Cats Don't Get No Respect

My best friend is incredible. He's always there for me.  If I'm down, he's happy to absorb some of my sadness. Last year when I had surgery he never left my side, except for the 36 hours I was in the hospital and that was pretty much because of hospital policy. See, despite his showing me much more love and attention than most of the humans I happen to know, this friend is not human. He's a cat.

So in order to travel away from home for four days, I had to arrange for someone to feed my friend, and let him outside for some fresh air and then back inside again, and maybe even spend some time with him. I would pay handsomely, of course. Many people have made it quite clear that they think it's stupid for me to care so much. After all, as my son said (and it was his cat in the first place as a new kitten, back when he was in college), "Don't make such a big deal about it. It's just a cat."

Yeah, but see, even though he's just a cat, he's my best friend. So it's troubling that the person I arranged for didn't quite get that I was paying him to show up to feed the cat sooner than twelve hours after I left this morning, and then let him out for some sunshine instead of being caged inside all day long, all alone.

Cats don't get the same respect as dogs, who think nothing of taking a shit on your carpet or peeing in the corner of your living room if you leave them alone too long. This forces you to actually show up and walk the damn things several times a day, or get someone else to do it. But cats, being fastidious, do nothing of the kind and thus are left to their own devices, with people convincing themselves that cats like it better that way, that they are, by nature, aloof. They say, "You can just dump a lot of food in a big bowl and leave plenty of water and go away for four days, and the cat doesn't care at all."

Maybe not. But the thing is, I do.

California Schemin'

Many years ago, long before marijuana was regarded as anything but an evil weed, I lived in Berkeley, California. Being of sound mind I did not stay long, but while I was there I became friendly with a member of that city's police force. Dan was my landlord and lived in a house right behind another one he owned and rented to me.

Required reading for the Berkeley Police.

One night Dan invited me to dinner with his wife and young daughter. I forget what we ate but I remember well that the adults smoked plenty of pot and that a porno movie projected onto the dining room wall ran throughout the meal. Naturally I was appalled, especially with a child present, but Dan's wife told me to ignore it, explaining that it played "all the time" because "Dan found it relaxing."

Fast-forward to the recent brouhaha involving Conservative pundit Ann Coulter and Berkeley's esteemed college. Seems Ms. Coulter was scheduled to speak on campus but the students, every one of them a liberal clone, went nuts. Demonstrations ensued and Ms. Coulter's appearance was cancelled, or she cancelled it herself, who knows. Suffice it to say that free speech lost that round, as it has countless times at institutions promising higher learning all over America.

Following a suggestion in today's Wall Street Journal, I checked out the Berkeley Police website and found the following instructions regarding protest planning. The last two items on the list are not only noteworthy but cause for alarm:

Event Planning Checklist
The Berkeley Police and City of Berkeley want to facilitate the safe expression of constitutionally protected speech. We want to work in partnership with you to hold a safe and peaceful event. The following items are things that we recommend you do to ensure a safe event.

Contact the Police Department and Provide:

• Purpose of protest
• Date(s) and time of event
• Location(s)
• Route of march, if planned
• Estimated attendance
• Organizing person or group
• Number of organizers
• How to identify and contact organizers/monitors at the event (hats, shirts, armbands)
• What will they be wearing?
• Will they have mobile phones?
• Do you want symbolic arrests?
• If so, where and when?

Are You a Hero?

All you have to do these days is get cancer and not die and suddenly you're a hero. A survivor. You battled the disease and won. It's just my opinion but it seems to me the heroes are the researchers who came up with the treatments and the doctors and nurses who administered them. And what about all the people who battle cancer and don't live? Are they pathetic losers or can they also be heroes? And if they can, then what's so heroic about surviving a disease?

And if you stay healthy and eat right and never smoke or drink or do drugs, in fact never battle anything at all, then what are you? Can you be a hero if you survived a root canal, or a kidney stone, or narcolepsy? (People do die from that, you know.) What about hip surgery? Or does it have to be worse, like you have to be raped and survive that, or be held hostage and survive that? A battered wife can be a hero, so how about a battered husband? Is he also a hero? And how do they stack up against all the military heroes who fought in actual wars defending our country? Are there levels of heroism?

Just asking.

Innocence, Thy Name is Banana

By the time you’re past fifty, high school is a dim memory if you think about it at all. Still, random moments pop up, often leading to something that happened eons ago, give or take, making us wonder how some of our former classmates turned out. 

                  Illustration: Lora Zombie

For example, what ever became of Lois S., a ditzy girl who was confused about so many things? While we were studying sea life in ninth grade science, she asked if she should be feeding the sponges they had at home; you know, the ones they stored under the kitchen sink. The real sticking point for her was the fact that theirs were pink and yellow and green and blue, and perfectly square-shaped. They didn’t seem to move at all, unlike the ones we saw in science class that were all spiny, brownish blobs that ate things. In another class, when asked what species reproduces through asexual binary fission, she replied after careful thought, “Could it be us?” 

