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.)

The Enemy Within

This morning I woke up to peace and quiet in my beautiful home in Maine. Surrounded by snow-covered woods, the view out every window looked like a scene from a Hallmark Christmas card. The only disturbance was the soft meowing of my cat, who of course needed something. On my nightstand was a travel mug full of coffee left for me by my husband who had gone to the gym early. All was right with the world.

Then I turned on the TV. 

Suddenly I was deeply immersed in a nightmare world of ballistic missiles destroying buildings and uprooting lives in distant countries. A beautiful college freshman was fatally shot on the street, for no apparent reason, by a Venezuelan illegal immigrant with a long criminal record. Two pilots were dead and many people injured after a runway crash at LaGuardia Airport between a passenger jet and a fire truck. 

By all reports, most medical conditions are either caused by or made worse by stress and anxiety. I have more than my share, the most recent being a blood clot in my leg with no known cause other than stress. I'm ten pounds heavier than I want to be from eating compulsively to blot out negative thoughts. I'm tired most of the time after sleepless nights full of leg cramps and bad dreams.

None of my complaints can be blamed on anyone besides myself. If I avoid the news, eat only what's good for me and drink some warm milk with honey before bed, who knows how healthy and happy I might be?

When You're Dead

Nobody knows exactly what happens after we die. This is because nobody dead has ever come back to life, and I mean nobody. (If you are thinking Jesus Christ, oh please.) From all that we can see here in this realm, dead people cease to exist. They don't need food or clothing or shelter or anything at all, really. Dead people do not have expenses.

The cost of dying is a different story. It's actually free if you are incinerated in a plane crash or fire or lost at sea.
Lingering illnesses that require hospitalization are a different story, since the cost of a bed and treatment are crazily high. The thing is, in all of those cases you end up just as dead. So why leave the survivors with less cash?

This is the conversation my husband and I are now having, which is goddam depressing if you ask me. I say cremate me, and do it for as little as possible. This can run anywhere from a few hundred bucks up to a thousand, depending on a few details. I want no details, wishing to leave as much money to my son as possible.

On the other hand, my husband, who seems to have taken leave of his senses since his best friend died and was buried in a Jewish cemetery five months ago, has suddenly decided he wants to be buried too, with all the bells and whistles. This will run to $8,979, with $2,600 going to the Jews in charge of picking up his body, washing it, and eventually dumping it in the ground in a plain pine box -- the body wrapped in a shroud for an extra $150.

I am unbelievably outraged at his apparent insanity, allegedly brought on by seeing his friend lowered into the ground. Somehow he likes thinking of Ira deep in the dirt, seeing it as a "respectful repository of the body that once held his soul." All I can say is, Oy vey iz mir, Gut in himmel, when you're dead, you're dead! That money could be used to help living people in dire need, or else leave it to your son and future grandchildren. 

The thriving death industry is little different than drinking the Kool-Aid in Jonestown. A cult is a cult is a cult.

A Catty Rant

How was she talked into leaving her house looking like that? Was she drunk? Is she on drugs? Was she promised a ton of money by the dress designer? Did the dress even have a legitimate designer or was it made by a gay friend trying to break into the fashion industry?? Is she remorseful now and considering suicide? Was she confused and thinking she was going to a Halloween party?

I did not watch the Academy Awards because A, I forgot they were on and B, I never saw any of the movies that were nominated and C, it's a stupid waste of time, but still I was forced to see photos from the event that made it into the mainstream media for days following the Hollywood ego-fest.

One picture stood out from all the rest, and was shown by every news outlet: Heidi Klum looking really bad in a dress that might have been made in my 8th-grade Home Economics class back in the 1960s.  Not only is the dress ridiculously hideous and ill-fitting, but it exposes some hard truths about the former supermodel: she's losing tone and has developed quite a tummy. 

I could go on but I've got things to do. 

(FYI, TODAY'S PAGE LAYOUT PAYS HOMAGE TO HEIDI'S DRESS!)

Blocking Out Food Noise

These days it's almost impossible not to think about food. It's so common it's been given a name: Food noise. 

Just turning on the TV to catch up on the war news involves having a stuffed-crust pizza shoved in your face. Change the channel and it's a commercial for one of those hot new weight-loss injections. Or maybe it's a cooking show, or a baking show, or an interview with a formerly-fat-now-skinny actress telling how she lost the weight. 

Food noise is inescapable, and makes me long to be stranded on a remote island living on nuts, berries, and the occasional fish my partner-in-stranding would catch. Instead I'm faced with the never-ending question, "What's for dinner?" that sends me to a supermarket full of empty calories, and it's all making my clothes much too tight.

