Get Smarter: Right Here, Right Now

Albert Einstein (duh)

There's an old saying that you learn something new every day, or at least you're supposed to. Anyway, I already did today and it's not even nine in the morning, so now I can lay back and be stupid the rest of the day since I'm already smarter. And now you will be too, since I'm about to share my new knowledge with you.

It came to me via the crossword puzzle in today's Wall Street Journal. Crossword puzzles are the only reason I look at any newspapers. They keep your mind sharp -- much sharper than the rest of the gibberish the editors dream up to surround the ads with column inches of words and thus remain employed. It's important to remember that newspapers are money-making endeavors, and their owners keep a keen eye on the bottom line. For example, the current owner of the Washington Post, Jeff Bezos, is the richest man in the world.

The new thing I learned is the word ZEUGMA. What the heck? Who ever saw such a word, let alone needed to use it? Even the puzzle's clue for it was confusing: "Figure of speech exemplified by "You held your breath and the door for me." I was sure I had something wrong, but then I finished the whole crossword and there it sat: zeugma. Naturally I looked it up in my Webster's and found it, right between zeta and Zeus:

Milking the GMO Myth

Why are the so-called "masses" so dumb? And by "masses" I mean all those people I don't know and who don't read this blog (so relax, it's not you), since if they did I would be famous and make money at it. And by "dumb" I mean stupid, uninformed, lacking reason, accepting things at face value, and submitting to a crowd mentality. (Obviously not you, dear reader.)

I have met the occasional mass member over the years, as much as I try to protect myself from idiots. The last one I befriended was a woman who smuggled cocaine into this country by swallowing it in little plastic bags because her husband was a drug dealer and he asked her to. She eventually divorced him, joined the Witness Protection Program, then moved to Vermont where she married another man who read the New York Times every day and told her what to think. When I met her she was a fun-loving, pot-smoking alcoholic on antidepressants with a great sense of humor. That was many years ago, and I have since become much more selective concerning who I hang out with.

What's got me thinking about the stupidity of the masses is the following quote I read in a magazine called Farm Journal's MILK, not your typical newsstand option. We have a subscription since it is published by the company my husband works for. So every month I get to learn about the ins and outs of raising cattle, the latest milking equipment, the pros and cons of the bovine coronavirus vaccine, the latest milk price forecasts, manure bedding for cows, protective canvas covers for young udders (available in teal and magenta) and other fascinating esoterica.

Here's the quote, from an article about the results of a recent survey of mothers between the ages of 25 and 49 who are concerned about the safety and dangers of feeding GMO foods to their families: 
   "Thirty years of research by independent scientific organizations in the EU and U.S. have shown no negative health effects on more than 100 billion animals fed food grown with GMO farming methods. Likewise, no ill effects have been shown with human health." -- Marianne Smith Edge, a sixth-generation farmer and registered dietitian with A Fresh Look, a farmer-led nonprofit seeking to educate consumers about food production.

Still, many people, and by people I mean non-thinking humanoids who want to be perceived as doing the right thing, gnash their teeth over the existence of GMOs and only buy products stamped with the label NON-GMO. How teeny their brains must be.

Yoga On A Plane

So maybe by now you have heard about the woman who was doing yoga in the aisle on an airplane. A few of the passengers recorded her antics on their cell phones and posted the results on YouTube, and of course she went viral and made the news. I found the story sad and depressing.

Yes, I know, getting up and walking around once an hour on a long flight is highly recommended by physicians, and common sense, to avoid getting a blood clot or just incredibly stiff and sore. We all agree it's a good idea. But doing your yoga stretches is another order of magnitude altogether, one that reeks of mental instability. At the very least it's a desperate cry for attention, which of course is never an indication of anything good.

There's one of "those people" at the gym where I work out twice a week. We seem to be on the same schedule so I see him quite often. He's in his early sixties, with white dreadlocks halfway down his back that are usually braided. He's also got a very long white beard like Methuselah, and wears outlandish outfits consisting of pink patterned tights and purple spandex shorts, etc. I see him and I always wonder what went wrong, and when.

Life Is So Unfair!

And what about animals?

Apparently many people are angry that there was only one female Grammy winner at last night's televised awards show, which unfortunately I had to miss because my cat had a hairball and vomited and I had to clean it up, and then seeing as I had the mop handy I decided to scrub the basement floor. Otherwise I would definitely have tuned in.

Anyway, this is what happens when back in preschool you give everyone a sticker for finishing all their juice or not pooping in their diaper that day. Fast forward to right now when there needs to be fairness in everything regardless of talent, skill or brains. Come on now, everyone needs a Grammy! Perhaps they should add a few new categories to be completely inclusive, like these:

Best Disabled Black Female Performer in a Wheelchair
Best Disabled White Female Performer on Crutches
Best Male Latino Rap Artist with Prostate Problems
Most Promising Obese Diabetic Soprano Female
Best New Album by a Male with Alopecia
Best Single by a Schizophrenic Transgender Single Mom
Best Music Video by a Bunch of Legal Immigrant Queers
Best Music Video by a Non-English Speaking Gang of Illegal Immigrants

Let me know if I left anyone out.

Film Review: THE SHAPE OF WATER

With 13 Oscar nominations this year, The Shape of Water will likely swim by you at some point, if it hasn't already. Like many a fairy tale, the story starts out kind of dreamy, gets seriously creepy, then ends up dreamy again. The opening holds such promise, with an intriguing lack of explanation of anything that's going on, accompanied by a great musical score and beautiful, watery images. Starring Sallie Hawkins as a mute cleaning lady with a dull-as-dishwater life, it's easy to see why she would fall for a fish-faced creature from an Amazon lagoon in a skintight wet suit that lights up when he's happy. I mean, who wouldn't?