Actually, most of my classmates were in the dark about sex back then. This being the early sixties, there were only two sexes and some of of us were still virgins. Our eighth grade “health” class was segregated since nice boys and girls discussed such things apart from one another.  Lynn R., the head of the “popular girls" who was always going steady with someone so I assumed she was up to speed in that department, asked, “If a girl and boy both take a bite from opposite ends of the same banana at the same time, do you get pregnant?” Jeez, even I knew that, and I was sort of a dork. Still, I shied away from sharing bananas with anyone but my husband, especially during my childbearing years.

My favorite high school memory involved Mr. Gizzy, a biology teacher whose random spot quizzes struck fear in all of us. One day, after a particularly tough quiz left everyone groaning, Mr. Gizzy chided, “Oh come on, that was nothing -- just one of my little quizzies.” A boy in the back yelled out, “Well, if that was one of your quizzies, I’d hate to see one of your testes!” Silence ensued as his words hung in the air, followed by riotous laughter. Mr. Gizzy’s wife, also a teacher at our school, took a lot of ribbing over that one.

And so, over the years I have wondered: When did Lois learn that the pink and blue sponges do not require feeding, and how stunned was she? Did Lynn ever have children, and if so, was any sort of fruit involved? Are the Gizzies alive today, and do they still laugh over his “little testes”? And most of all, if you said “testes” in a classroom of ninth-graders today, would they even notice?

Blockheads Against Abortion

If only it were possible to have differing views on a subject without damning the opposition, things might be better all over the world. Instead, they suck, and loudly.

Case in point: A woman on my Facebook stream who I don't know (but there she is anyway because someone I do know knows her), attempting to participate in a discussion of people who are "pro-life," designated those who are against abortion as "morons." That seems harsh to me, but then I live in Maine so what do I know?

Here is what she wrote: "These morons want to take away a woman's freedom; has nothing to do with babies, infants or children but everything to do with control of one sex over another." Perhaps if we dropped all the euphemisms, arguments might be less murky: "Pro-lifers" are people who are against the killing of unborn babies, while "pro-choice" advocates think it's every woman's right. Abortion has nothing to do with "freedom" or "control over women," it has to do with the results of having sex irresponsibly. (Yeah, yeah, rape and incest, I know all about it, but many reputable studies done over the years have concluded that those dire circumstances account for only a small percentage of all federally-funded abortions.)

Anyway, go out and have an abortion if you want; I certainly have. In fact, have two or three -- or six, like my old friend J. who preferred it to using birth control. Just don't call someone a "moron" if they think it's murder. In fact, don't call someone a moron ever; it's mean and also politically incorrect. I suggest "blockhead" instead.

Don't Just Do Something, Sit There

                                                                                                                                                                    Photo: Heidi Ayala

Every new day brings an opportunity for growth. 

It's still early; don't blow it.

Speaking Out for Married Women Everywhere

I can't keep quiet about it any longer. First it was Roger Ailes. Then Bill O'Reilly. Now it's Sean Hannity! It seems that powerful men all over the place are being accused of sexual harassment by frightened women who have kept quiet about it for 15, 20, maybe even 30 years. Well, now it's my turn, and I'm ready to speak out for all married women across our land: My husband sexually harasses me and has been doing it since the day we tied the knot in 1986.

He's constantly wanting to get me into his bedroom, which is also my bedroom so that makes it tricky to know when he's actually harassing me and when I go in there of my own free will. By the way, this goes on nearly every night! Anyway, even outside the bedroom he tells me how attractive I am. Like when I'm cooking or vacuuming, he'll say things I won't repeat here in case there are children reading this. He constantly notices my hair, or a new outfit, often making extremely suggestive comments, especially when we are taking a shower together. Admittedly we are both naked, and I entered the shower willingly, but still, it's quite a large shower and he could stand on the other side and wash himself instead of repeatedly asking me if I need any help.

Just the other day I got my hair cut, and when I got home he told me I looked "younger" and "sexier." Ha! Did he think I didn't know where he was heading with those compliments? And ever since I started working out with a personal trainer, he often says that my body "looks better." Oh really, better than what? And besides, what business is it of his to talk about my body? Next thing you know he'll be telling me dirty jokes and claiming I put a pubic hair on his can of Coke.

Wives everywhere know what I'm talking about. It's time to rise up! And remember: Even if your husband doesn't work at FOX News, you can still accuse him of bad behavior.

Have You Ever.....

The following list of items appeared in my Facebook news stream this morning. The list was a quiz or survey of one's experiences, and it had already been filled in by my friend Rick G. It was accompanied by the cryptic instruction, "Copy and paste if you're not weak," making me think the whole thing was somehow related to how brave you have been over the course of your life. What I found odd was the inclusion of "Been to Canada," like that's a thing worthy of note in one's curriculum vitae.

While I have no intention of filling out this survey, certainly not on Facebook or even here in the privacy of  my own blog, I will say proudly that not only have I been to Canada on four or five or maybe even six separate occasions, I once drove straight across that country, from Quebec to Vancouver, in the dead of winter over a three-week period, accompanied by a friend and his German Shepherd. So I guess that's something.

