What Good Readers You Are! Yes You Are! Read On.

Before we celebrated DoN Poetry Month, I wanted to clean out some Tupperware that was taking up some room in the Brain Fridge. So here are some little bits of This-n-That--leftovers of Thought Casserole and IdeaRoni that have to go before they get green and fuzzy.

After reading The Story of Edgar Sawtelle years ago, I became fascinated by dog training. I studied up on it--all kinds of it--and watched videos online of various techniques. Especially fascinating to me was the method known as The Woodhouse Way, which has been the subject of some controversy. Anyway, as I studied, I eventually formed a method of my own that made sense to me. (Why, I have no idea.) I must be prescient, however, for dear Zydrunas, Jared and Sam's dog, is now a star pupil of The Nance Method and a Very Good Boy. He (and Jared and Sam) are well trained in The Basics, which makes Everyday Life so much easier for everyone. And yes, I do happen to have a picture of The GrandDog.

Remember my rant about dog beds? Not too terribly long after that, I went to my favourite local grocery store and closeout mecca and found dog beds stacked to the ceiling (almost), and they were of wonderful quality, comparable to the hundred-dollar ones. For less than fifteen dollars. Yes. That is correct. So. I immediately purchased two because previous to that, just days earlier, I received via text message the following picture:

Sigh. This was obviously before my training. This is after:

I had occasion to reread an earlier post of mine and was horrified to note a glaring subject-verb agreement error. How mortifying and how terribly common, too. Stuff like that makes me afraid that, little by little, all of my SmartyBrains are slowly leaking out of my head and trailing off into the ether like old radio waves. Pretty soon I'll be using random apostrophes, saying "have went," and spelling probably like this--prolly. Remember way, way back when I swore I'd never send text messages or use the word text as a verb? Sigh. Those were the days. Back then I had Real Standards. I'm so afraid of what I've become. This, below,  used to be me!

 RHYMES WITH ORANGE by Hilary Price

Finally, I am sorry that I have been neglectful in my blog-reading as of late. Despite my best efforts, my life got quite busy there for a bit, and some odd things presented themselves and had to be sorted. I am spaced out on getting used to new migraine meds and haven't quite been myself. Better not to tap away in someone's Comments when I'm not sure what I'm saying. I promise to catch up soon.

I'm looking forward to Poetry Month, but for those of you who are decidedly not, I promise to  write other things as well.


(Isn't the comic at the top of the post so immediately identifiable as M. Crawford's from The New Yorker?)

O Me! O Life! O Well! How Apple Reminded Me To Celebrate Myself And Sing Myself And, Belatedly, Some Poetry

Today I realized that April is National Poetry Month, and that I had missed it entirely. Worse than that,even, I couldn't recall if I had bothered to mention or commemorate it last year or, heaven help me, the year before. I have turned into a terrible excuse for a lover of les belles-lettres.

The catalyst for all of my self-loathing was Apple re-airing their commercial in which Robin Williams reads a fragment of Walt Whitman's poem 166. O Me! O Life!. (The voice-over is actually from Williams' role in the 1989 film Dead Poets Society.) In the narration Williams' character is earnest and energized. He quotes loosely from the poem, but leans heavily upon the last stanza, which Whitman has subtitled Answer. It is this stanza which offers the sweeping last line with the lilting cadence. The first stanza, which doesn't get into that ad, is quite different. It is plaintive and despondent. It trudges and stomps along heavily and resignedly. It is downtrodden and sad. I love this poem. It reminds us of our place in the chaos and the teeming crowds. It soothes our despair. It answers our wailing question, "Why, oh why am I here?"

166. O Me! O Life!

O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;                  
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.


Whitman wanted so much to be the voice of America's Journey. I read him and I get tears in my eyes. His feeling is so profound, whether it is joy or love or pain. It will comfort me always to read his promise in Song of Myself #52: "Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged,/Missing me one place search another,/I stop somewhere waiting for you."

And he does.  This morning in my Plain Dealer, I saw this--

FRAZZ  by Jef Mallett

--and I smiled.  O Me! O Walt! O Life!

I am giving some serious thought to declaring the month of June "Dept. of Nance Poetry Month." Each week, I'll toss up a poem by a different poet and chat about it, then invite you to comment and share your own favourites. Perhaps those among you with your own sites might like to join in. Tell me your thoughts on this proposition and Walt Whitman's poem in Comments. Or talk to me about poetry, poems, a poet/poets or a favourite poem or poet. It all sounds lovely to me.