Half-Man, half-RuPaul?

Then the plot shows up, and it's a doozy. There are Russian spies, a double agent, a very mean villain the audience can hiss at, a half-man-half-fish creature under lock and key at a secret government facility, and a damsel-in-distress in need of rescuing. Throw in some implied racism, a nod to gay pride and a whole lot of we-love-immigrants sentiment, set it all down in the fabulous 60s, and you've got it. We know it's the 60s because of the cars and the advertising, plus there's always a TV on somewhere showing old sitcoms like Mr. Ed and Gilligan's Island.

There are also lots of references to old movies -- better movies -- like King Kong, Frankenstein, The Creature from the Black Lagoon, Arrival, Avatar, and E.T., complete with entire chunks of their plots. Combined with a non-stop score of classic old love songs, it's easy to become distracted from the fact that this film is actually not old but brand new, and also quite shallow although we are being manipulated into thinking it's deep, just to stick with the water metaphor. Even more irksome, the leading man (fish) looks like Barry Manilow several facelifts ago, with a bit of RuPaul's fashion sense. While not a comedy, still it's often laugh-out-loud funny; it just might be bad enough to win Best Picture.

And The Guilt Goes On

I'm telling you, it's a goddam miracle that my grown son has not gone on a killing spree or something, considering I did every last thing wrong parenting him when he was young. For one thing, I learned just today that you are not supposed to ever ask your kids, "How was your day?" when they get home from school, especially when they are in grade school. It puts too much pressure on them, or something, I didn't read the article any further because of all my sobbing, but there was something in there about the kid "caving under all your longing." I asked him that every single day, and my "kid" is now 30. I can't possibly fathom the damage.

I also plopped him in front of the TV to watch Sesame Street in his little baby rocker, thinking, as was the conventional wisdom in those days, that I was getting him on the fast track to learning. Okay, so he was reading before he started nursery school, which he started a year early because he was already reading, but now he is addicted to his cell phone and that's all my fault, apparently, for getting him "hooked on screens" so early.

But the very worst was that my husband and I, horror of horrors, made our baby sleep all alone, in a crib (in another room if you must know, although it adjoined our own), instead of bringing him into our bed and holding him close all night, like the proponents of attachment parenting do these days. How this impacted him is hard to tell, but I bet it's not good.

I'm going in the hot tub now.

Gender Reassignment

Here in Maine there is snow on the ground from November through April. Naturally it gets tracked in on boots and shoes. Some thoughtful people remove their shoes when they enter a home. Others, not so thoughtful, don't. Since washing the floor is one of the things I hate doing most in life, second only to changing a flat tire, I rarely do it. But by yesterday afternoon my kitchen floor had become intolerable; made of black ceramic tile, every bit of dirt shows up like dandruff on a cheap suit. I bit the bullet and washed the damn floor.

Last night my husband came home from a trip and walked into the kitchen wearing snowy boots. His size-12 footprints went from the front door to the fridge. It was annoying, but since I was happy to see him and was also busy cooking dinner, I let it go. However, later I grabbed a wet rag and wiped up the dried dirt.

This morning Mitch went out to the gym and returned home with snowy sneakers. He made those same footprints all over the place, but this time I am not going to clean it up. I am going to live in a pigsty just like him and all the other men who don't remove their shoes and never even think of washing the floor. I will deny my gender and become like a man, at least in the floor-washing department.

Phony Baloney

I hate bullshit. In fact, my best quality and worst character flaw are one and the same: I'm honest even if it kills me, or you. So I get really pissed off when I find out I've been lied to and fallen for it. That exact thing happened yesterday when a friend posted something on her Facebook page that I believed completely, only to learn today that it was a bogus story that's been in circulation for five years.

You may know the one, about the lady who was unknowingly charged $250 by Neiman-Marcus for their chocolate-chip cookie recipe, thinking it would only cost her $2.50. I found it outrageous and asked if I could use it here as a blog post, but when I never heard back from her I checked it out on Snopes.com and found out it was phony baloney.

Okay, so truth be told, I don't always tell the truth. In fact, I lie constantly. Well, not constantly, but a lot. Like when I get invited to something I don't want to attend, I just say I'm busy that night. Or I wait until the day of the event and call and say I'm sick. Or if the server at a restaurant stops by the table to ask how is everything, and my food is all but inedible and I wouldn't feed it to my dog, I still say, with a big smile, "It's great, thanks."

I also lie about my weight. And saying it's a cute baby when it isn't. And of course politics, but who doesn't. And the worst is lying for other people who have asked me to keep a secret. I hate that, but I do it. I've kept one whopper to myself for 35 years now, and it still bothers me. But hey, I promised. So even though I lie, I keep my promises and your secrets. As for the cookie recipe, why bother baking when you can get Tate's cookies? Nothing can top them, and that's the truth.

Keeping a Low Profile

I'm thrilled that you are reading my blog, really I am. So it pains me to say you must stop, immediately, and go do something else because the Internet is a very, very bad place to be! I have long suspected this, but in just the few hours I've been awake today I've learned how evil it has become. (I can only hope nothing bad happens to me before I finish writing this post.)

First, on the radio early this morning I heard about a 12-year-old Florida girl who committed suicide after months of enduring what is called "cyber-bullying." She was publicly taunted online -- on Snapchat and Facebook and who knows where else, but it was everywhere all kids go these days. The child felt she had nowhere to hide, and she was right.