Marriages
Divorces
Proposals
Children
Pets right now
Surgeries
Tattoos
Piercings
Shot a gun
Quit a job
Been on TV
Been to an island
100 mph in a car
120 mph in a car
140 mph in a car
Hit a deer
Someone cried over you
Fallen in love
Watched someone give birth
Watched someone die
Been to Canada
Ridden in an ambulance
Visited Las Vegas
Sang karaoke
Been downhill skiing
Ice skating
Gone surfing
Ridden on a motorcycle
Ridden on a horse
Almost died 
Been punched
Been in a hospital 
Ridden in the back of a police car

Forget Hell, Just Go to Starbucks

I have long suspected, like many other observant people, that where we all live right now is actually Hell. The evidence is everywhere; just look around. Read the newspaper, or take a stroll through the pediatric cancer ward at a nearby hospital. But if you still can't appreciate the gargantuan scope of the horrors strangling joy out of our daily lives, just walk into a Starbucks and check out what they are now cramming down the throats of the unsuspecting cretins waiting on long lines for their "coffee."

The latest offering of Satan, Inc. is called The Unicorn Frappuccino, a gooey, sticky, sweet and sour, pink and purple mess of liquid sugar and dairy product topped with whipped cream and even more sugar, only sparkly; Starbucks says those are "fairy powders." Besides all the "magic, rainbows, and smiles," the instantly in-demand drink contains mostly sugar and 410 calories with not even a hint of coffee in it.

Customers are clamoring for the limited-edition Unicorn Frappuccino because it changes colors while you drink it. What fun! Especially for grown-ups, who have damaged their God-given once-perfect brains playing video games and snorting meth. As for price, "Magic can be yours for under $5," say the Devil's reps, which of course means they cost $4.95.

7 Ways to Sound Smarter

Writing was once a high calling. Just think of Shakespeare, and Hemingway, Sartre, Camus, Dostoevsky, Wharton, Melville. And the modern masters, like DeLillo, Heller, Roth, Tyler -- the list is long. But somewhere along the way the art of writing became something everyone can do, and for almost no pay! All the ads for writing jobs on the Internet offer little compensation (1/7 of a penny per word), and boast that "no experience is necessary" for you to produce the pap they're looking for.

Still, there are a few tricks involved in creating what passes for acceptable discourse. The most popular one is organizing your nonsense into a numbered list, making it sound like you have scoured the world and come up with the only "8 Ways to Save Your Marriage." Or the "6 Things to Do Right Now to Be Happy." Without the number in front of the words, few would bother to read "Ways to Save Your Marriage." Ah, but with that magic number in front, they'll think, "Hey, this guy (or gal, as many female experts call themselves) really knows some stuff!"

Anyway, below are those "7 Ways" you came for. (They also work in conversation.)
1. Place a number in front of a list of things, no matter how dumb they are.
2. Use uncommon words that most of your readers (and even you) don't know, like effable and dactylion.
3. Try to mention kale, at least in passing.
4. Hint at an exciting professional past: "Back in my White House days, after I returned from the Geneva Convention...."
5. Break grammatical rules: "In order to actionize your plans....."
6. Cite esoteric evidence: "A 2012 study conducted by the Institute of Myopedic Familial Genetics suggests...."
7. Include trending words and phrases to appear current. In other words, stay woke.

Oh Bill, How Could You?

I write this blog because I have no choice. Writing is what I do, and in the absence of anyone assigning me a story for money I still do it, but for fun. Sadly, the longer I go without churning out boring crap for newspapers and the Internet, the less interest I have in doing so. And so I write about whatever strikes my fancy, and right now it's Bill O'Reilly getting kicked off of FOX for allegedly making lewd comments to the scantily clad, cleavage-bearing, spike-heel-wearing news babes pretending to be all business talking about important subjects, their dangling earrings often causing a sparkly distraction from the growing death count in one foreign country or another.

Anyway, poor Bill. He worked hard to make FOX the number one cable network for the last fifteen years, but now he's kicked to the side of the road like so much trash after too many sponsors started heading for the hills, the hills being CNN. He simply had to go.

One of Mr. O'Reilly's most reported transgressions was calling an attractive African-American woman who worked at the news organization and who wishes to remain anonymous, "Hot Chocolate." That must have been so terrible for her! I hope by now she has found a good therapist to help deal with that trauma. It will likely take years before she is able to even look at a cup of hot chocolate again, let alone drink one. How sad for her, especially during the cold winter months and on camping trips.

Hot Tub Interruptus

Early one morning, just about to step onto our side deck for a soak in the hot tub, I narrowly avoided squashing a little bird lying right outside the door, obviously dead already. Laid out beautifully as if by a funeral director, with nary a feather out of place, his delicate feet stretched out behind him, pointed like a ballerina, and his pudgy brown body was topped by a tiny head sprouting a crown of white tufts. I could tell by his wide-eyed stare that his last moments had not been pleasant. "Oh great," I thought, "a present from Lurch and it's not even my birthday."