A Matter Of Opinion

In addition to flinging my opinions about for free here at the Dept., I've been getting compensated for them for years now from the ever-curious people at Harris Polls, a branch of the Nielsen Family. Every so often, in one of my designated inboxes, an invitation appears for me to participate in one of their polls. I get to click and click and click away on various topics such as gas stations, cat litter, financial institutions, grocery store shelf placement, oil companies, floor sweepers, you name it. The compensation doesn't come directly in the form of cash; I earn reward points that translate into gift cards. I get Amazon cards, which are, to me, the same as cash.

Recently, the Harris Polls released the results of a survey I was not invited to participate in. From March 12-17, over two thousand adults were surveyed regarding annoying behaviors of others in various situations. The full results are here. The behaviors themselves are not surprising. They are the same old tired things that keep annoying everyone. What I find enlightening and amusing are the breakdowns in demographics. As a Baby Boomer, I am positively delighted that the Gen Xers are so tightly wound. They were the ones who blamed every little thing on us and were going to save the universe. The Millennials, who present themselves as so coolly hip and tolerant and laid-back that they might be close to slipping into a coma, aren't all that different from the rest of us.

Let's take a look at just a few of the categories and tease out what I feel is particularly interesting or germane to a discussion regarding gender and age.

LOUD MOBILE PHONE TALKERS VS. CONSTANT CHECKERS

By Generation, Gender, Children in Household

"For each pair of common annoyances below, please choose the one that annoys you the most."

	Total	Generation				Gender		Children in HH
		Millennials (18-36)	Gen Xers (37-48)	Baby Boomers (49-67)	Matures (68+)	Male	Female	Yes	No
	%	%	%	%	%	%	%	%	%
People who have loud conversations on their mobile phones in public places	65	59	66	67	74	67	63	60	67
People who repeatedly check their mobile phones while having an in-person conversation	35	41	34	33	26	33	37	40	33

I love how the perception of rudeness rises as the age of the person does. Notice, however, that more women than men do not feel that this is as bad as someone ignoring them during an in-person conversation. As I looked at the results, I noticed this common factor. Women seem to rate lower anything that compromises direct communication. Personally, this question would have been tough for me. In the end, I'd have gone with the second one. I find it hideous to be second fiddle. I am there. Put your phone on vibrate, in a perfect world.

ALL CAPS VS. OVERLY TERSE EMAILS

By Generation, Gender, Children in Household

"For each pair of common annoyances below, please choose the one that annoys you the most."

Base: U.S. Adults

	Total	Generation				Gender		Children in HH
		Millennials (18-36)	Gen Xers (37-48)	Baby Boomers (49-67)	Matures (68+)	Male	Female	Yes	No
	%	%	%	%	%	%	%	%	%
Emails written ALL IN CAPS	60	67	59	57	49	62	57	63	58
Overly brief or terse emails	40	33	41	43	51	38	43	37	42

The age breakdown in this is predictable. Millennials hate the all caps email. "Why are you shouting at me? Don't you know anything about Netiquette?" they probably mutter through their clenched teeth while tapping their stylus against their Starbucks cup. Everyone else has moved on to more pressing concerns, down through the ages, and the Matures, who are the Usual Suspects, are still trying to figure out what ALL CAPS means or why it would be an annoyance to anyone. Matures really dislike the overly brief emails which are devoid of explanation, detail, or newsy, helpful items. Millennials totally get the no-frills emails. Who uses email anyway? Can't you just text? Ugh. Men in general are Big Fans. The less you say, the better. But women are bothered more by the bare, spare email. We want more. Be thorough, communicate fully. Tell us everything.  I dislike both of these intensely.  If asked to choose one, I'd rather have all in caps.  At least I'd have what I need to know and be able to avoid more back and forth with a bad communicator.

"REPLY ALL" OVERUSE VS. NO REPLY AT ALL EMAIL

By Generation, Gender, Children in Household

"For each pair of common annoyances below, please choose the one that annoys you the most."

Base: U.S. Adults

	Total	Generation				Gender		Children in HH
		Millennials (18-36)	Gen Xers (37-48)	Baby Boomers (49-67)	Matures (68+)	Male	Female	Yes	No
	%	%	%	%	%	%	%	%	%
People who overuse "reply all" on emails	51	41	54	54	64	55	48	46	54
People who don't reply to emails	49	59	46	46	36	45	52	54	46

This one is easy for me, because I have zero trouble deleting emails. I learned it from my former colleague Roger. He simply looks at the subject line, then the sender. From there, if you cannot gauge the likelihood of its importance to you, then you are incompetent. We called this "The Pink Tape System." One year, near the end of school, an email appeared in everyone's inbox with the subject line PINK TAPE. The sender was a particularly ditzy special ed. teacher. Roger said that anyone who read that email was an idiot. I miss Roger.  He was good for me.