When I was young it was just called bullying, and kids either did it in person, right up in your face, or behind your back. Either way, it hurt. I was a target for years, mostly because puberty hit me early, making me the Dolly Parton of my elementary school. The boys taunted me constantly, making me cry and basically feel like shit (especially Johnny Azlant for all you SSHSers).

Back then nothing could be done about it besides go home and eat a lot of cookies and quietly pray that terrible things would happen to all those boys, mostly that they would die of horrible diseases or be killed in car crashes, etc. Luckily the other girls in my class caught up with me in the breast department and by high-school my bosom was nothing to write home about. (Besides, I didn't put out.) But these days there are laws on the books against bullying, and two young boys have been arrested in the case in Florida. They may face a year in jail and a fine of $1,000 each for "saying mean things" to the girl who ended her life.

The second bad thing about the Internet came to my attention in an article in today's Wall Street Journal about the world of dating circa 2018: Nobody reveals their last name anymore, at least not until the relationship is very serious. People are getting naked together and having sex with one another without knowing their partner's last name because they fear what can be learned about them online. Apparently asking someone's last name is akin to saying, "Will you marry me?" (In my day it wasn't unusual to wake up next to someone and not know their first name, but that's another blog post altogether.)

So heed my warning and get out while you still can, before people Google you and find your LinkedIn resume and stalk you on Facebook. Do you want everyone knowing who you voted for and what kind of music you prefer and how you spent last weekend and if you like cats more than dogs? I thought not.

6 Steps to Getting Happy

1. Make a list of what you want and why you want it. If you can't come up with any reason why you want it, cross it off the list.
2. Decide which of the things on the list will actually make you happier, then figure out what you need to do to get them.
3. Don't start down any path that ends up somewhere you don't want to be.
4. Only ask for advice from people who are already happier than you.
5. Don't hang out with people who are more miserable than you are.
6. Don't waste your very limited time being unhappy. Make that list now.

It's Awards Season! Who's the Best?

This morning at 5:22 AM in California, lots of Hollywood stars, or as I like to call them, nitwits, got all gussied up to just announce the Academy Awards in a televised ceremony that rivaled the main event to be broadcast on March 4, with all sorts of staging and production and fancy clothes, and streamed live on the Internet for those poor, misguided souls who could not wait another second until they could read the list of nominees online.

I have never understood why the movie industry is the only one where awards are handed out for all the world to see. What about all the other professions, a few of which we could not live without, or if we did our quality of life would suffer dramatically. That's right, you guessed it: I am talking about dentists! What would we be without them? Toothless is what. So to honor those tireless, fearless and dauntless (I am not sure what that means but I've always wanted to use the word) men and women in white, or sometimes gray like at my periodontist's office which is very upscale and where all the uniforms match the office decor, I submit this year's awards for Outstanding Oral and Maxillofacial Stuff: 

Could be a movie star!

Best Periodontist: Dr. Peter Then (Corey + Then Periodontics, South Portland, Maine)
Besides being handsome and funny, which never hurts in any situation and certainly is a plus at any dentist office, Dr. Then goes the extra mile to assure you have a great experience in the chair. He takes every opportunity to extract not only as many teeth but as much money as he can from each patient. (Ha ha, just a little joke there.) He's not cheap, but he's worth it. And he gives you his cell phone number in case you have a problem after some horrible procedure, and will even come in to the office on a weekend if you need him. (I am guessing on that last thing, but I'd put money on it.)

Best Hygienist: Stella (Corey + Then Periodontics, South Portland, Maine)

I'd know her anywhere!

Like Cher and Oprah, Stella needs no last name. Always cheerful, I love her and would never let anyone else do what she does to me. She is quite talkative when you want her to be, like when she is digging really deep into areas that might be sensitive. She is quick to notice if you are uncomfortable and will offer some sort of solution, like that numbing gel which really does work. I love hearing about her daughter's life since my son is about the same age so I can make comparisons to how he is doing compared to others of his generation. Also, Stella works out at a gym so is very in shape and committed to a healthy lifestyle. I can't stand a fat hygienist. (Back when I lived in Salt Lake City I had one of those; there was always a vague odor of Oreos about her, and the occasional cookie crumb on her uniform.)

Best Dentist: Alex Hutcheon (Bayview Dental Associates, Yarmouth, Maine)

"The God of Dentistry"

Certainly the best in his field in my experience, and I have lived in five states and the District of Columbia and had dental problems in each one, Dr. Hutcheon is more accurately referred to as "The God of Dentistry." Pain is not in his vocabulary. He knows nothing about pain whatsoever. And his technique of delivering that shot of Novocaine, or whatever they use now, is beyond astonishing: You wonder when he's going to do it, and then he says it's done! You simply do not feel it at all! He's not much of a talker but who cares; your Valium is already working. If he ever retires I will need lots of emotional support. Fortunately he's fairly young so I won't have to experience that loss, unless he dies unexpectedly which would be tragic.

Did Mommy Eat Detergent?

Before pods, it was a powder. Much messier.

A current bizarre craze among teenagers involves posting videos of themselves biting into packets of laundry detergent on the Internet. It's called the "Tide Pod Challenge."

This bit of news brings several questions to mind: Are these kids mentally ill? If they aren't now, will they be after ingesting poison? Do they have parents? What did their parents do, or not do, during their formative years that might cause such self-destructive behavior all these years later? And finally, can the parents be blamed, or does the fault lie with the omnipresent social media, overwhelming pressure from peers, or just our deviant culture in general?

