People, They're the Worst!

Cher: Not bad for a cadaver.

Let's face it: The average American woman is hideous. Morbidly obese with ugly facial features, covered in tattoos like that will help, messy hair crudely dyed in Crayola colors, bad skin, multiple piercings and terrible taste in clothing. Yet she trolls the Internet writing scathing criticisms about Hollywood's elite, those chosen few among us who have risen above average to become beautiful, thin, fabulously dressed and often wealthy role models. For these very reasons they are hated by the average American.

For example, in an article online about Cher, one of the most gifted singers to ever exist, and who at 79 looks 30 years younger, still has a fabulous figure, beautiful flowing hair and lovely features -- thanks to Botox and surgery no doubt she remains wrinkle-free -- some bloated nobody likely munching on a bag of Cheetos in some dark hellhole in Boise, Idaho called her a "walking cadaver."

The walking cadaver has a live-in boyfriend who is 39. Someone should tell him she's dead!

Forgotten Memories

This blog has so few readers that I could post photos of me giving Bill Clinton a blow job and there would be no comments. Of course I never did that and so have no photos of it, and certainly wouldn't do it now, and would never post anything lewd or vulgar here. All I'm saying is that I could, and that they would go unnoticed.

Sort of like when disgraced Congressman Eric Swallwell raped and choked a woman until she blacked out and thought she died back in 2018, yet she never called the police or told anyone about it until he was running for governor of California in 2026. Don't get me wrong, I think Swallwell is scum, but still, his latest accuser reminds me of Christine Blasey Ford and her patently false accusations about Brett Kavanaugh on the eve of his Supreme Court nomination.

Where do they get these women?

Judgment Call

Judgment: the act or process of forming an opinion or 

evaluation by discerning and comparing.

My son's girlfriend thinks I'm too judgmental. That's just one on her list of things that are wrong with me, but it's the only one that irks me. After all, if we are not discerning then what are we? How do we differ from squirrels and birds and worms and lions and camels and crows and -- somebody please stop me, you get the point.

Many people earn their living by being judgmental. This includes theater critics, movie reviewers, therapists, doctors, dentists, lawyers, hair stylists, car mechanics, newspaper columnists, chefs, house painters, fine artists, furniture repairers, plumbers, piano teachers, dress designers and every last judge in our entire legal system, including the nine sitting Justices on the Supreme Court.

Following are some judgments heard every day in common conversation:

1. It's too hot today.

2. It's freezing out there.

3. That's way too much to spend on a car.

4. Your nails look beautiful.

5. Donald Trump is an asshole.

6. That movie sucked.

7. These grapes are spoiled.

8. Buying a lottery ticket is just throwing your money away.

9. New York City has the best pizza.

10. That song is so annoying.

I could go on literally forever, but I won't. Anyway, a few nights ago I attended a play with my husband, my son and his girlfriend. Afterwards I commented that one of the costumes on one of the actors did not fit well and was very distracting. I thought it looked bad. I later learned that my comment was considered too "judgy." I would tell you what I think of her thinking that, but I can't. Not here. (Email me.)

Stuff We Never Think About

How many times have you wondered who is the poet laureate, not counting Maya Angelou who was famous for being black and reading her poem at Barack Obama's inauguration that, according to my husband, had something to do with mastodons?

If your answer is "never," you are on track with the rest of America. What are poet laureates, why do we have them, what do they do and who picked them for the job are questions one would ask if the subject ever came up, which it rarely does. 

The poet laureate is appointed to a two-year term by the Library of Congress. Currently it's someone named Arthur Sze, a handy fact to know if you do a lot of crossword puzzles. Starting his second year in the job, Mr. Sze says he is, "Excited to travel to multiple cities to celebrate poetry and poetry in translation."

The position earns $60,000 a year, which is $10,000 more than an elementary school teacher in Maine earns to educate children during their most formative years. I don't know if poetry is one of the subjects in the curriculum, but I do know that Maine scores lowest on all national tests and graduating seniors can barely read beyond an 8th-grade level or do advanced math beyond addition and subtraction. 