Anyway, my point--and I do have one--is that I would easily respond "the non-repliers" to this question. It was a toughie for everyone else, though; it almost split evenly half and half. The Millennials don't care about the "reply alls", however; they either don't use email much, or they are so used to collaborative work that they send emails as a group anyway. The Matures really hate it, though. Let me tell you why. Tons of Matures still don't get how email works. So, when they fire off an email to Bessie, and they mention how, at the last Reunion, Norm and Cora looked real fat, they don't realize that Norm and Cora are on the email list, too. And that they hit Reply All instead of Reply. And now Norm and Cora know how fat Eunice thinks they look. And so does every member of the class of 1933. And once again, women are more irked by not hearing from someone than hearing from everyone. That's why women are great communicators, for the most part. We like to keep the channels of communication open and moving. How many men are on your blogroll? Just asking.

I'm including this last one because...well, you'll see.

WORD MISUSE VS. UNSOLICITED EDITING

By Generation, Gender,  Children in Household

"For each pair of common annoyances below, please choose the one that annoys you the most."

Base: U.S. Adults

	Total	Generation				Gender		Children in HH
		Millennials (18-36)	Gen Xers (37-48)	Baby Boomers (49-67)	Matures (68+)	Male	Female	Yes	No
	%	%	%	%	%	%	%	%	%
Misuse of common words (e.g., there/they're/their, its/it's, overuse of "literally")	57	62	54	57	54	54	60	57	57
Unsolicited grammar/wording "editors"	43	38	46	43	46	46	40	43	43

Percentages may not add up exactly to 100 percent due to rounding

Hey! If everyone hates all of these Language errors, then why do they persist? The Millennials' eyes are rolling permanently to the back of their heads! We Boomers still aren't over it. And, as a Woman, I am about to Lose It.

Basically, people are bugging the Crap out of me. And you. Even when we are Mature, we will still suffer the annoyance of others. The nice thing is, I will be paid in Amazon cards to tell people what I think about it.

In reality, not a whole lot bothers me these days. Most annoyances are petty and short-lived. I can usually think of something that balances them out, or, as a friend of mine always says, "I just play Mozart in my head." In my case, it's usually Rachmaninoff, but you get the idea. If something is bothersome or annoying to you, feel free to get it out of your system in Comments.

Dog Days

While away On Jaunt, if you will, Dearest Readers, I met a new dogfriend named Stella. She is a delightful canine torpedo of a Boston terrier. Before I arrived at Stella's house, considerable talk had occurred along the lines of What To Do Since Nance Was A Cat Person. I was horrified to discover that a contingency plan had been made to stow Stella away with her Grandmother in the adjoining "Mother-in-law Suite" in case I didn't appreciate her presence.

Of course, that was a Gracious and Hospitable thing to do, but the idea of separating a loving pet from her owners would have made me feel like the worst sort of villain. Besides, I already have a Dog Niece, a cute little Corgi mix named Abbi, for whom I carry tiny biscuits in my car at all times. Truth be known, I like dogs very much as a Spectator Sport. I simply know that owning one is not for me. Dogs, as I have stated many times before, are too worky. I view all dogs as a sort of Grandchild Entity: I enjoy them for purely temporary entertainment purposes and selfishly. Then they can go home with their pet parents and I can retreat to my cats, who, except for Hair Maintenance and Shitboxes, require little of me.

It seems, however, that now I will indeed have a Dog Grandchild, a Granddog, I guess. Sam and Jared, housemates now, have adopted a dog. Did I offer lots of Motherly Advice and do My Part, pointing out the various pitfalls of dog ownership at this stage in their lives? La, it is to laugh. I brought up their odd work schedules, the fact that they live on the second floor, the expense of vet bills, the way a dog needs to be exercised in all kinds of weather--even lousy NEO weather--and yada yada yada. Sam, as usual, said nothing. Jared said, "Mom. Do you think every dog owner in the USA is at home with their dog 24/7 and has a million dollars? This won't involve you at all. We're not kids anymore. It's okay."

So much of that is true that it hurts. It hurts because he is right and I am being a big fat idiot. Who needs to butt out.

You will all be happy to know that I did precisely that. I butted out, and better than that, even, I Got On Board With The Dog Happening. We all went--even St. Patsy--to buy food, dishes, collar, lead, toys, and treats at the store. And can I just say something about the topic and item known as a Dog Bed?