Several things should happen to right these wrongs. First of all, Girl Scout cookies should be outlawed. They taste terrible, are full of bad ingredients and increase in cost every year despite the decline in quality. Even the Thin Mints aren't thin anymore! To raise money, the Girl Scouts should start selling healthy things. How about plants, flowers, vegetable seeds for a garden?

Next, all the inside rows of all the supermarkets should be eliminated. No more crackers, cookies, chips, candy, sodas, donuts, cakes, pies, breads and pastries. This would make the stores smaller and more manageable to get around. Think of the time saved shopping!

The FCC should outlaw commercials for any foods deemed unhealthy. In fact, why stop there? Just outlaw any foods deemed unhealthy, or at least make them unaffordable. For example, a small French fries at McDonald's should cost $15.00.

Bring back weight limits for flight attendants, they've gotten way out of hand. And while I'm on the subject, stop doling out those crappy snacks on airplanes that people eat because they are petrified they will crash to their death any second so why not have some Goldfish crackers or chocolate-chip cookies or pretzels on the way down.

If food was fuel, everyone would stop thinking about it and all that food noise would pipe down. People would look better, feel better and be in much better moods. Even anorexics would start eating better.

The Luck of the Irish?

Yesterday was a "holiday," I suppose mainly for Irish people although it is printed on my Mark Rothko Wall Calendar and I don't believe he was Irish, so why is it there? (I just looked it up and Rothko was a Russian Jew, but 1 in 4 adults in America are of Irish descent.)

Anyway, also being a Russian Jew I did not celebrate St. Patrick's Day, but I did read about a few parades. One of them took place in Kentucky, where a 50-year-old mother of two was walking too close to a float in the local St. Paddy's parade and somehow her foot got entangled with one of the wheels and she was pulled under the vehicle and died on the way to the hospital. 

So from now until forever on St. Patrick's Day her kids will think of the freak accident that robbed them of their mother and their childhood. No matter how you slice it, that's pretty bad luck.

Flickering Brain Syndrome

I meet more and more people these days who lack brains. Or else they have brains that have fallen into disrepair since they are used less often as technological advances replace them, making thinking unnecessary. So they flicker, like a light bulb on the way out.

Flickerbrains really bug me. Not as much as fat people who are just pathetic, but still, a brain is a terrible thing to lose, or waste, or something, if you ever had one, to quote Dan Quayle, former VP for George Bush the Elder many years ago. (See, my brain flickers on and off too.)

One of those flickerbrains just called our house phone, showing the caller ID "Wireless Caller." I answer our landline just for fun, since it's usually spam and I love hearing that Indian accent. Today it was this guy Amos, who has called at least five times over the past few years and it's always the same conversation:

Me: Hello?

Amos: I'm looking for Mitch.

Me: He's not here. Don't you have his cell phone number?

Amos: I do, I thought this was it.

Me: No, this is his home number.

Amos: Oh, I thought I had fixed that in my contacts.

Me: Guess not.

Amos: I definitely will. What is his cell phone number?

So I give him Mitch's cell number and we hang up and I have no doubt that Amos will call the house in a few months and we will have the exact conversation again. BTW, he's no dummy: he's a successful business owner, wins big government contracts and lives in a ritzy neighborhood in a home that faces the water. It's just that his brain is going.

The Future of Us

As reported in today's Wall Street Journal, Elon Musk is busy making a new fleet of vehicles that have neither a steering wheel nor foot pedals, and instead operate on Tesla's Full Self-Driving software. Called a Cybercab, they are already in production in Austin, Texas.

After those cabs hit the streets, Musk plans to start development of humanoid robots. I guess they'll get around by Cybercab. As for the rest of us, the article did not specify how Musk plans to use humans once we become extinct.

How to Be Happier, Instantly

I live in Maine. There are no missiles being fired at me, no drones circling overhead, no blaring sirens warning me to take shelter. In fact, it's not even snowing here today! All is calm. So why would I choose to end that peace by turning on my TV and seeing the intense war, death and destruction occurring thousand of miles away, about which I can do absolutely nothing? 

Admit it: you've got to be a masochist to watch the news these days, unless of course you are directly involved in some way. If my son or daughter were in the military or a journalist covering war, I would tune in. Aside from those conditions, all it does is make me anxious, sad and depressed, all the while alerting me to the many diseases that I could get and the many drugs I should ask my doctor about. And oh yes, don't forget that shingles could get me at any moment so I must get vaccinated ASAP, I hope it's not too late.

We've all heard the expression, "No news is good news." I suggest taking that literally. From now on my TV will be called the Movie Box.