I have no answers. But I do breathe a sigh of relief daily that my own son, now 30, has navigated the treacherous waters of youth and made it to adulthood without eating laundry detergent or acquiring any body piercings or tattoos, unaddicted to opioids and averse to alcohol. Mostly he engages in wholesome activities like biking and yoga, makes a point of eating well, and aside from smoking cigarettes -- he says he's quitting -- makes me proud.

About those cigarettes: Our son grew up watching both his parents smoke, or rather hide our smoking from him, but children see and know all. I now take full responsibility for my poor role modeling, and although I quit eleven years ago I still feel guilty about it. So, getting back to those detergent pods: what did those kids see and when did they see it?

My Favorite Hate Mail

Over the years I have written articles, columns and the occasional Letter to the Editor that have been published in a variety of newspapers. Naturally, not every reader has agreed with me and several have taken pen to paper to say so. Following is my favorite piece of "hate mail" in response to a humor column for the Deseret News that complained about my rude and noisy next-door neighbors. It still can be found online by Googling my name, almost 20 years after the column first appeared: 

"I recently read an article written by Andrea Rouda (July 14, Page C1). In her article she complains about her new neighbors. Well, as far as I can tell she wouldn't be happy if Princess Di lived next door. During the whole article all she makes are negative comments about her neighbors.

I think she just moved here from Maryland so she would have a new set of things to complain about. She acts like she wants everyone in the neighborhood to call and ask if they can fix their car or mow their lawn. And I guess maybe all the kids should call and check before they play, just in case she might have a headache, so they won't disturb her. Just what is her idea of a neighbor? Someone who never says "hi" and doesn't have kids - someone who just lives like a hermit?

Who does she think she is running down everyone she meets? All I can say is I'm sure glad she didn't move into my neighborhood. I like my neighbor kids who stand in the street and play basketball. Neighbors who are always willing to lend a ladder or a tool. (Or even bring you a pasta salad when you are sick.)

I just hope she thinks about what she has printed in the paper about normal people being nice. Maybe she just needs to think about who needs to change. Has she ever thought maybe she is the one who needs an attitude adjustment?"

Courtnie Wood
Age 15
North Salt Lake City

Hysterical Women On the March

Reading the news online this morning I came upon the death notice of a famous French chef and immediately scanned the article to see how old he was. 91. Okay, so a lot older than me. I breathed a sigh of relief. Which is really dumb since I know that people of all ages die every minute; in fact I have already outlived both my parents. I could die before I finish writing this post. I probably won't but I could, and so could you, and that's the important part.

Silly protestor knitting another silly pink pussy hat.

Anyway, it's a beautiful day here in Freeport, Maine, which reminds me of how Garrison Keillor, my favorite storyteller of all time whose tales from Lake Woebegone accompanied me on many long walks and otherwise boring road trips, would often begin his immensely entertaining podcasts. Which are now gone. Banned forever from the Internet. Stripped from radio. Erased from society. All because some girl said he put his hand on her bare back during a photo shoot. Sorry, but what does that have to do with me? And another thing: Louis C.K. stills cracks me up. The fact that he masturbated in front of women, while sad, does not diminish his comic brilliance even a little.

It's odd that when President Bill Clinton was brandishing a cigar in the area of his employee Monica Lewinsky's vagina in the Oval Office, all the liberals said so what, no big deal, his sex life is his business, but now we all must be denied the one-of-a-kind brilliance of Garrison Keillor. For me he was better than a lorazepam when I started feeling anxious.

So no, I won't be attending any of those hysterical women's marches, or should I say Hysterical Women's Marches, that are going on somewhere else today. Fortunately not here in downtown Freeport, where all the men are strong, the women are smart and the children are adorable.

My Favorite Smart, Rich, Black Female

Did I mention she's a Rupublican?

When it comes to getting elected as president, Oprah's seemingly got it all: she's rich, famous, female, and black, with a weight problem that won't quit. (She absolutely loves bread!) Sweetening the deal, she was sexually abused as a child and overcame it, surely a plus at the ballot box. But wait -- what if there's someone out there with all those qualities but is also gay, has an autistic child and is in a wheelchair? Then Oprah is surely toast.

Forgive my cynicism, but I am no fan of Ms. Winfrey, she of the self-named monthly magazine with air-brushed covers showing her 50 pounds less than she really is. If she can't be honest with herself, how will she be truthful with all of us? What's got me ranting is an op-ed piece in today's Wall Street Journal claiming Oprah is a shoe-in for the office because she was on TV every day for 27 years listening to people's problems and thus will make a great Therapist-in-Chief. Good God, have we really come to this?

If we have, then my pick for a rich, famous, black female to run the country is someone who is also thin, always a nice touch, and has tons of experience in world affairs: Condi Rice, we need you now more than ever! Beside being ridiculously brilliant with a winning personality, she plays the piano very well and is a big football fan. And with no husband, she might even be gay. (That would certainly knock the ball out of the park.) What's not to love?

Slap On Some Blinders

Just focus on the good things!

Today I woke up and made a promise to God -- yes, I talk to God, who doesn't? -- that I would not engage in self-destructive behavior all day even if it kills me. (Ha ha, that's a good one.) I promised to eat well, not dwell on bad situations beyond my control, get plenty of exercise and make art, which is why I was put on Earth. So far I have eaten well but failed on all the other stuff, and I've already been awake for two and a half hours.

Imagine if only our best selves were always at the controls! We'd all be in great shape and smile more. Sadly this is not the case, which is why so many people are sick, angry, anxious and at loose ends. One sure way to decrease our collective anxiety, which has been found to affect 40 million Americans, is to steer clear of the news. I suspect that a happy, uninformed citizenry is far better in the long run than a country full of depressed people who know exactly how bad things are. And when that unexpected ballistic missile hits, if it ever does, at least I'll go on to the next life with a happy heart.