Whoever is in charge of Dog Bed Pricing is a genius. This cartel is making money hand over fist and making it in skyscraper-like stacks. I have never seen something so outrageous as the price of Dog Beds. When I bought cat beds, I spent no more than ten dollars ($10.00 US currency) per cat bed. You cannot buy a large Dog Bed for less than FIFTY DOLLARS ($50.00 US currency). I'd like to quote the clerk in the pet store when I say, "Right? Like...why?  For...what?" And that is for the most basic, no-frills, bigass pillow on the floor type thing. Any decent Dog Bed is going to run you at least EIGHTY BUCKS. I could not contain my outrage nor my incredulity. One Dog Bed we looked at was simply a cat bed on steroids. Period. IT WAS ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. FOR A DOG COVERED IN DOG HAIR TO LIE IN. POSSIBLY AFTER POOPING OUTDOORS AND LICKING ITSELF.

When did this happen? Who did this? And, more importantly, how do I get a cut?

Anyway, the best thing ever was a Pet Store employee who told us to go to a local buyout outlet. "It's ridiculous," she said. "You'll do much better there, at least half off, and get a brand-name bed." We went, and we got a Serta Dog Bed with a washable cover. A Serta. For a Dog. And it was still a ridiculous price, in my estimation, although way cheaper than anything we'd seen anyplace else.

Listen, if there is anyone out there who wants to go into business with me and sell affordable, good quality Dog Beds at a reasonable price, I am IN, one hundred percent. You be the seamstress/tailor, and I'll research and design/develop. We will rake in the cash; I am not kidding. The world needs high-quality Dog Beds at a fair price. Go ahead and check out Dog Beds online. You'll see what I mean.

Oh, and yes, like all good grandmothers everywhere, I do have a picture. Here he is. Meet my new one-year old Granddog, Zydrunas. He will be joining the family as of Friday, 9 May, rescued from the Cleveland APL, where he is being neutered and vetted before coming to his Forever Home and ridiculously overpriced Dog Bed.

post header image

Why I Love Grocery Shopping Now

Oh, Dear Readers. What a wonderful gift I have for you today!

I grocery shop at a small, locally-owned store with only a few in its chain. It's a quirky place that not only has wonderful produce at ridiculously low prices, but it also has several aisles of Closeouts. These items range from furniture and bicycles to clothing and dog beds. I often get awesome deals on Target clothes that are regularly priced at say, $17.99, but at Marc's are $1.99 or less. If you don't block out at least an hour and a half for your grocery shopping, you might miss something amazing.

Anyway, back to your gift. While shopping at a Marc's earlier this week, I came upon this sign. It is Magnificent in its Deep Confusion and Wrongness.

You're welcome.

So Much On My Mind That It's Criminal

In 2013 the Oxford Dictionaries Word of the Year was selfie, the photo taken of one by oneself with a smartphone or webcam and usually shared via social media. That same year, a runner-up was binge-watching. I do not do the former, but I have done the latter, and I have done it often. Selfies always make me look terrible and I hate them. I look tired, old, and as if I have an enormous face. Binge-watching has never done me a bit of harm; that is, until today.

First, a bit of exposition. Some of you may recall that the Dept. gave up cable quite a while ago, and now we live on regular broadcast digital and a Roku, which brings us Jared's Netflix. I've found that I really don't miss anything, especially now that I've found a few new shows to watch. One of them has an actor whose character I like, and it has turned into a Mini-Obsession of sorts, especially now that Daniel Day-Lewis has retreated back into the Gaping Void Of His Creative Space And Marriage. Anyway, the show is Criminal Minds, the character is Dr. Spencer Reid, and the actor is Matthew Gray Gubler.

Here he is with sunglasses and the tously hair, and a little bit of a five o'clock shadow happening.

He's a fan of the messy-haired, but kind of  "Just got off the soccer field, but it won't take me long to get cleaned up before we go out" look.



He's got kind of a "Daniel Day-Lewis Meets Johnny Depp Meets Rob Lowe" thing going on, and I like it.

His character is very awkward and nerdy, however, and brilliant, of course, and he gets debilitating migraines.  (Aha! say all my Readers.) The big thing is, of course, his looks. He has quite a few of the Necessaries: 1. Pretty 2. Longer Hair 3. Slender 4. Great Mouth.

Sigh.

Good Heavens. If he had a British accent, I'd be in tears every time I watched that show.

But I digress.

I had no negative side effects, as I said before, from binge-watching Criminal Minds with MGG in the past, even though it is a terribly and horrifically violent and bloody show. (Honestly, I have no idea how I am able to watch it. It's truly sickening.) The past few days, however, I have watched it a lot. A LOT. There were some episodes that I hadn't even seen before, and last night I watched very late into the night.

But I still woke up early to take the Prius in to get some recall work and an oil change. The place had generously provided all kinds of coffees and teas and some doughnuts. I had a bottle of water. I was playing against my Maryland friend Leanne in Words with Friends on my phone to pass the time. Suddenly, the elderly lady to my left took an absolutely enormous bite out of her jelly doughnut. Huge red clots dropped down through her fingers and onto her pants. My stomach lurched just a little. She grabbed her napkins and began wiping, wiping, wiping, trying so hard to get rid of the evidence of what had happened. The whole napkin was stained with red now. My stomach felt a little queasy, so I looked away and tried to get Lady Macbeth's famous speech out of my head. I turned toward the television and took a sip of water.