The dead birds, mice and chipmunks are the worst part of owning a cat. While they don't arrive in a steady stream, the murders occur often enough for me to feel guilty about it. After all, I am a willing accomplice, no less than Hitler's willing executioners, without whom there would have been no Holocaust. Usually I shriek and call for my husband to come up with the "final solution." Mitch cares not a whit, mindlessly stuffing the deceased inside a plastic bag and tossing it in the outside trash can. But he was out of town and would not return until late that night. The thought of leaving the birdie (that's what he was, a little birdie) lying out there all day was too much for me, so I went to the Internet for some ideas.

I rejected putting him in the freezer until trash pick-up day a week away. That was not going to happen. My only other option was burial, which seemed a tad excessive. But then I thought, why not? Who among us does not deserve a proper farewell? It was bad enough there were no friends or family members present --his, not mine -- and of course I had no way of notifying them, but at least I could usher the little guy out with a shred of dignity.

He ended up wrapped inside the editorial page from the New York Times (for the aforementioned dignity), which I then put inside an empty Lego box for a toy motorcycle (just for fun). In the woods behind our house I dug a hole about a foot-and-a-half down and carefully inserted his casket, then dragged a log over top of it to keep away any grave robbers. After shedding a few tears and repeating my mantra several times over the grave site I went in the house, washed my hands, grabbed a towel, and took that hot tub soak I'd headed out for a few hours earlier.

I Hate Eating Out

Those were the good old days.

The decision to have a meal at a restaurant is often made lightly, and it shouldn't be as there is always the potential for dire results. For example, you could die from food poisoning. Or almost as bad, run into someone you told a month ago that you were moving to China. (Who would do that?) But sometimes dinner out is unavoidable. You may be on a vacation or business trip and thus have no choice. Or you might just be facing a bare cupboard and lack the energy to go shopping for food. Then there are the special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries, Mother's Day and Valentine's Day. Whatever the reason, the practice of eating out has spread like wildfire. In 2016, statistics showed that Americans spent more at bars and restaurants ($54.857 billion) than they did on groceries ($52.503 billion).

That very fact might account for the lousy experiences we all tolerate. Like this one, for instance, at one of our favorite haunts: We arrived at the half-empty restaurant, were quickly seated, and then were completely ignored for the next fifteen minutes but who's counting. This fairly common circumstance always makes me crazy, creating the "perfect storm" out of my worst personality flaw (impatience) and my biggest gripe about dining out (poor service). I can deal with bad food since most people can't cook and besides, cooking for a crowd is tough, so I lower my expectations beforehand, seeking only enough calories to support life.

Still, it's nice to be noticed when you get there, and treated with a modicum of respect. A scintilla, a shred, a crumb, if you will, of respect would be so nice. And maybe some water, and a menu. And a smile perhaps, from someone. Anyone. And let's remember, I'm hungry; that doesn't help matters.

My son, a former waiter, is always quick to point out that all the servers are very busy taking care of other people. That never makes me feel any better; in fact, it makes me feel worse. When do I get to be one of the "other people"? To that end I have been known to crane my neck, raise an eyebrow, and even wave -- you heard me -- after waiting a ridiculously long time, all actions considered to be outrageously poor form. You're just supposed to sit there and take it, but still leave a big tip at the end of your meal, if you ever get one.

This is why I hate eating out.

The Blare of the Peepers

Except for the snow tires that are still on my car, all signs of winter are finally gone here in Maine. This is nice since April is more than half over. The warm weather of the past two days melted the remaining snow, revealing the horror of what lay beneath: piles of fallen leaves caught by surprise during last October's snowfall. So even though it's spring, raking leaves was the weekend activity at our house. My husband did manage to stick a few peas in the ground, but mostly we played catch-up with the seasons.

No matter; I still find living in Maine to be superior to living in a normal place. Sure, the world outside has its charms, too numerous to mention and besides you know them all, but despite that, coming home after a trip is always a thrill. It's so quiet here! With few distractions you can focus on just being alive, whereas in so many other places the focus is more on staying alive.

Last night, driving home from dinner at a nearby restaurant, we pulled over alongside a neighborhood pond to listen to the otherworldly singing of the spring peepers. It was almost cacophonous. Now that's the kind of noise I like.

Thank God, Peeps Are Back!

Marshmallow Candy Posing as Jesus Christ

Lest you think me sacrilegious, please know that I did not set up this photo and did not take the picture. I merely Googled "peeps on a cross" and up it came, so at least one other person has found the Easter story to be mockable.  I've never much cared for Easter, and care even less today since last night I watched Schindler's List for the first time and feel more Jewish than ever. (I've decided to get rid of my Audi ASAP.) Basically, Easter has nothing to do with my life except for the Peeps. Also, I don't believe in "The Resurrection" since it seems like a magic act, thus I can joke about it.

