Art From the Heart

I found my first paying job as a fine artist in the classifieds of The New York Times in 1968. It required me to make the exact same watercolor painting 300 times. They would then be framed by the employer and sold in five and dime stores in the south under the pen name Anne Saville. As I recall it looked something like this, only better:

I forget what the pay was -- something like three bucks each -- but as an already starving artist living in New York City, it was good enough for me. After the first hundred I got a little sick of doing them, but I kept at it since I had signed a contract to deliver all 300 by a certain date. Boy, was I glad when that was over and I was free to paint whatever I felt like, whenever I felt like it.

I assumed all artists must feel that way, but not here in Maine. Many of them, if not most of those who want to earn money that way, paint the same scene over and over again: Casco Bay islands covered with green trees, floating in blue water, underneath a blue sky dotted with white clouds. The tourists like those. I have painted that scene once or twice myself. Here's one of them: 

That was fun, so I did another. That was enough. So I was mystified when I went to my dentist's very upscale office today and saw all the walls hung with like 30 paintings that looked exactly like my description above, except some were at sunrise and some were at sunset and some had dark water and others had whitecaps and some clouds were fluffy and others were flat. All by the same artist. I wondered if that's what she has in her heart, or if it's more connected to what's in her bank account.

Meanwhile, I paint what I feel, which varies from day to day. My latest painting is this:

Beat It, Bambi

Alas, this was not meant to be at my house. 

As a serious animal lover, I cry in a movie when an animal is hurt or killed, even when it says at the end that, "No animals were harmed in the making of this film." I still worry that maybe they were traumatized by the bright lights and the chaos of a movie set. I can't watch those TV commercials about starving dogs or rescue cats; I have to cover my eyes or change the channel. And that scene in The Godfather with the horse's head still haunts me. 

So it's surprising that lately I have considered buying a rifle and staking out my garden and shooting every last deer that dares set hoof on my property. 

For example, take the Hydrangea bush that I planted in my side yard about five years ago. I have nurtured it through harsh droughts and harsher winters, through bleak seasons of no blooms and then finally one or two, until this year when eight glorious white snowballs appeared. I reveled in their beauty, imaging how many there would be next year. One morning I went out to revel some more, only to find them gone. (I realize it's odd to find something gone, but that's what happened.)

I know it was deer because I recognized the bitten-off stems from the Hostas in my front yard every year. Despite sprinkling shavings of Irish Spring soap on them, the deer have somehow feasted heartily on what amounts to my shared hobby with God. Now I hate all the deer, including that little brat Bambi, and although I have never even held a gun I fantasize about blowing their heads off. Is that wrong?

Mountains Out of Mole Hills

Recently a young married couple, the wife three months pregnant, were found hanging from a tree in a forest in northern India. A 73-year-old white woman was stabbed to death in broad daylight outside an upscale shopping mall in California by a young black registered felon who had been released. A 24-year-old Arkansas police officer, out kayaking with his fiancee, drowned while saving her from drowning. In an unrelated and mysterious boating incident, five friends drowned in an Ohio river. 

These are but a tiny fraction of the horrendous things that have happened to other people in the past few days. Meanwhile I have fretted over a sore hangnail, a poor night's sleep, my husband's impending birthday and too much laundry. 

Try as I might, I am unable to put my life in perspective and see how fabulous it truly is. To me, everything bad that comes along is a disaster. I wish I could but have not succeeded thus far. Sadly, the tendency to blow problems way out of proportion is all too common. Everyone should just stop doing it and see their lives instantly improve.

Fat, Black and Woke

Sports Illustrated magazine has historically showcased a beautiful, sexy woman with a perfect body on the cover of its annual swimsuit edition. Not this year. In 2026 it's time for obesity and ethnicity to be celebrated, and what's a better way than with a photo of a fat black lady?

If I were as fat as Lizzo I would stay at home sobbing, drinking soda and eating pizza and cinnamon buns. But then, I'm a white Jew and nobody is celebrating us these days, certainly not the mainstream media. 
 

Marital Money Matters

After calling to make a payment over the phone, I learned that our credit card is on a temporary hold because of a declined transaction of $1,000 made six days ago that the people at VISA assumed was false. I can't blame them. It was a payment to the Susan Collins campaign. Collins is Maine's Republican senator who is up for re-election this year. 

I wonder what they will do with that money. Print some bumper stickers? Maybe some lawn signs? Or perhaps pay some flunkies to go door-knocking in the burbs? None of which will have any impact on Collins getting elected or not, since Republicans will vote for her no matter what and Democrats won't, lawn signs and bumper stickers be damned.

Consider this: There are starving children, or maybe they have cancer, and abandoned dogs and cats in need of food and shelter, and people suffering from rare diseases and homeless junkies sleeping in doorways, and earthquake victims all over the world, not to mention that $1,200 diamond pendant I lust for, yet my husband thought giving a thousand bucks to a pampered white lady who either will or will not get re-elected despite his drop-in-the-bucket donation was a good idea. SMH.

 

My Bigotry

A recent outing to the supermarket has sent me into a funk, making me wonder if I'm crazy or if it's just everyone else. The thing is, the teenage checkout girl was a boy.

Her pinned-on name tag said "Eleanor." She was quite pretty, with a lovely blond braid cascading down the front of her feminine blouse. She wore tiny stud earrings and lipstick . But the voice was deep and her hands were huge and an Adam's Apple was quite evident. Eleanor was male, plain as day.

This troubles me. I find it unacceptable. I've tried, and failed. Whenever I see one, I feel like either laughing or crying, usually both. Does that make me a bigot? Because I don't want to be one, with a couple of exceptions (fat people and Jew-hating Muslims). The worst part is, it's too late for me to get over it. After so many decades of thinking there were two sexes, I can't stop now. 