On the screen were obscenely large slabs of raw, red meat. The chef (Bobby Flay) selected a long steel knife and carefully sliced away several cuts. The sound was muted, so all I heard was a service tech, who was explaining something to another woman sitting across from me. As the knife continued slicing, I heard, "We didn't find him in there, no, but we found evidence that he'd been there, all right. There was some hair, some shavings, and some other things all balled up. Those kinds of things can clog up the works pretty well. The harsh winter brings them out, and then they need to find a place to hide out and stay warm." Horrified, I was glad to hear the jingle that told me it was my turn to play a word. I played lye for a decent amount of points, then glanced back up at the television. Big chunks of raw meat were being ground up, and then, a quick cut to shots of sloppy burgers dripping with ketchup. My stomach clenched, and I frowned, suddenly suspicious.

I began to observe the staff as they bustled around, smiling at every single person they encountered. No one came near a door without one of Them opening it for the person to walk through. They were so obsequious and eager that it was creepy. Just what kind of place was this? Why were all the people in the waiting room women? Was I the only one who couldn't hear the TV? And why did it take so long for my iPhone to connect to their free WiFi?

But these were questions for another time.  My car was done, and I had to go.  They held the doors open for me, and waved me out, smiling all the time.

post header image

Poor, Dear, Silly Spring, Preparing Her Annual Surprise!--Wallace Stevens

It is with great pleasure that I am able to say Spring Is Here In NEO. Rick takes full responsibility for the brief return to Winter a while back, caused by him putting all the snow shovels away despite my warnings. (It was that night that the snow fell, too!) Yesterday, Easter, was full of sunshine, warm breeze, birdsong, and lots of trash talk during the front-yard wiffle ball and kickball games at my sister Patti's house. All eleventy thousand of us were there, and St. Patsy was in her glory.

On Saturday Rick and I had spent part of that Springy day evaluating the yard. My chives are up, along with my French tarragon, spicy oregano, and sage. The thyme, which had sprawled out into half of the plot, had not fared as well. I pulled it all up but a softball-sized clump which looked sickly and sad. I guess we'll see what happens. Both pond fish, Frigidaire-Ziploc and Tina, had managed to survive the winter and were sluggishly moving about in the cold, brackish water. "I know just how you feel," I told them.

It makes me feel silly and a little ashamed to say that this was a tough winter for me. After all, what did I have to do but wake up, eventually get dressed, and putter around, occasionally running some errands? Did I have to go to work every single day, brave the cold, shovel the snow, wrangle little kids to daycare, worry about anything, really? No. Honestly, I didn't. I had the life of A Kept Woman, by and large, and I could stay at home in the warmth and drink warm things and keep things tidy and cuddle the cats and read and wait for Rick to come home. How tough is that?

But as soon as Spring began its slow approach, I felt restless. It was almost instinctive, inborn, a genetic urge that made me feel a slight irritation. A sort of undercurrent, a thrumming, started in my nerves. I felt trapped and cornered. I wanted to drive, get away, go away, see something, do something. I needed to travel, to jaunt away for a bit. You know how if you have an old plant that starts doing poorly for no reason, you give the bottom of the pot a good knock and it shakes it up a bit, and it snaps to? That's what a road trip can do for me. It gets me snapped out of my post-winter funk.

So, I'm headed out tomorrow to see a friend in Maryland. It has been a million years since we've spent time together, but I have a feeling that we'll be able to pick up right where we left off. That's the great thing about friendships. Like herbs in a garden, the strongest ones can lie fallow under the worst conditions, but be vibrant and alive when the sun shines warmly again.

image

Be Not Proud

Two things occurred to me this week at entirely separate times, both involving some very sad news I received on Monday. A colleague of mine from teaching died on Monday. She was one of the truly good people I ever knew. She was kind, helpful, a devoted teacher, and an adoring mother to her two little children. She was only thirty-one years old. As soon as I heard of her death, I was overwhelmed with a deep sadness. And all I could manage to distill out of all of my emotions was the fact that It Just Wasn't Fair.

That's when I realized that, when it comes to Death, I am a child. I am fearful of losing those I love, and when confronted with Death, I want to turn around and go the other way, and quickly too, because I also feel like I want to throw up. I didn't really experience Death when I was growing up. My dad's parents were already gone by the time I was three, and no one close to me died when I was little. We didn't have pets, either, until I was much older, so I didn't even have a pet to experience Death with. Of course, there is absolutely a chance that there was a death that I simply don't recall. Much of my childhood seems and feels blurry to me, partly because I spent 85% of it reading library books, and partly because I operated on a "need to know" basis. As in "Mom or Dad will tell me what I need to know."