New for Spring: Fat Pants

A recent study by a group of scientists working in tandem at five top universities for the last seven years has just been released, the results of which are sure to shake up the snack food industry. According to a spokesman representing teams at the University of Virginia, Stanford University, New York University, Harvard and Yale University, 79% of all cancers are caused by consumption of the following foods: Fritos, Oreos, Cheez-Its, Potato Chips and Caramel Corn. Additionally, almost 90% (87.43%) of all heart disease is caused by consumption of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, specifically the Cherry Garcia, Chunky Monkey, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough and Phish Food flavors.

Reading this in the Journal of American Snack Foods the other day, I breathed a sigh of relief as I have not eaten any of the foods on the list in decades, increasing my hope that I will die of something quick and painless, like being hit by a car, passing out during a plane crash or getting incinerated in a terrorist bombing. Still, the report indicates a serious threat to the millions of people who do eat those foods, and the related businesses that bank on more and more morbidly obese customers for their very existence and gargantuan profits.

One of those is QVC, the home shopping network that specializes in stretchy clothing designed to hide the ever-increasing girth of its sedentary fan base. When asked by a Journal reporter if he worried that his target audience might start to shrink, the network's CEO and President, Michael A. George (a.k.a. "Mike"), replied, "Not at all; we're ready for any eventuality. If we can't sell the stuff as clothing for fat women, we'll just make some minor tweaks and re-purpose it all as tablecloths and draperies. We're not worried."

Designer Isaac Mizrahi, whose popular line of so-called "shapewear" shmattas are showcased on Monday nights on QVC, echoed his sentiments: "Elastic waistbands will always be in style because it's always Snack Time in America. Plus, according to our own independent survey, nine out of ten American women would choose eating their favorite junk foods and dying younger than living longer without pigging out." And based on Mizrahi's own increasing waistline, he's living the dream.

Focus on the Future

Earlier today a doctor used a laser beam to shoot a series of holes through my eyeballs. That sounds pretty bad, but I knew in advance he was going to do it, this was not a random attack. The experience was quite psychedelic and not at all painful. Still, it's another example of how annoying it can be to simply get older; if it's not one thing, it's another.  
Called a Yag capsulotomy, it was necessary as a result of my having had cataract surgery two years ago. Approximately 40% of all people who do so will require this laser treatment eventually, when a film develops that clouds the back of the new lens and their vision starts getting fuzzy. It's officially "posterior capsule opacification," but "fuzzy vision" nails it. In my case my vision wasn't all that fuzzy, but a recent eye exam revealed that the clouding had begun and it would surely worsen over time.

Many eye-drops were required during the extensive exam prior to the procedure, including a few to dilate my eyes. And while the actual laser shooting takes just about 30 seconds per eye, the dilation lasts for six hours or more. This is a drag, causing blurry vision and extreme sensitivity to light. Added to the constant barrage of floaters that look like bugs flying all around you as a result of the treatment, it's a dastardly combination that renders you all but blind behind your sunglasses for most of the day. The good news is that you're not really, and things will clear up considerably soon enough.

Celebrity Blunders: Who's the Biggest Fool?

I have a great idea for a new quiz show. The central theme is celebrities making fools of themselves, so right away you are assured of a huge audience since most ordinary, non-celebrities lead drab lives marked by frustration, longing, sugary sodas and lots of pizza, causing them to swoon at the opportunity to see beautiful people, especially gorgeous women and very rich men, looking bad.

The show would be called "Celebrity Blunder: Going Viral." The host would be Wolf Blitzer, a pompous dunderhead who loves to twist the knife during interviews with questions like, "How bad do you feel after making such a terrible blunder? Do you think it's the worst blunder you've made? Tell us about some other ones."

Contestants, dressed in latex bodysuits, would be brought on stage in a wheelbarrow filled with manure and sit there while a video of their biggest blunders caught on YouTube play on a huge screen behind them. At the end of the show, which would feature four different celebrities, the audience would vote for The Biggest Fool. Naturally each audience member would be instructed to tweet constantly during the proceedings, so the greatest offenders would begin the process of going viral.

Listed below (in alphabetical order) are some of the contestants scheduled for Season One. In cases of multiple blunders by the same celebrity, their worst blunder would be used first and others would be used in following seasons of the show. So, for example, Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump would likely be on for many, many seasons. And why, you wonder, would anyone agree to go on the show and face further humiliation? Celebrities crave the spotlight; shame has no effect on them.