I've never heard any young person say they want to be a poet laureate when they grow up. Or a poet, for that matter. Personally, all I can summon up is "Jabberwocky" and "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening."  That being said, I do have a poet of choice and his name is Billy Collins. Following is my favorite poem of his:

I Chop Some Parsley While Listening to Art Blakey’s Version of “Three Blind Mice”

And I start wondering how they came to be blind.

If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister, and I think of the poor mother brooding over her sightless young triplets.

Or was it a common accident, all three caught in a searing explosion, a firework perhaps?

If not, if each came to his or her blindness separately, how did they ever manage to find one another? Would it not be difficult for a blind mouse to locate even one fellow mouse with vision, let alone two other blind ones?

And how, in their tiny darkness, could they possibly have run after a farmer’s wife or anyone else’s wife for that matter? Not to mention why.

Just so she could cut off their tails with a carving knife, is the cynic’s answer,

But the thought of them without eyes, and now without tails to trail through the moist grass or slip around the corner of a baseboard, has the cynic who always lounges within me up off his couch and at the window trying to hide the rising softness that he feels.

By now I am on to dicing an onion, which might account for the wet stinging in my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard’s mournful trumpet on “Blue Moon,”which happens to be the next cut, cannot be said to be making matters any better.

In Sickness and In Health

Most young people, blinded by love, accept the usual marriage vows and recite them easily. They promise to love and cherish and even obey, and be faithful and remain loyal in sickness and in health, til death do us part, confident that those issues will never come back to bite them. Well they're wrong, and those vows need a rewrite.

My husband of almost 40 years has had a terrible, loud, hacking, near-constant cough for going on two weeks now and I am fit to be tied, whatever that means. When I said I would stick with him "in sickness" I was imagining something much quieter, like him languishing in bed with me bringing him chicken soup and fluffing up his pillows, not me lying awake on the guest-room-too-hard bed pulling the blankets over my head to drown out the explosive hacking. And that's just at night -- the days aren't much better. 

I know it's worse for him and I'm sad about that, but I'm exhausted. Sleeping is a thing of the past, although Mitch seems to have mastered the art of coughing without waking himself up. Two visits to the doctor and a chest X-ray have netted no results other than it's bronchitis not pneumonia and it will simply have to "run its course." But the doctor never said one word about what I'm supposed to do.

About those marriage vows: Coughing should be mentioned and have a definite time limit.

80 Is The New 90

I am currently 79 years old. Happily, this number still retains some dignity. Nobody considers being 79 the same as being 90. Nobody uses it as the precursor to the grave. But 80 -- now that's a different story. When you're 80, people treat you like you're already dead. Being just two months away from that milestone, I can tell you from personal experience that it's a monumental drag.

The fact is I am limber. I work out with a trainer at CrossFit twice a week to help stay that way. I walk unaided, and with a spring in my step when I feel like it. (I would run but my hip replacement will last longer if I don't.) I live in a three-story house and run up and down the stairs all day long, too many times to count. (Yes, I hold onto the handrail, I'm not an idiot.) Still, lately I am treated like an invalid by people who know my real age, especially my own family. 

Just last night, descending the stairs at a theater after seeing a play, my son turned to me and asked if I needed any help, something he has never asked in all his 38 years, even when I could have used some. And just last week as I was emerging from an airplane, a  porter rushed over and shouted --just in case I was deaf -- "Do you need a wheelchair?"  Quickening my pace I shouted back, "Hey buddy, do I look like I need a wheelchair?"  (I was remorseful later, realizing he was just trying to earn a living.)

I'm sick of it. Treating seniors like they have one foot in the grave sucks. Can't we be permitted to feel good if we do feel good? A shining example is Cher, who is 16 days older than I am and lives with her 39-year-old boyfriend. (See photo.) 