Anyway, Eleanor was certainly very nice. But I couldn't help wondering how his grandmother felt about the whole thing.

Dear Fat Ladies ....

This is not a good size to be, but you chose it.

I just watched a video in which a very obese woman walked around a Target store pointing to the many, many racks of clothing for regular-sized women, as compared to only two for what she called "plus-size" ladies. She ranted at how unfair this is. 

I'd like to say it's not unfair. In fact, she should be glad they stock any elephantine-sized apparel outside of a costume store. Furthermore, I'd tell her we do not need to applaud your size. You got that way through bad habits that are unhealthy and ungodly.  So when you go out shopping for clothes, don't expect a huge selection for people of enormous sizes. If you want more choices, lose some weight.

To all fat ladies, please don't post videos showing us your gross naked stomachs hanging over your gross naked legs. Don't try on different dresses and ask us which one is more flattering. None of them are. You look bad in everything.

And don't call normal-sized women who look perfectly fine "too skinny" just to make yourselves feel better. Being thin is admirable. Being fat is not.

The Fall of New York City

Muslims praying in Times Square.

The city of my birth exists only in my mind. That's because I refuse to go there since that Muslim, Jew-hating socialist Mamdani was elected mayor. I went there last year to visit my dying friend, a lifelong New Yorker. Also a Jew, Ira had become too sick to follow what the campaigning Mamdani was spouting, and he died just three weeks before the fateful election now dismantling the former "greatest city in the world."

The Democratic Socialists of America -- they only keep that first word to hoodwink clueless followers into thinking they are -- want to defund the police, get rid of the U.S. Senate and the Electoral College, and abolish prisons. Imagine living in such a world. 

Incredibly, they are growing in number, mostly because many young people eschew working for a living and applaud the idea of free food, free health care and cheap housing. They see Mamdani as the Santa Claus they idolized as toddlers. Also, most of them are ignorant of facts, one of them being that their chosen form of government has been tried and failed before, many times.

Lucky for me I'm old, so I won't be around for the fall of NYC and the rounding up of Jews. Now if only I could magically make my young son older and have him also avoid those disasters, I could just relax and watch it all fall apart.

A Second Chance

Hardly anyone reads anymore. Certainly not an obscure blog written by an 80-year-old that doesn't tell you how to get rich, lose weight or find true love. So why do I write it? It's fun for me. Few things are anymore, at least after you've done whatever it is about a couple dozen trillion times. But as a former professional feature writer, writing still gives me a kick. And afterwards I get to edit it, and freely make changes wherever I choose. 

That's something that's possible almost nowhere else: The Do-Over. If it were, life could be perfect. Everything that haunts me would be erased and I could finally get a good night's sleep. One thing I would definitely change is I would watch Star Trek in my youth, or maybe the later remake with those Klingons with the weird foreheads, and understand so much more about modern life. 

Help Us, Jesus!

It's a wonder I haven't picked up some terrible gangrenous disease that will cause me to lose all four limbs and then die of sepsis, considering how much time I spend swimming in a cesspool. It's called the Internet and it's everywhere, all over the world. In fact, you're in it right now.

Today I heard a dastardly rumor swirling around in the darkest reaches of said pool claiming that Senator Lindsey Graham was having sex with a transgender prostitute when he suffered his heart attack. That really irks me. I was deeply saddened to hear of Graham's death over the weekend. One of our finest Senators of all time, his fatal condition was unknown and yet not all that uncommon. Actor John Ritter died of the same thing -- aortic dissection -- in 2003.

Graham had just returned from a trip to Ukraine and had spoken with President Trump two hours before his heart attack. He was scheduled to appear on "Meet the Press" the following morning. If he was consorting with some skanky underworld character, it seems highly unlikely that he would have done so under those trying circumstances. 

The Internet is a sickness we all have, spreading lies, stupidity and misinformation everywhere. The galloping growth of AI has only made it worse. Nothing is real, no place is safe and nobody is held accountable. Someone should pull the plug on the whole damn thing. If Jesus Christ really is coming back, now would be a good time.

Finding My Niche

I read a newspaper profile of a young woman described as a "content creator." Wondering just what that is, I did some research -- i.e. Googled it -- and learned that it's someone who creates content on social media, like with a blog. OMG, I've been one since 2007 and didn't even know it! The only thing is, you're supposed to make money doing it, whereas I definitely do not.

The ways to make money are through advertising and finding a niche, the article went on. Since I find advertising morally reprehensible, that's out. As for finding a niche -- mine used to be Humor, but these days being funny can get you sued, or worse, cancelled, and nobody wants that. 

Next. I'm supposed to charge money for reading my blog. That's insane. How much could I possibly ask? And how would I ask it? Should I just post a photo of me holding a cardboard sign scrawled with, "Anything helps"?

So while my blog continues to create content, I remain niche-less and penniless, except for all the dough my husband has and is kind enough to share with me. And of course all my past earnings before I became a social media content creator and only made content for stone and mortar businesses, for a fee. As for finding a niche, I'm considering one of these:

1. Crimes against humanity, who's committing them, and how to stop it

2. Abuse of the English language by almost everyone, led by people who say,
"At the end of the day" when they mean "ultimately" or "when it's over"

3. Dumb Hollywood movies that get huge audiences because the audiences are themselves dumb

4. Things that are wrong with living in Maine and how they get worse over time

5. How anyone with a head can find Timothy Chalemet sexy, or even male

6. What foods will help you live longer and not get cancer, as opposed to what foods won't

7. Lists of things. (Apparently they get more clicks.)