Woody Allen married his sort-of stepdaughter

Warren Beatty messed up the 2016 Oscars awards presentation

Bill Clinton sexually assaulted an employee while President of the United States

Hillary Clinton lost the presidential election to Donald Trump

Bill Cosby drugged and raped countless women for many years

Sen. John Edwards impregnated his mistress while his wife was dying of cancer 
and he was running for president

Mel Gibson shouted hate speech against Jews after being pulled over for a DUI

Tonya Harding had her husband attack a rival skater in hopes of winning Olympic gold

Valerie Harper claimed to have only three months to live in 2013 but hasn't died yet

Bruce Jenner mutilated his genitalia so he could wear high heels and fancy dresses

John Kerry had plastic surgery to look like Frankenstein

Barack Obama said he visited all 57 states as President, excluding Hawaii and Alaska

Nancy Pelosi said nobody knew what was in the ACA because they hadn't read it yet

Dan Rather publicly accused George W. Bush of stuff that never happened

Michael Richards had a racist rant during his stand-up comedy act

Meg Ryan ruined her face and career with bad plastic surgery

O. J. Simpson went free after murdering two people then went to jail for robbery

Charlie Sheen infected thousands of women with HIV and didn't tell them

Sean Spicer said Hitler never used chemical weapons

Clarence Thomas used the words "pubic hair" in conversation with a woman

Donald Trump claimed nobody respects women more than he does

Anthony Weiner texted photos of his peepee to young women

Brian Williams reported seeing floating bodies during Hurricane Katrina, in a totally dry neighborhood

How to Live Forever

There's nothing to see here, folks. It's simply an experiment. My earlier post was entitled "You're Never Too Young to Die," and nobody clicked, so now I'm doing a little research to see if a more optimistic title gets more readers. Also, this cartoon was simply too good not to share. Go ahead: laugh at death!

You're Never Too Young to Die

A fellow from my high-school class of 1964 died recently. His passing elicited the usual and expected comments on Facebook noting that he will be missed, and it's sad, and our prayers are with the family, and he died way too soon. Wait a minute.... way too soon? He was 70. I checked the actuarial tables and learned that in 2017, the average life expectancy for a male is 76 years, but a man who is already 65 can expect to live to be 84. So yes, Paul died sooner than he needed to as far as the insurance people go. But of course no age is "too soon" to die.

The truth of this has been with me since childhood when I saw my six-year-old friend Eric dead at the end of his bathrobe belt, hanging from the shower rod in his bathroom. Sorry to be gruesome, but it happened. I was nine at the time. Putting two and two together, I came up with the obvious conclusion that death has no age limit.

Until that point my parents had assured me that only old people die, and after it they explained that Eric's death was "an accident." But they were clearly wrong about that, like some other things I discovered later in life. (If you don't remove a splinter it will not end up in your stomach where a tree will then grow; light bulbs do not explode in a room left empty for more than five minutes; going outside with wet hair does not cause colds; not all Germans hate all Jews.)

Since then I have seen many babies, children, teens and young adults die, either from accidents or illness or suicide, or even worse, murder. Each death was deemed a tragedy, prompting a collective cry from the mourners that the deceased was taken "way too young," no matter the age. So when a man of 70 dies after years of fighting cancer, my first thought is not that his death came "way too soon." My first thought is "he's exactly my age." My second thought is "I could go at any minute, and so could everyone I know."

Now get out there and have a nice day!

Been Around the Block-er

If you recognize these two, you're old!

I received a complaint from a friend exactly my age over my recent use of the term "senior citizen" to describe myself. She deplores the term --who doesn't? -- and wondered if I might come up with something, "a word or phrase that speaks to our knowledge, experiences and adventures. A good word, a great word, multiple syllables, maybe with an ae or ??? I respectfully assign this important task to you."

While I thank Judy for her vote of confidence, the sad truth is that the concept of growing old is not exactly a crowd-pleaser and never will be. Still, I'm unable to stop thinking about her request and have been playing around with some words to describe all those people of my generation who remember Uncle Miltie, Nik-L-Nips, circle pins and Justine & Bob. (Personally I preferred Kenny & Arlene.) All of them are preferable to the implied stodginess of "senior citizen."

rock star
hep cat 
main ingredient
pack leader
golden oldie
determinator
wise owl
chuckberry
strong survivor
groundbreaker
bandstander
early adopter
sunny stalwart
stick arounder
crowd pleaser

 

The Rise of The Narcissus Times

Growing up in New York with parents who were blindly devoted to the Democratic Party no matter what, our family respected two Bibles: The New York Times, and The New Yorker magazine. I read both of these religiously until well into middle age, at which time I reluctantly started to think for myself. (It's so much harder!) My parents were both gone and I had become a parent myself. It was time to let go of my childish notions.

Even though they had published some of my drawings, which definitely opened doors as far as getting more freelance work, I let my subscription to The New Yorker lapse. It had simply become unreadable, unless you lived on the Upper West Side and shopped at Zabar's and thought the Earth revolved on its axis around the Clintons, none of which I did. Still, I kept reading the Times, although it too was becoming an obvious organ of the DNC. Still, there was the Sunday Magazine with its holy crossword puzzle, and unless or until politics permeated that weekly brain exercise I was determined to remain a faithful supporter.

Is this any way to welcome a new administration?

Now I'm a senior citizen and I can say whatever the heck I want since, like Michael Dorsey said in Tootsie, "Age has no effect on me -- I'm a character actor." And what I'm saying is that both the Times and The New Yorker have nothing to offer anyone still capable of an independent thought.

