Dr. Dolittles

The state of health care today would be comical, were it not so tragic. 

Yesterday I experienced high blood pressure numbers during the afternoon. This was not unusual since I've taken medication for a condition called labile hypertension for 20 years. But this time was different, as the numbers on my BP monitor kept going up despite my usual tricks for turning it around. When they hit 228/108, a doctor friend who I trust implicitly told me to go to the closest ER. Fortunately my husband could drive me since I was afraid to move for fear my veins might explode, or whatever happens with unchecked high blood pressure.

The triage nurse, an affable chap who reminded me of a young Bill Murray, spouted words straight out of a slapstick comedy. He said there was no need to come to the ER, because "We treat symptoms, not numbers." Since I was not having any symptoms except for the growing anxiety that I might stroke out any second, it was "no biggie." In fact, Bill
-- let's call him that -- said to "throw away your blood pressure monitor, never take it at home, it will just make you crazy." So, even though he said I was free to go, Bill led me to the inner sanctum where all the curtains are to meet a doctor named Jake who would assess my situation more thoroughly.

After waiting some time Jake never materialized so we decided to leave, but then another doctor arrived who asked a lot of questions. Her advice was to suggest that my cardiologist increase my medication. Still, my high BP numbers, which by now had come down considerably after taking some extra meds, were fine with her. She said it would be okay to go out to dinner with friends, something we had planned to do that night but were no longer up for. After about 45 minutes I was released, with nothing at all having happened to me except for racking up a huge bill.

My emergency turned out to not be an emergency after all. So we went to Five Guys and got a burger and fries.

Tony Soprano Is Dead To Me

I first watched The Sopranos back in 2005. I remember because it was the year my son was a senior in high school, when some of this closest buddies all but lived at our house. One or two of them would pop in to the den and sit for a while, transfixed, as was the entire nation, by the addictive series. At the time I thought it was the greatest thing I had ever seen on TV. So not long ago, my husband and I thought it would be fun to watch the whole thing again. To our surprise, it was like seeing it for the first time, given our spotty memory as older adults. 

At first we loved it. Of course James Gandolfini was the best thing about it, but all the acting was superb. And the photography is certainly stunning. But despite enjoying certain aspects of each episode, we slowly became horrified by the repulsive and abusive behavior of almost all of the characters. What a bunch of lowlife animals! Even Tony, who I loved so much the first time around. He's possibly the worst one, cheating on his wife with any woman who looks at him twice and whacking close friends and beloved relatives without a second thought.

I won't make it through the whole series this time, as last night's episode was so nauseating I decided to call it quits. For some reason, watching people get beaten to a pulp with an iron bar, or shot in the face 22 times, or dismembered in a bathtub, or run over by a car, or strangled with piano wire, or kicked and punched in the stomach, or slapped around by a group of hoodlums is less appealing at 80 than it was at 59.

Peanut Butter

The best peanut butter available is not JIF or Skippy. It is Teddie's. Maybe there is a better peanut butter sold somewhere, like at a farmer's market or obscure natural foods store. But as far as what is available commercially everywhere, it's Teddie's and that's that. I prefer the Smooth, but it also comes in Super Chunky. Taste it once and you're hooked.

Liars

A few months ago, my husband and I did some political outreach for a Maine gubernatorial candidate who ultimately lost in the June primary. It involved driving to distant neighborhoods and dropping off literature about the candidate door-to-door in several Maine counties. We would probably have done it for no pay, but the promised wage of $25 per hour made it much more attractive, seeing as how it was during a hot spell with temperatures in the 80s. Nevertheless, we did it for two days and were happy to help.

The person who contracted us to do the work told us after a week that, "The check is in the mail." When no check arrived after another week passed, we inquired and were told again that, "I mailed it myself just yesterday."

The phantom check never came, despite the guy repeating the same thing over and over. Finally he said maybe he had the wrong mailing address. He didn't. Then he said, "Oops," promising he would be mailing it again, immediately. He obviously didn't.

The check has still not arrived. Lies, lies, all lies.

My Husband's "Art Project"

My husband has had a vegetable garden for years. It keeps getting bigger, and thus producing more of everything. Tomatoes, carrots, green beans, beets, green peas, onions, broccoli, eggplant, cucumbers, radishes, yellow squash, zucchini, peppers of many varieties, potatoes, lettuce, kale, spinach, basil, dill and cilantro. Sound good?

Here's the problem: There are just the two of us living here at the moment. We have only one dinner at night, and some nights we eat out. Therefore, we have too much stuff. We give some of it away, but here in Maine everyone with a piece of land has their own garden.

I ask Mitch every year to plant less, but he claims it's his "art project" and that he grows it for how it looks, and that I don't have to eat it. But every time I see the guy he's offering me a carrot or a radish or a tomato or something, whether it's mealtime or not. I remind him it's an art project and that I don't force him to eat my paintings. He shrugs.

