmly and rationally.  And I would merely answer you with my teeth gritted in kind, "Oh, would that be the service door blocked by Sam's loveseat, some sheet metal, a fishing rod, a bag of fertilizer, and a basket painted with cow spots?  Certainly."  And then, because I am too short and too weak to first reach the lever and then try to pull it hard enough to open the non-functioning door after climbing over all that crap, I found my way to my car and used the button inside of it.  IN THE PITCH-DARK.  BECAUSE...

The electricity in the garage is inexplicably not working either, so there were no lights working inside when the service door blew shut.  That would explain why the pump on the pond also stopped aerating the water, resulting in a fishkill.  Goodbye, Johnny Depp, who we raised from an egg, and Garbo. I will miss you both. Sigh.

Monday, I was also waiting for the chimney sweep. Our fireplace, instead of making our house a toasty, inviting space worthy of a Christmas card, instead renders it a horrific scene worthy of a fire safety film. It belches smoke into the living room as if hoping to turn us all into hams and bacon. At 9:30 he appeared and, for some reason, simply stood on the porch. Period. Then I realized:  he had been ringing the doorbell for a while. The doorbell that had, until today apparently, worked just fine. 

What is happening?  In the past six weeks alone, my computer has refused to acknowledge even a casual relationship with my printer, my car battery completely died, the dual zone wine refrigerator capriciously becomes single zone, and I'm not sure, but I think my crockpot is plotting against me for Christmas Eve.

So, back to The Refrigerator Issue.  But you already know that he didn't have the part on his truck--they never, ever, ever do. And even when The Part comes Tuesday, there's no guarantee that it will fix the problem--something about a relay and a locked-up compressor--but, as Repairman Tim said, it's worth a shot, but, hey! Eight years is what you can expect to get out of refrigerators these days anyway, so it's about right. WHAT?! I wanted to beat someone up! This fridge is a wuss, an eleven hundred dollar, stainless steel, ice and water in the door WUSS.  Its teeny little almond-colored predecessor in the basement is twice its age, half its price, no-frills, and still going strong. WHAT A LOT OF FUCKING BULLSHIT.

But what I said was, "Thank you so much for fitting me in today and tomorrow. I really, really appreciate it.  See you tomorrow."  And then Rick and I went to the appliance store last night to pick out a possible replacement and get the final slot on the delivery list for Tuesday.  Because the way things have been going, we don't want to take any chances.

The Art Of Being Nance: We Might Need To Put A Call (Or A Text Message?) Out To Jesus

I find myself singularly uninspired and hugely unmotivated lately.  This leads to massive amounts of Leisuretime Guilt.  It is difficult to reconcile myself with this New Lifestyle.

But I press on.

Mindful as I am with my Tragic Neglect of this space, I will flood it now with a variety of Thingies for your perusal.  Such as:

(-)Yesterday while out on errands, I saw this sign on a church:  NEED A MAKEOVER?  CALL JESUS!  I don't think I'm being deliberately obtuse when I say that I really don't get this exhortation.  Yes, I do infer that it means a spiritual makeover, probably, but why "call" Jesus?  Do I just holler?  Can I punch in 1-800-JESUS on my cellie? Or is there a Latino Clinique representative who rented the sign, maybe? "Oh, Jesus, I don't know. I'm just tired of the same old look. Can we sort of freshen me up a little with a more peachy lip and maybe a moss green eyeliner?"

(-)I am on Day 3 of a Monumentally Huge Headache Of Titanic Proportions.  No idea why.  So...Rick decides to use the leaf blower for eleventy hours.  Clearly, this is Purgatory.  Tomorrow, if my headache is gone, I will be reevaluating my life and considering entering a convent to atone for my (obviously) considerable sins, unless it is too late, in which case I'll say hello to a few folks for you.

(-)What has happened to me?  Some of the following are true! 
1.  I voted for a republican in the last local election.
2.  I own an iPhone.
3.  I have a secret Twitter account.
4.  Ditto Facebook.
5.  I own leggings and wear them in public.
6.  I send text messages.
7.  I ordered beer in a restaurant.
Which of these are you willing to believe of me and shatter all of your Nance Ideals?  Oh, the HORROR, I know!  But I have a good explanation, and you shall have it, for each and every one that is A Fact.

And just so that you can rest easily...

(-)I went on a private tour of the Cleveland Museum of Art this week, with a lovely cocktail party immediately following.  My financial planner and sometime boss (for whom I do some freelance writing) invited Rick and me.  It made me a little ashamed that I had not been there in so long, but renewed my pride in our wonderful museum and its collections. I immediately resolved to drive in one day soon and spend several hours wandering and enjoying the paintings and furniture.  I am not much on sculpture or armor or sarcophagi although there are plenty of those there.  I am also anxious to again prove that I can, indeed, view art and not embarrass myself by crying at it, like I did at the Vermeers in Washington, D.C.

I think I told you about that, didn't I?  Sigh.  (But...his brush hairs were right there and everything!)

This headache...what a bitch.  Send me your drugs. STAT.