So I've decided to cancel my upcoming birthday and continue telling anyone who asks that I am 79, steeling myself for the inevitable intake of breath followed by,"Wow, that's almost 80!" 

I'll take "almost 80" for as long as I can get away with it. 

Jewish Hospitality

If someone happens to stop by my house unannounced, just a few minute pass before I offer them something to eat or drink. If they have actually been invited, say for dinner or cocktails, they are greeted with a full spread worthy of Happy Hour on the QEII. I can't help it, I was raised that way. So I notice when I receive similar treatment -- or don't. The results of my independent study show that the generous folks who offer refreshments to visitors are always Jewish.

My husband and I recently went far afield of our vacation destination to visit friends who live in the state and wanted to show off their new digs. At first we assumed they would be putting us up, but they explained they couldn't so we got a hotel room nearby for two nights. (A crummy hotel, but hey, what are friends for?)

We arrived at their condo complex where they live independently of one another and spent about half an hour inside each one's home. After a brief tour of their individual premises, we sat together in the living room of each one. Nothing was offered in either location: Not a sip of water. No drinks before our dinner out in a restaurant. No after-dinner coffee or dessert. No breakfast in the morning after our two nights in the aforementioned crummy hotel. Basically, nothing by mouth.

Initially we were stunned and a bit hurt, but then it dawned on us: They're not Jewish. They just don't know any better. Like George's mother uttered in a particular "Seinfeld" episode after meeting his shiksa girlfriend's parents, "We're sitting there -- drinking coffee -- without a piece of cake!" His outraged father added, "It's stupid, that's what it is!"

Maybe it's not stupid but it's definitely inhospitable. Now I'm rethinking my behavior in anticipation of their upcoming visit to our home. It will likely be a lot easier to play hostess this time.

Trivial Pursuits

The CEO of Air Canada, Michael Rousseau, will resign from his position later this year after the recent crash involving one of that company's jets and a fire truck on a runway at LaGuardia Airport. He isn't leaving because of incompetence, or accusations of sexual misconduct, or embezzlement of company funds. In fact, no crime whatsoever. Instead, he is leaving because he delivered his televised condolence speech after the crash in English with French subtitles. Many people who have nothing better to do and have nothing real to worry about complained about that, forcing his resignation.

Popular bumper sticker of morons.

With so much big stuff going wrong in the world, it's hard to believe that anyone would care. Still, the Frenchies in Canada, a bi-lingual nation, are outraged that Rousseau's native tongue is English. Despite having taken French lessons for years, he explained that he was "just not comfortable enough" speaking the language, especially for such an important speech. But pettiness prevailed and off he goes.

Being petty is fast becoming the leading character trait of many human beings. Defined as "narrow-minded and ungenerous, especially in trifling matters," it is the stuff of almost every grievance these days. Pettiness is responsible for every road-rage incident, some of which end with the death of one of the participants. It's shocking how crazy people get if someone cuts in front of them in traffic, or doesn't move fast enough when the light changes from red to green.

Pettiness is exemplified by Donald Trump's stupid nickname, coined by the lefties, of "Orange Man." It fuels their derision about his hair color and his penchant for a Florida tan, sort of like if people had called FDR "Roller Boy."

Ode to Good Health

I saw a Reel posted by a fat woman who asked, "Why is my being fat the only thing you can say about me? What about all my other qualities?"

Here's how I answered her: For starters, we don't know you and can only see how you look. Certainly when it's a friend, neighbor or colleague we know in real life, we know other things about them. But still, being fat isn't about how you look but about how you act. What behavior did you indulge in to get that fat? That's what people object to, not how you look. 

Eating too much (gluttony), eating too much of the wrong foods (poor judgement), thinking about food constantly (lame brain), planning every activity around a meal (boring) -- these are not behaviors I seek out in people. 

Hollywood has recently taken things to the other extreme, with beautiful young actresses striving for totally flat chests (except for the fake boob crowd), sunken cheeks and skinny arms. Where are the role models for strong, healthy bodies? 