I often wish that our culture had a healthier view of Death. In many Eastern cultures, for example, Death is viewed as a higher plane of existence--not an ending, but a beginning, an even more perfect form of consciousness. I have a lot of ambiguity regarding Death. The idea of a Heaven of some sort is comforting, but I don't really think it exists. It bothers me, the Not Knowing. And I hate the whole social aspect of a Death. When my father died, I was outraged that we--the bereaved family--had to do anything. Why on earth would anyone expect us to receive visitors when our father and, for my mother, her husband had just died? How could we stand there and talk to people, many of whom I did not even know? And my mother started worrying about feeding them, and where we could do that, and yada yada yada. I could barely function. I could still see my father lying there in the emergency room, the sheets tightly tucked around him, nothing showing but his head. (It was only weeks later when it dawned on me that his chest was cracked open in their efforts to revive him. We wouldn't have wanted to see that.) Funerals are brutal things. They're like bridal and baby showers: they're full of good intention on both sides, but they are terrible things for both sides. I can't bring myself to go to funerals, "showings" (there's a horrifying term, right?), any of that. I feel like, one less person means the family can get the hell out of there a few minutes earlier and grieve in private. At the very least, they can rest. I went to the funeral of a former student once, a friend of Jared's too. It was so terribly sad. But Jared was a mess. He got to the casket and broke down, then started choking and retching. He hadn't wanted to go to the casket, but the mom insisted.

The second thing I realized came as a result of sitting in the oral surgeon's waiting room while St. Patsy had her tooth pulled. Quite a few mothers were there with their children, and the kids ranged in age from about five up to seventeen. I leafed through a few magazines as I waited, but some of the mothers merely sat there and nagged their kids. One gorgeous little boy named Andre got a nonstop diatribe from his mother that sounded so nasty and hateful that I almost burst into tears. She reprimanded him about his shoes, the volume of his electronic game, the fact that he sounded "too grown", how dirty he got, the way he talked about his grandmother, and all manner of things. Each time she spat something nasty his way, he looked up at her, puzzled and a little sad. So every time I caught his eye, I smiled or winked. Another mother was there with her two kids, a boy and girl, who looked to be eleven and twelve. She clearly wanted an audience, so she said audacious things to and about her kids, their schools, their behaviour, their father, and whatever she could to get a laugh. She soon started picking at every single thing they said, pouncing on mispronounced words, grammar mistakes, anything they said incorrectly. But instead of merely correcting them, she repeated their error and added 'huh?' at the end of it. For example, "So you already seen the movie, huh?" When her daughter would blush in embarrassment, she would say, "Why ya turnin' red?" It was awful.

I thought about these poor kids, trapped in a life with these parents. What were they learning? What would they grow up to be? I thought about all the people who want to be thought of as pro-lifers, who want every single baby to be born into the world, no matter what. I wondered if they ever saw parenting like this and realized that they were wishing it on an innocent child. And I still think that every single anti-choice hardliner should have to spend a week with a child welfare social worker and a police officer who investigates child abuse claims. They should have to see what life some babies are born into.

I was sitting there, in that office, and I thought about my former colleague and how she so much deserved to be alive. She was a wonderful, loving, devoted parent. Those women are here, and she is not. And it all makes me sick.

And Here I Thought My Spring Cleaning Was All Done

A few minor changes have been or will be made to the Dept. site, and I wanted to let you know what was happening. Some of it is basic Housecleaning, some is accommodating my Sloth, and some is merely practicality.

A. Commenting: A few of you miss the Comments section being called "Brainstorms." Well, me too! One morning, I devoted hours to my template, trying to troubleshoot it, googling like crazy and trying to learn some HTML coding on the fly to fix it. Ever since Google bought Blogger, they aren't too interested in servicing the platform at all, so we are left to our own devices. Anyway, after noodling about forever, I happened upon a notice that this is what GoogleBlogger calls "An Outstanding Issue." In other words, it's still broken, they don't know why, and they aren't fixing it thus far.

Next, I had changed my Comments policy to accept Anonymous commenters. A few people had contacted me to let me know that they wanted to ring in, but for some reason, they had been unable and did not want to bother setting up a shadow GoogleBlogger account. I am so sorry to say that I Will No Longer Be Allowing Anonymous Commenters. Every day since the exact moment I switched (and, no, I am not kidding), my blog has been flooded with junk comments which are simply commerce bots hawking their crap. The built-in spam filter has been doing a great job, but all the comments come to my private email inbox, and it's a pain. So, since the larger concern is outweighing the few people who claimed they wanted to join in, I've scotched Anonymous comments.