Even the weather forecast is anxiety-producing. Yesterday we were told to expect "dangerous, bone-chilling temperatures." Not just cold weather, but weather that would actually chill our bones, and dangerously so. That sounded bad, and so I stayed inside all day. (I wonder what I missed.)

A Weighty Subject

Is there any worse job than being a leader of people, and by "people" I mean the lowest form of life on Earth in all its so-called deplorableness? (I can't imagine what it might be, except perhaps cleaning out the bathrooms at the Superbowl.) These people of whom I speak are now calling for President Trump to publicly step on a scale and let all the world see how much he weighs because nobody believes the number his doctor gave following last week's presidential physical. To all of them I say, "Screw you, get a life, who cares, and what's it your business?"

Poor Trump (yes, poor Trump) has become everyone's whipping boy. So maybe he's crude, lewd and vulgar, but so what? Amy Schumer is a lot worse and she's the darling of the younger generation, despite being a filthy-mouthed piglet who makes tons of money from saying bad words.

I should be careful; the last time I defended Trump, a friend I had for thirty years told me I was no longer someone she wanted to know, and that was that! (The funny thing is, she was never someone I wanted to know but I kept that to myself since she gave me lots of illustration work at the Washington Post.) My point is, everyone sucks in some way, certainly me. So lay off Trump, he's got way more to worry about besides his weight.

Lose Weight and End Brutal Mousicide

Hey all you tubbies out there struggling to fit into your clothes, here's a solution that worked for me: Have a heart attack! I did just that three and a half months ago and have since lost eight pounds with no effort. This is amazing since I have been trying to slim down for the last thirty years, give or take, with this or that diet, and have never lost more than several pounds that I soon enough gained back.

Okay, don't have a heart attack -- I was just kidding. Still, the only real change to my diet since then is cutting out all dairy. I have not had a speck of cheese, yogurt, or milk since October 1. It turns out that cheese is a major contributor not only to heart disease but to America's obesity problem. It certainly was to mine -- I was a cheese freak! I ate all kinds of it every day, and usually like there was no tomorrow.

So do some research and find out how chomping on cheese may be keeping you from becoming your fittest self. And hey, don't despair: Life without cheese is still beautiful. As for the mice, they actually prefer peanut butter, nuts and seeds.

The Death App

According to last Sunday's New York Times, death is now "trending" among people in their 20s and 30s. Big deal! I'm not trying to brag, but we Baby Boomers have it all over those Millennials. Sure they may talk about death, but lots of us are actually doing it, and have been for years.

Noticing the growing vampire/zombie fixation popularized in video games and on TV, two young entrepreneurs, ages 27 and 35, invented the iPhone app WeCroak, the purpose of which is to remind users five times a day that death will eventually come calling. Currently there are more than 9,000 users who each paid 99 cents for the favor, if that's what it is, of receiving random messages like, "Don't forget, you're going to die," and "The grave has no sunny corners."

I don't know about you, but I'm aware pretty much on a daily basis that I will eventually die, and without any help. It's actually hard to forget if you're paying attention. Even if you hide in bed under the covers most of the time and just run out for groceries every so often, chances are something will remind you. This morning it was a smashed and bloodied squirrel lying in the middle of the road, making me think, "Oh yeah, right. Me, someday."

Almost Dead in Hawaii

This past weekend a warning was sent to the residents of Hawaii via their cell phones and online and on TV that an incoming enemy missile from North Korea was coming straight towards them, clearly stating "THIS IS NOT A DRILL."  For the following 38 minutes the citizens of that state were on their own as to how to deal with the information. Finally another alert went out, stating that the first one was sent in error and that they weren't going to die after all.

Many of the people rounded up their families and crowded into closets, basements and bathtubs, like that would protect them. I'll tell you right now, I would not want to die in a bathtub, unless it was filled chin-high with warm bubbly water and surrounded by scented candles. I certainly wouldn't want anyone else in there with me. Okay, so maybe Freddie Mercury but he is long dead, and who knows, a bubble bath with him might happen in the afterlife for all I know. (Yes I know he's gay, but I'm very open-minded in that department.)

My husband was deeply disturbed by what happened in Hawaii and spent the weekend hunting down news stories about how the people in Hawaii were spending their last 15 minutes. I asked him what he would do and he said he would call our son to say goodbye and tell him he loves him. I said he already knows you love him and maybe he would rather be with his girlfriend, if he has one -- how would I know, he tells me nothing, but I assume he does because he always does, at least he has since he was about five.

So Mitch asked what I would do, and I thought long and hard and finally said I would drive to the convenience store at the Irving gas station a mile away and purchase a bag of Lay's potato chips and come home and eat the whole bag. (I prefer Wise but they don't carry that brand.) Mitch said the convenience store would likely not be open since what kind of an idiot would go to their job at a gas station convenience store if they thought they were going to die in 15 minutes? I said good point.

So today I went out and bought a bag of Lay's potato chips and stuck it in the back of the cupboard. The clerk said there was a special on and for just a dollar more I could get another bag, but I said there wouldn't be time for two. And so now I'm ready to die, although I may switch out that bag of Lay's for the good stuff. Anyway, bring it on, Kim Jong-un.

Going Beyond Failure

Another day, another day of painting my paintings that hang all over my house, many of them stacked up against each other in closets, a few more living with friends. I'll tell you, it's hard to stay motivated when you're a failure. But what is a failure anyway, and who says that's so bad?