Still, those veggies keep coming. 

Film Review: WILD INSIDE

Even the worst documentaries are at least educational, which is more than you can say about most bad Hollywood movies. But the best of the genre opens your eyes to worlds you never knew existed. Wild Inside is one of those. Just released, it tells the magical true story of Falco, a male Eurasian Eagle-Owl that escaped from the Central Park Zoo in February of 2023 and spent a year of delicious freedom -- the first in his life -- sightseeing in New York City.

From the moment a passer-by spots him on a city street, just sitting on the pavement looking wide-eyed and completely lost, we are in love with Falco. Soon enough the entire city was too. He was on the TV news, in magazines and newspapers, and all over the internet. A huge following of bird nerds soon sprung up and spent their nights tracking him, filming him, photographing him and thrilling over his every move.

Flaco himself is a beautiful and wondrous creature. Seeing him learn to fly and fend for himself, after 13 years of captivity in his tiny zoo enclosure, is enthralling. Afraid he will starve without his curated meals from the zookeeper, we celebrate his first kill -- a rat -- and revel in his survival skills. Go Flaco! 

Equally compelling are his human followers, a group of sensitive souls (with some heavy-duty camera equipment) who we meet through interviews, each of them showing their growing love for the giant bird. Spoiler alert: It's a sad but happy ending, definitely worth your time.

Shame On A.I.

Last night I attended a performance at a local theater. When I got home I studied the program, reading with interest the bios of the cast members, which often include a personal note at the end of their acting credits. What jumped out at me was a line that had been blacked out with a marker. Still, holding it up to the light I could make out the words, "An avid sex fan and sexaholic." Really? Either the man had chosen to include that in his resume or someone on the staff was up to no good.

Interested to find out more, I emailed the theater and learned that it should have said the actor was "an avid Sox fan and Soxaholic," but their electronic proofing system had missed it. So 17,000 copies (!) had to be redacted by humans at the box office. And still, it was legible to anyone with an eagle eye, like me. 

As a former editor and proofreader with years of experience, I would have caught the error for sure. Just another example of how people are better than machines.

The Lesbian Said About It, The Better

Not long ago I wrote a post describing my recent car accident wherein I crashed into a mailbox after momentarily blacking out at the wheel of my car. It was a bad experience, to say the least. In the post I mentioned that the owners of the mailbox are two women who live as a committed couple. The official term for them is lesbians, a word I used once in the post.

Since then this blog has received "hate mail" from an anonymous lesbian over the fact that I used the word, I assume; I can't imagine why else. She said some awful things which were not only mean-spirited but incorrect, rife with erroneous assumptions about what had and had not actually happened.

Since then, the readership numbers of that particular post have skyrocketed to heights never seen by me before. (She said she hoped my "bigoted blog post" would be read by a lot of people.) Conclusion: Lesbians are very touchy. 

Some Days Are Better Than Others

Okay, so I wrote a rather depressing post earlier today about missing beloved dead people. I got over that when my son called and I realized that he is my favorite person and he is alive and talking to him always cheers me up. So much so that I often listen to our past phone conversations on his podcast called "Zack's Mom". (Find it on Spotify.)  

Moods come and go, often for no reason we can identify. Hormones? Bad dreams? Lack of sleep? Or that old devil, dehydration? Who knows? Certainly not that shrink you tell your troubles to, usually at a very high price. The fact is, some days are better than others. Our job is to get through the bad ones somehow. If you're having one of those today, remind yourself:

1. You woke up this morning.

2. You are not in the hospital recovering from surgery. (Skip this one if you are.)

3. You do not have an upcoming surgery scheduled. (Skip this one if you do.)

4. You are not homeless, have food in the fridge and indoor plumbing.

Then go take a hot shower and clean something: Your garage, the refrigerator, a closet, whatever. It's very therapeutic. Soon enough it will be tomorrow, which for all you know will be one of the good ones!

Calling All Dead People

By the time you reach my age, you like more dead people than living people. These days, when I'm down in the dumps and need someone to talk to, the people who could cheer me up the most are not available -- at least not without a Ouija board. This sucks and is one of the worst parts of life.

Let's Get Real About AI

Business bigwigs and government leaders talk up "AI" like it's a fabulous invention that will revolutionize mankind and improve life for everyone. But what if, instead of saying the initials, people said what they actually stand for? Just how great is artificial intelligence? Let's see. 

Synonyms for artificial: unreal, contrived, hokey, stilted 

Similar to artificial: affected, arranged, dummy, ersatz, factitious, fake, false, faux, imitation, simulated, staged, substitute, synthetic, unnatural 

Related to artificial: unreal, counterfeit, imitative

Call me old-fashioned, but I still prefer reality. While it's currently all the rage, in the long run, "AI" might not benefit society even a little.