Over the years they have morphed into the National Enquirer and the National Enquirer on Steroids, required reading for all those Prius-driving, NPR-supporting, Planned Parenthood-loving, never-Trumpers chomping down bagels at Zabar's and all the Zabar clones in affluent cities on both coasts. Especially on Sundays when they preach to the choir of their readers who, like Narcissus, look lovingly at their own reflections and then settle down with the editorial pages to find out what they should think, who they should mock, and more importantly, what to respond in case, God forbid a million times, they were to somehow be challenged by the enemy.

Still, there's the crossword puzzle, so we continue our Sunday home delivery of the Times. With a cursory glance at the front page propaganda that always elicits a wry grin at the blatantly slanted language chosen to downgrade everything pertaining to the current administration, meanwhile further demoralizing the country and keeping the Clinton fires burning, and caring not a whit that its collective words carry weight and maybe, just maybe, they could be used instead to convince our warring leaders in Washington to work together for the good of the country, not to mention the world and all mankind, I sadly chuck the rest of it into the recycling bin, sensing the tears of my parents falling down on me from Heaven. Or maybe those are my own.

Ode to Old Friends

Last week I hosted a luncheon for three women I have met since moving to Maine eight years ago. It was the first such occasion because it has taken that long for us to approach what is commonly called "being friends." While all of them are lovely people and I thoroughly enjoyed myself, still part of me was holding my breath the whole time. This is, after all, Maine, and I'm from New York, so were I to really let myself go I'd surely offend someone. Or at least that's how I felt.

A stark contrast was the time I spent last month with two friends from my high school years who both now live in Florida. I saw each of them separately, meeting one for lunch and the other one for dinner. Being with them was a joyful experience. All of me was in attendance, and I wasn't worried I would offend. Partly because of our shared history, and also because it's impossible to offend a native New Yorker no matter what you do or say, I was completely relaxed in a way that I never am with newer friends. Maybe in time I could be, but we'd all be over 100 by then and how much fun could we have?

Despite political differences or personal tastes, old friends see through all the accumulated protective layers to the essence of who you really are. There is simply nothing like them.

News Nobody Needs

With a readership of 46.6 million adults, People has the largest audience of any American magazine. You'd think this would lend it some gravitas. But no. Its current cover promises the "untold story" of crooner Barry Manilow's sexuality. Apparently he's gay, like we didn't already know, and anyway so what? Some stories should remain untold, and this is definitely one of them.

What I do want to know is how Mama June lost 300 pounds while I can't lose a measly ten and why J. Lo and A-Rod have nicknames but Barry Manilow is just Barry Manilow.

I mean really: 300 pounds is a lot. That's like two adults or three or four entire children.
 
 

Balloon Twisting as a Career

Looking for work as a freelance writer, an activity that takes me mere minutes every morning since there's never anything except writing catalog copy for L. L. Bean and they already rejected me years ago, I stumbled upon an ad that blew my mind, no pun intended: Seeking energetic, reliable, kid loving, balloon twister to join Maine's premier children's party entertainment company. Must have reliable transportation and be available most weekends. Pay starts at $30 per hour. No balloon twisting experience necessary, full training will be provided. To be considered for this position please send your resume, cover letter, and recent photo of yourself.

My idea of balloon twisting.

Besides my surprise that balloon twisters were in high demand, I was amazed at the pay. Thirty an hour! That's almost three times the going rate for a home health assistant, someone who helps the sick and elderly by feeding them, changing soiled sheets and "helping out in the bathroom," if you get my drift.

It's also about ten times the pay for a freelance writer such as myself, who has to wrack their brains dreaming up interesting and unique things to say about incredibly boring subjects like home loans, web development and email marketing without blowing their brains out.

 Compared to all that, balloon twisting seemed like the way to go. Looking further, I found an article about a Brooklyn lawyer who dropped his law practice to become a balloon twister. Todd Neufeld finds his new career far more rewarding than his previous 8-hour day job. "It sounds like a jump, but it was more of a logical progression," Neufeld said in an interview with a local newspaper reporter. "I followed what I liked to do," he explained, which kind of makes you wonder how he got through law school. A highlight of Neufeld's career was a 2009 White House picnic where he fashioned a balloon Barack Obama. (I know there's a joke in there but I can't think of it.)

The starting salary of a balloon twister is $25 an hour. (An entry-level Registered Nurse earns an average wage of $25.89 per hour.) I'd apply, but the fact that they ask for a recent photo puts the kibosh on my getting hired. Besides being too old and no longer perky, I'm pretty sure I lack the right attitude. (See illustration.)

The Stranger in the Woods

Thoreau said, "It is life nearest the bone where it is sweetest." But few people ever approach the bone, choosing instead to feast on the meat and carouse in the less nurturing but far tastier fat. I stay mostly in the middle, nibbling a little of everything. Surrounded as I am by neighbors but often passing whole days in silence when my husband is out of town, some days are better than others: the bad ones make me wonder just what the heck is wrong with me, while the good ones afford deep appreciation of every passing minute. Thus I stand in awe of those who opt for a life of solitude.