Pretty much everyone knows about Vincent van Gogh not selling any of his paintings during his lifetime, although I recently read he did sell one, and I've sold a lot more than one. (I also read that he did not cut off his entire ear, only part of it, so who knows, maybe he sold a ton of paintings while he was alive. Fake news didn't just start with Trump.) Van Gogh was depressed and psychotic and shot himself at the age of 37, after which his paintings became wildly popular. I have no intention of doing that, but I do wonder if after my death my enormous body of work will finally be recognized as brilliant. (Just in case, I suggest you buy one of my paintings while you still can.)

British author J. K. Rowling was rejected by a dozen publishers before Harry Potter made her a legend. Now you can't touch anything she writes without paying for it, while my books are still free and available online. (And FYI, I've been rejected by way more than a dozen publishers.) So have a look before I burst onto the scene and stop taking your calls.

Rumors persist that Albert Einstein did not speak until he was four, could not read until he was seven, and married his cousin. I have no idea if any of that is true, but I know for a fact that my own son was talking before he was two and reading at age three, so go figure. (He is not at all attracted to his cousin.) Einstein went on to discover something I don't understand but apparently turned out to be the smartest person who ever lived, or maybe by now the second smartest, since by all reports playing video games makes you smarter and there are millions of gamers playing billions of games.

Michael Jordan was cut from his high school basketball team for being too short (he was 5'11"). Today he is a fantastically wealthy retired superstar who owns a basketball team, is a motivational speaker, and appears in commercials and on talks shows. My point is, you must never give up. Never! After all, if you do give up and decide you're a failure, then what are you going to do every day? Go shopping and to the movies with your friends?

Apparently Everyone Sucks

Haitian children living in a tent city after the 2010 earthquake.

Here's something you won't hear me say very often: There is an interesting and true article in today's New York Times worthy of reading. It's not smug or precious or preachy, but then again it wasn't written by a staffer. It's about how the scourge of racism has infected everyone in the world. The author suggests, and then illustrates, how each and every one of us is a racist, which is considered a very bad thing to be these days, even worse than being a serial killer or a pederast, no kidding. The conclusion is that the only people who are truly NOT racist are the ones who say they are racist.

So I guess that makes me a racist since I often say I'm not. But I definitely see differences in skin color, and thank God for that since my cataract surgery two years ago cost a pretty penny. In my own defense, racism-wise, I visited Haiti several years ago and did not find it to be a shithole country, or even a s**thole country like President Trump called it. I found the people to be kind and generous and overall fairly happy, despite the fact that starving dogs roamed the streets unless they just laid there dead, and garbage filled the open sewers and the occasional roadside stand had a cat on the barbie. In fact, I loved being in Haiti and felt safer there than I do in half of Chicago, three-quarters of D.C. and all of Baltimore.

Still, apparently we are all racists, beginning with Abe Lincoln who allegedly told all the slaves to go back where they came from, which is ironic because they wouldn't have come here at all if they hadn't been brought here as slaves. So get used to your inherent (and inherited) racism and stop denying it. In fact, embrace it: The more you admit are one, the less of one you are.

Trying My Hand at Poetry

Trying to improve myself, yesterday I bought a book of poetry. I am trying to like poetry, but I don't get it. It seems that all it is is writing sentences in weird ways. For some reason that is supposed to make whatever you say seem deep and profound. Or else what you do is make things rhyme, like that's a good way to spend your time? Personally I think it is all a crock of shit. Anyway, following is a poem I just wrote called I May Be Lactose Intolerant.

 

I May Be Lactose Intolerant 

By a.j. schamis

Trying to improve myself, yesterday I bought a book of poetry.

I am trying to like poetry. But I don't get it. 

It seems that all it is 

is writing sentences

in 

weird

ways.

For some reason 

that is supposed to make whatever you say seem

deep 

and profound.

Or else what you do

Is make things rhyme,

Like that's a good way

To spend your time?

Personally I think it 

is 

all

a crock of shit.

There Is Still Time

Now that's what you call a baby face.

I read about an artist who is 86 years old and still paints every day. Not much of a marketer, he never put much effort into selling his work, but now he wants some recognition. In a late-stage burst of perseverance he has managed to have a small museum mount a  retrospective of his life's work. This reminded me of a quote I recently came across that struck me hard: "It's never too late to become what you might have been."

Our culture places such a high value on youth that we start believing we're washed up by the time we hit 40. So what happens when you're 70 and you're still alive and kicking, in fact kicking higher than you did at 40? If we live to be 105, which people are actually doing more and more lately, should we just sit around playing Bingo for the next 35 years? (Just to be clear, I haven't played Bingo since day camp when I was ten, and I certainly don't mean to cast Bingo players in a negative light. For all I know, playing Bingo is why we are here. Maybe God places a high value on Bingo and only those who play regularly will go to Heaven. I know nothing, just like you and everyone else, since none of the people who die ever write back.)

All I'm saying is that old isn't dead. Anyway, I plan to keep painting and keep writing and who knows -- maybe someday I'll become what I might have been.

Honing My Karma

Illustration: Gemma Correll

If I just stick to my own thoughts and mind my own business, things are fine. (Except for the incessant noise of that damn snow-blower next door; God those people are annoying!) After all, I'm not homeless, sick or destitute, or locked inside a Turkish prison, or wherever they imprison people these days for having pot in your backpack. It's like this most days: Until I read the news life is beautiful, which must be why those Tibetan monks go off for silent retreats on distant mountaintops, attaining levels of peace and tranquility most ordinary people can only dream about.