B. Sidebar Elements: I usually change my sidebar elements every time I do a new post. It's very time-consuming, and I wonder if anyone really pays attention. Could you let me know if you do, and if you actively engage with any of the elements? Then I'd know which to keep and which I can let go or keep static.

C. Email Subscriptions: Google also now owns Feedburner, my subscription service facilitator. It's--in a word--erratic. As with Blogger, Google isn't really interested in maintaining or servicing Feedburner, and it shows. I will be switching email service providers soon. Those of you who experienced the glitches in March with my daily postings know how badly the email service screwed up. It's all very frustrating, and it takes a lot of time and effort. I have time, but I detest mucking around with this sort of thing because I fear that everything I do could have fatal repercussions, to what I've already done, to my blog, to my subscribers/readers, to my computer, to the world. Each keystroke is fraught with peril. So. Fraught.

D. Feedback: In Comments, please offer any suggestions you have for anything regarding the Dept., whether it be color scheme, content, or layout. Sometimes, I can't get a fresh view on it because I'm consumed by the work of it. What do you like, dislike, want more of, want less of? I can't promise I'll act upon it because, after all, I have to love it, whatever it is that I put here.

As always, Dearest Readers, thank you.

original image

What's In A Name? Dollar Store Scents Coin A Few Choice Ones

Lucky for you, Dearest Readers, that my travels lately have once again taken me to a Dollar Store. I am in search of an odd-sized bottle to replace an under-the-sink soap dispenser in the kitchen that somehow got broken. The manufacturer only has the newer model in stock now, so we are left to scrounge around and find something that will work. So far, no luck, but my latest foray into cheapo stores has at least provided me with blog fodder.

Did you know that you don't have to spend a fortune on perfume? Your local Dollar Emporium has many fine scents available at the low, low price of One Dollar. Let me present them to you.

Perhaps you want to remember your Youth. Those days when Mother loomed large in your life. When her advice and admonitions helped you remember what it took to grow up to be The Kind Of Woman Who Would Make Her Proud. For you, may I suggest:

Some women want to project a pleasant, nonthreatening demeanor. They don't want to be a sexy siren; they merely want to convey a kind femininity. Yes, they want to say, I'm a woman, and I'm easy to get along with and somebody's mom. I have extra Kleenex in my purse, and I volunteer at the school twice a week. If you need me to stop and pick up an extra bag of ice on my way to your party, just ask! No worries! This, then, is the perfume gift for her:

She's unabashedly a redhaired, freckle-faced lass who comes from a long line of Catholics. Her brothers and uncles are all policemen, except for Uncle Casey, who's a priest, and three of the women in her family are nuns. She can out-cuss and out-drink all the other women on the block, but they don't care because she has a heart of gold. And now there's a perfume just for her:

Let's say that your mother sent you to Fat Camp where you lost fifty-three pounds and found your breasts and a waist. Now that you're tanned and slimmer, and all those days of swimming have bleached out your hair into a shimmery blond, the boys back at Verizon Co. High School, Inc. are taking notice. You are getting the big rush, and how! Before the twerking starts, you might want to dab a little of this on your neck and wrists:

Gentlemen, consider your needs met as well at your local Dollar Superstore. Allow me, if you will, to showcase just a few.

Men, what is it that you want--and I mean REALLY WANT--from your deodorant body spray? Do you want an odor-killing formulation? Do you want a lady-killing scent? Well then, do I have something just for you:

Dude! Are you, like, totally over all the phony smelling GMO colognes out there? Like, do the American sensibilities offend you with their constant homage to chemicals and forgetting the earth and our environment? If you could, would you totally smell like...oh, I don't know, the earth, and herbs, and nature? Right on. Dude! I feel you, and so does this cologne, which is French for like black tarragon, which is like decomposing herbs. I know, right?

Hey, guys. R u tired of hearing everyone get on you about ur speling? If everyone noes what you mean, then whats the big deal? If ur not gunna be a english teacher then who cares? They'res more important things too worry about then this. Besides which their's even a colone that proves its no big deal. Hear it is:

You know, Dearest Readers, I do these things so that you don't have to.

And So It Continues

Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! Yesterday I chortled in my Joy as the temperature reached a perfectly Springlike 55 and, one by one, I opened wide one window in each room for a good Airing Out. Once the sun reached its noon acme in a Crayola cornflower sky, I was already feeling its warmth radiating underneath my skin and effervescing in my veins. Soon, the Urge came upon me, primitive and tribal, an instinct so deeply inborn that it could not be shaken off or ignored. I was dressed, I was made up and tressed, I was energized by the glorious weather. Like all the women in my family, I was driven now to do One Thing, and One Thing Only.