Buy it today on Amazon.com

My current hero is a hermit named Christopher Knight. I'm reading all about his 27-year escape from society living in a tent in a dense Maine forest, not in the middle of nowhere but just three miles from civilization. Still, in all that time he never saw or spoke to another person except for one passing hiker to whom he said "Hi." The Stranger in the Woods by Michael Finkel is one of those books that insistently demand to be read, so if you have something important to do, don't start it. Besides telling an amazing tale, Finkel's writing is the kind you'll savor slowly for its lyrical imagery. For example, he describes Maine as "the cork atop the fizz of small states crowding the American Northeast."

But this is no book review; there are plenty of those out there already. Rather, I'm focused on what society has to offer, or not offer, that would make someone become a hermit. Knight is not the first and he likely won't be the last. Another one, also in Maine, was Captain Ray Phillips. A former New Yorker, he lived and eventually died alone on tiny Manana Island directly across the harbor from Monhegan Island, a wildly popular tourist magnet situated twelve nautical miles from the mainland. Infinitely more social than Knight, Phillips rowed the short distance to Monhegan daily for supplies and to pick up his mail from his many fans. Still, his time was spent mostly in solitude, interrupted by the occasional curious tourist -- I was one of those in 1970 -- with just his herd of sheep for company for 45 years.

I'm too much of a scaredy-cat to go whole hog with the hermit thing, but half a loaf is better than none. And though I miss him when he's gone, those days when my husband is away have a special kind of magic.

Nobody Likes a Glam FLOTUS

America hates Melania Trump because she is just too damn beautiful! This is evidenced by the recent Twitter storm against her just-released "official White House portrait," wherein she is criticized for her too-perfect face and too-perfect hair and too-manicured nails by all the fat, ugly ladies sitting home on their big butts and getting uglier by the minute. They all loved Michelle Obama because she was the opposite of beautiful and didn't make anyone feel bad about themselves, which is apparently part of the job of being First Lady.

It's sad. She should tell everyone to fuck off in every one of the six languages she speaks.

The Rise of Slime

This is NOT slime, this is The Lorax.

According to a quote on the opening page of my computer's browser, someone I never heard of named Thomas Henry Huxley once said, "Try to learn something about everything and everything about something." Finding that to be sound advice and taking it to heart immediately, I found out that Huxley was an English biologist working during the 1800s who advanced Darwin's Theory of Evolution to the point that he earned the nickname of "Darwin's Bulldog." But enough about him. What I really want to know is this: What is slime and why is it so popular?

A friend of mine had posted a picture on Facebook of her granddaughter with some of the stuff, saying they had a great time making slime together. Not having grandchildren myself and so being out of the loop, I was clueless about slime. Yes, I saw Ghostbusters, but I doubted anyone would spend time trying to replicate that goopy stuff that shoots out of a ghost, or that they even could without a ghost on hand.

I found scores of recipes and several tutorial videos on how to make slime but nothing explaining why one would and what to do with it beyond "have fun with it." There were cautions about getting burned by the borax, a major ingredient. This led me to research borax, which I vaguely thought was a character from Dr. Seuss. But actually borax, also known as sodium borate, sodium tetraborate, or disodium tetraborate, is an important boron compound, a mineral, and a salt of boric acid. Turns out the character from Dr. Seuss is the Lorax, who speaks for the trees somehow.

Anyway, back to slime, you can add glitter and food coloring to it and even make edible slime using natural ingredients like blueberry yogurt. Still, I don't know why it's any fun.

Ivanka Wannabes

These days Ivanka Trump and her husband Jared Kushner are often described as "Washington's hottest new power couple" by the very same mainstream media lapdogs who trash them at every turn. So what is a power couple anyway? Once defined as those having "double doses of prestige and clout plus matching invitations to A-list parties" by Washingtonian Magazine, it's clear that people can be powerful without being respected. But one thing is for sure: if power is a goal, you better look damn good and have a decent plastic surgeon on speed dial. 

Alas, partly by choice (I hate surgery) and mostly by accident of birth (my father sold dry cleaning equipment for a living), I am completely powerless, which results in being unable to get my novels published or paintings sold, whereas the powerful can spit on a canvas and spark a bidding war at auction or hire a ghost writer to pen their memoirs and zoom to the top of the Times bestseller list in no time.

In Ivanka's case, her new perfect nose and Botoxed cheeks have inspired women to undergo "copycat surgery," a recent trend that is taking off in Texas where possibly something in the water, maybe runoff from all that cattle poop, has empowered women to repeatedly risk brain death or nerve damage at great cost to look like her. Personally, if I had the nerve to undergo plastic surgery I'd ask to look like me thirty years ago, although I do wonder if looking like Ivanka makes food taste any better or results in dodging cancer. I also wonder if A-list parties are any more fun than other parties.