I had plans for a two-day silent retreat of my own starting today since my husband was leaving at five this morning on a business trip and not returning until after midnight Friday. It was going to be great: I would go for long walks (it's going to be in the forties today and tomorrow!), cook myself healthful meals, completely ignore the news, paint, meditate, and generally polish up my dharma and karma.

But Mitch overslept, something he has never done in all the years we have been together, so his trip didn't happen. Instead of silence we talked all morning, if Mitch cursing himself for oversleeping and me telling him there are worse things and besides there's an ice storm where he was headed and chances are his connecting flight would be cancelled anyway can be considered "talking." I skimmed the newspaper and found several quite depressing articles, especially the one detailing the dire situation in California where many people died when they were swept away by mud! (Imagine the death certificate.)

Thoroughly disgusted with me, my Inner Witness stormed off, taking my dharma and karma with it. Since then I've been reading emails and playing Words With Friends, and now I'm writing this post. So much for finding inner peace today. Maybe tomorrow.

Laugh of the Day

This Hollywood actress, who you never heard of before and never will again, is, like many others, sick and tired of being treated as a sex object by producers! So to make that point, she attended the recent Golden Globe Awards ceremony dressed in her Sunday best.

The Next Big Thing

My first novel, Shrink Rapt, was a flop. It was pretty funny in spots, and I thought it was quite groundbreaking back in 1985: A neurotic young woman and her equally nutty shrink finally find love as mother and daughter following his gender reassignment surgery. Who knew that was a snooze?

My next book, The Amazing Richie!, was based on a true story and centered on twins who were child stars on TV. Now adults, one of them suffers a traumatic brain injury on his fiftieth birthday. Afterwards he becomes gay, shocking his wife and three kids, and goes on to fame and fortune in the world of competitive Scrabble. Sounds like a winner to me, but nobody who has read it, if anyone, has gotten back to me with any reviews, and 20 agents said no thanks.

So I am now working on another book and I think this one will sail to the top of the charts. The working title is A Novel Novel. It's about a teenage girl named Willow Willow Bernstein. (Her parents loved the name.) Despite being anorexic and bulimic she is still very fat, yet attractive like many fat women are, as we certainly all would agree. Willow Willow secretly harbors an Islamic terrorist lover, Ali Ali Oksenfree, in her family's ski condo in Baden-Baden. Ali Ali has quit high school to become a rap star and is intent on becoming famous for his incendiary music, then blowing up all of America's treasured national monuments starting with Mt. Rushmore.

Sounds boring, I know, but here's the catch: they are both vampires! Ali Ali is also a wizard and is slowly teaching Willow Willow many of his skills; she can now fly and is thus able to get through airline security in a snap. She can also talk to animals and communicate with the dead and the unborn, and completely understands the writings of James Joyce, Samuel Beckett and all the words to the song "Louie, Louie." Being vampires, the toothy twosome consume lots of blood and meat, usually while listening to their favorite band, Duran Duran.

Eventually Ali Ali is hired by the CIA and the FBI and learns all of our government's secrets, like who really killed JFK, what brand of peanut butter Elvis favored, whether or not Caitlyn Jenner had bottom surgery, and where they actually filmed the bogus moon landing. (Turns out it was Bora Bora.) He runs for president and is easily elected since his opponent, Oprah Winfrey, was discovered to be wearing a fat suit all these years and is actually a mean thin person with no weight problem whatsoever. Nobody knows the new president is a vampire or an Islamic terrorist. (They find out in the sequel.)

Willow Willow becomes the First Lady even though the two never married since no straight couples marry anymore, only gays have big weddings and especially designer wedding cakes. After a health scare -- she comes down with beriberi due to a thiamine deficiency -- she moves the White House to Walla Walla and Camp David to Paw Paw, loses a lot of weight, writes a best-selling diet and exercise book and eventually gets her own talk show on cable.

I am very excited about it.

Our Next President?

Oprah Winfrey whispering sweet nothings into Harvey Weinstein's predatory ear.

I don't know much about Oprah Winfrey, which is why I refer to her as Oprah Winfrey and not "Oprah" as many people do. I have never been a fan of her on TV or in the movies, or in magazines or on diets. (I prefer the ones where people actually lose the weight.) I know that she loves bread, which she declares on a television commercial for Weight Watchers, a company she now owns, or mostly owns. The fact that she loves bread is pretty obvious, and I'm betting she is also quite fond of cakes, pies, pizza and more like that.

Here's what else I know, or don't know that might be true, or maybe not: Ms. Winfrey was sexually abused by a relative, maybe an uncle or maybe her father, when she was a young girl. I also think she is in the closet with her girlfriend Gayle King but is seen around with her alleged beau, a man named Steadman Graham. Again, I have no proof of this, mind you, it's all just rumor and speculation, but there's a new book out about President Trump built on that quicksand and the author is raking in piles of dough on a speaking tour and interview shows, so I guess it's acceptable here in my little blog.

Suddenly, today, after Ms. Winfrey gave a speech to the Hollywood numbnuts who assembled to applaud themselves at an awards ceremony last night, all the women dressed in black as a signal to speak out against sexual harassment even though they have never spoken out about sexual harassment for years and years and kept sleeping with producers and directors to get juicy roles in their movies, people are talking about her running for president in 2020. (It's all the buzz, to use the vernacular.)

Whatever happened to the concept of grown-ups who majored in political science and have worked in government their whole lives and understand the delicate balance between nations running things? Is it all just about celebrities now? Is Oprah Winfrey suitable for the job because she is black, female, overweight and a billionaire, all very popular things to be these days? I'm pretty sure this whole downward slide started with Bill Clinton going on the Arsenio Hall show with his saxophone in 1992 and telling the world that sometimes he wears boxers and sometimes he wears briefs, and now look at us.