I was going to clean my house.

How ridiculous, I know. But we simply Cannot Help It. All of us are doomed to behave in this way, and I have no idea why. I can absolutely guarantee you that, had I called either of my sisters yesterday and, if they had the day off work, they were cleaning their houses. It's a sickness. (We also wait until the hottest and most humid day of the summer occurs and then we get down on our hands and knees and scrub the kitchen floor. We call each other, too. I call Patti, and I say, "Hi, what are you doing?" "Oh, I'm down here scrubbing this awful floor," she says. "ME TOO!" I yell into the phone. "What's wrong with us?" Patti asks. "Call Susan and ask her," I say.)

My particular routine is to start in the kitchen and work from there. The stove always slows me down because, unlike many people who own a black and stainless (HA!) steel stove, I actually use mine. I had been ignoring it since Christmas, just giving it a cursory swipe now and again. There it stood, a hulking mess of meal-making memories and olive oil freckles. If only stoves were as affordable as microwaves, I'd get rid of this...this thing and buy a new one. I hate it like I hate my uncooperative can opener. It's still usable and useful, but I want desperately to get rid of it and get a new one. Junking this one is wasteful and dumb, however, so I have to soldier on, silently resenting it all the while.

My spirits remained lifted, however, by continuing to open windows as I moved along. Small challenges were no match for me and my dustrag and Pledge. My leather furniture gleamed, my tables glowed with a soft sheen like moonlight in the forest. The velvety cabernet sauvignon we had last weekend will never be forgotten, thanks to me saving the lovely bottle and adding it to our display. Pictures look brighter and sharper now. Our Vermeer reproduction is relieved of its mantle of dust. I smile a little as I clean up the fireplace area, hoping against hope that we have seen our last fire for the season.

The Season, by the way, meaning Winter, has lasted six months here in NEO. We had our first snowstorm in mid-October, and we had one a few days ago on March 29th. This had better be It. (Or what? What am I prepared to Do About It? Sigh. I don't know, but it won't be Pleasant.)

Here's a Thing, though. A Thing I thought would get way better once the boys moved out, but it hasn't gotten better, really, not by much. Cleaning the bathroom is still a shitfully thankless job, there I said it, and it had to be said. First of all, my bathroom is about as big as a closet. Cleaning the toilet, therefore, is a very intimate experience, and it is not made any better by the fact that A Male Person uses it. Why is it that men cannot--at some point in their Business--grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe the rim of the toilet? Because holy crap! You know? Or is it just me/us?

And boy, did I get sucked in to using this product. The ScrubbyBubble brush thingy. I like the idea that I don't have some icky toilet brush hanging around, but these paperwad brushy doodads are getting ridiculous. They don't really scrub, they fall apart when you wrench them off the big row they come in, and now, they have a new "heavy duty" one that, when you try to wrestle one away from its compatriots, it's almost impossible, thanks to the plasticky scrubby insert that makes it heavy duty. I almost sprained my wrist! Then I bought one of those industrial looking solid cakes that hangs in the toilet to constantly clean the bowl. I put that baby right in the flow of the water so that each time there is a flush, the clean can swirl all over the place. But Marlowe wanders in and likes to chew on it and moves it around.

Marlowe is what my students would have called "a hater."

Speaking of the cats, my mother doesn't read this blog unless she is visiting my aunt in Gettysburg, and she isn't right now, so let me just say this: C A T   H A I R. It is ruining my life. My mother would say, "Well, Nance, you signed up for it when you got those cats." So. What. Did I sign up for burping and farting contests when I had two kids? Anyway.

The cat hair would not be Such An Issue if they were not so patently stupid about being brushed. Let me ask you this: if you lay down and someone came over, spoke softly and lovingly to you, and then proceeded to rub your back and brush your hair for half an hour, would you act like IT WAS A HUGE IMPOSITION AND GET UP AND WALK ALL OVER THE PLACE AND HIDE UNDER CHAIRS AND TABLES AND MAKE THAT SOMEONE FOLLOW YOU ALL BENT OVER UNTIL IT BECAME SOMETHING LIKE A SCENE IN A MOVIE ABOUT INSANE PEOPLE? Just asking. Because I have to vacuum my bed. Did you read that incredulously?   I HAVE TO VACUUM.    MY BED.

It took me all day to clean my house. I did not sit down. Rick came home, took off his work boots, came into the living room, sat down and said--this is a direct quote--"Wow. The kitchen looks nice. You cleaned it today."

Today's forecast is for 64 degrees and partly cloudy. I think I will take a little drive and enjoy my day. After all, my house is clean.