The times are certainly ripe for a return to putting health and fitness back on a pedestal. Remember the President's Council on Physical Fitness established back in 1963 by President Kennedy? Supposedly it still exists, with a different name, but if you look at today's youth you've got to wonder who's in charge of it and what the heck they are doing.

Another Loony Parade

The nationwide "No Kings" parades are making a comeback tomorrow, so steer clear of all cities if you are triggered by stupidity. Many misguided people who actually believe they are accomplishing something valuable by running around in crazy outfits and waving Fuck Trump signs will flood the streets for a few hours. Think of it as Mardi Gras without the alcohol.

The premise of these charades is filled with loopholes. First of all, and most egregious, Donald Trump is not a "king." He does not behave like one and never has. What he does that irks all the liberals is say what he thinks in plain English, without the soaring rhetoric. This confuses the masses, who need to not understand what their leaders are saying in order to feel they are smart enough to be in charge. For this they hate him.

Secondly, these costumed gatherings have absolutely no impact on strengthening our democracy or solving the country's many problems. The silly antics of the participants accomplish nothing besides creating a ton of work for the city's trash collectors the next day.

As a psychiatrist writes in today's Wall Street Journal, the "No Kings" protests are little more than group therapy for like-minded loonies, and bad group therapy at that. 

Why I Cry

As Sandy (Teri Garr) said to Michael (Dustin Hoffman) in "Tootsie" as they were leaving his apartment after his birthday party, "I cry all the time now ... like a tic."  All I can say is, "Me too." This might be because I am a hyper-empath, meaning I feel everyone else's feelings as deeply as my own, even if they belong to people I don't know. 

Lately my feelings are even sadder than usual, since there is war everywhere and hatred between everyday Americans and their neighbors, and senseless killings on the street of random young people just walking along or riding the subway, committed by lowlife, mentally deranged illegal immigrants who lack a soul and a reason to be here, or to be anywhere for that matter.

I cry for my cat who is now 19 years old and weighs just ten pounds, when he was once ten years old and weighed 19 pounds. Lurch gets frailer every day and I know what his future holds, and mine. Until then, he is a pain in the ass, wanting me to hold him, brush him, feed him treats, pet him and generally not do anything that is not those things in order to make his remaining days, weeks or months pleasant.

I cry because my formerly-sane husband thinks spending $12,000 to be stuck inside a pine box and  lowered into a hole in the dirt, for eternity -- after he's dead of course, which if you think about it is even nuttier since he won't even be able to enjoy it -- is a good use of his hard-earned cash.

I cry because my recent lab results showed that I am "pre-diabetic" and so I must take some immediate steps to avoid that disease, meaning goodbye bagels, potatoes, pasta, rice, noodles, cookies, pretzels, fruits and anything else that could possibly make me stop crying.

Those TV commercials showing abused dogs, or children with cancer, or starving African babies ruin at least a few hours for me if I even glimpse them for a few seconds before shutting them off.

I cry because I am going on vacation next week and it will involve flying which is even worse now because of the horrible Democrats who have shut down our government and made the TSA lines longer and airports more chaotic. For example, just days ago a jet crashed into a fire truck on a runway and killed both pilots -- boo hoo, imagine their poor mothers getting that news -- as if flying wasn't bad enough already. 

Fortunately, I do not cry in my sleep, but I do cry the following morning because I did not sleep well and so wake up exhausted. I also do not cry while playing Words With Friends or watching "Sleepless in Seattle", "You've Got Mail" or "Apollo 13", so I see those repeatedly and try not to think about how Meg Ryan ruined her face with plastic surgery and how shitty she must feel seeing her glorious younger self, lest I cry about that. 

Also, any of Mike Birbiglia's Netflix specials make me laugh hysterically, so I thank God for those. But then I cry because I wish I could see him in person but he'll never come to Maine because who would? (Mainers have no sense of humor, it's a known fact.)