The Power of Kindness

Living in a rural area, daily newspaper delivery is less than a sure thing. It's sort of like the U.S. Postal Service creed in reverse: "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." Except for the gloom of night, those other conditions can mean no paper at the end of the driveway. And about that driveway: It's quite long, and slightly inclined like the bunny hill at a ski resort, making it treacherous in winter if you head out without ski poles, crampons and lots of prayer. And there at the very front of it lies the paper, like the guy couldn't toss it just a little closer to the house so I won't break my neck trying to reach it? Would it kill him?

                     JORDAN KIM

Anyway, each December we receive a Christmas card from the carrier tucked inside the paper, wishing us happy holidays and including his mailing address should we need it for anything, like maybe a tip which is what you are supposed to do to be nice. And each year I dutifully send back a check inside a folded piece of white paper inside a business envelope with no message, which is my way of saying, "Thanks for nothing, asshole, especially on Sundays when we don't get our New York Times which costs likes seven bucks and we can't even do the crossword puzzle, one of the few things I live for!"

But this year, having had a heart attack two months earlier and still feeling grateful for every breath I take and every sunrise and flower and the birds and the bees and all that other crap, instead I bought a Christmas card at the CVS and sent the guy a bigger tip than usual, adding the message, "Thanks for the great service!" Ever since then our newspaper is at the front door on most days! Tire tracks in the snow are evidence to his having pulled his car up the driveway to get it there. And recently, the day after a blizzard and no paper in sight, we got a note from our carrier apologizing and saying the distributor had not brought any papers to deliver.

So whenever you can, be nice. It helps.

Give Me Money

Is it just me, or does it seem like more people than ever before are refusing to take responsibility for their own lives? Yes, times are hard for some of us, and panhandling is on its way to becoming a legitimate profession. But others seem only to be taking advantage of the basic human tendency to be charitable.

So far today I have been asked for money twice and I haven't even left my home or met either of the grant-seekers in person. This distant approach to begging seems to me a step below giving money to the street people who at least look you in the eye as you hurry by.

The first plea came by way of our local newspaper, wherein a desperate cry for help was detailed in an article about a bright young man with a brilliant future who had been mugged and left to die. He did not die but instead awoke in a pool of his own blood in a deserted railroad yard in Boston. He was ultimately rescued and diagnosed with a severe brain injury requiring many surgeries. His parents started a GoFundMe page to help with his monumental medical costs. The story got me weeping and seriously considering making a donation.

The next ask was from a clever guy who writes a blog about the New York Times crossword puzzle. He gives the answers and discusses the merits of the puzzle every day, and especially on Sundays which is when most people, myself included, do it. Each week I read his comments after I've finished the puzzle. Today he made his "annual plea" for cash to sustain him so he can continue this particular hobby and maybe even quit his paying job. He included his home address for mailing in a check but suggested that PayPal was the easiest and quickest path to supporting his cause. I was not moved.

Like just about everyone I know, I too would welcome money from complete strangers who think I'm swell. There are so many great things I could do with it. If you feel like sending me money for no good reason, go for it! Just leave a comment with your email address or phone number and I'll contact you to make all the arrangements.

How Far We've Come

Famished after a grueling workout at the gym with my sadistic trainer, I stopped at Panera Bread, a chain restaurant I hadn't been to in years but remembered as having great salads. Since it was still early on a frigid morning there was only one other customer in the place, an older lady who was pretty annoying if you must know. She made the clerk behind the counter name just about every ingredient of every menu item before she would make a decision. Finally she was done and sat down at a table to wait for her food, and it was my turn. I ordered a Greek salad and had to laugh when the clerk asked for my name, like there were a million people in there. Then he handed me one of those electronic pagers they give you in crowded restaurants to alert you when your table is ready.

Me: What's this for?
Clerk: To let you know when your order is ready.
Me: Yes, I know what it's for, but I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.
Clerk: This is how management likes us to do it. You're number 17.

Number 17? Scanning the restaurant for other customers, thinking maybe a tour bus had come in ahead of me and everyone had gone into the restroom, I saw only the annoying old lady. Noticing she had no pager, I asked the clerk why. "She didn't want one." His disgusted tone inferred she was out of touch.

By the time I walked from the counter where I had placed my order to the counter where they brought out the food, my pager was buzzing and flashing wildly. As I reached out to take the bag from the server, she asked my name. I told her and she said it wasn't mine, it was the other lady's order. "You must have taken her pager," she said, shaking her head like I had done it on purpose. Then she disappeared and returned a minute later, looked right past me and shouted "Andrea!" like maybe someone else would show up.

My official review is that Panera Bread sucks. Greek salad, my eye; there were like five olives, a few slices of mealy tomatoes and a paltry sprinkling of feta cheese on top of a ton of lettuce, and that was it. But it's good to know they're keeping up with the times.

The Older I Get

"When I was young I cut the bigger, older trees for firewood, the ones with heart rot, dead and broken branches, the crippled and deformed ones, because, I reasoned, they were going to fall soon anyway and therefore I should give the younger trees more light and room to grow.

Now I'm older and I cut the younger, strong and sturdy, solid and beautiful trees and I let the older ones have a few more years of light and water and leaf in the forest they have known so long. Soon enough they will be prostrate on the ground."

"The Woodcutter Changes His Mind" 

by David Budbill, from While We've Still Got Feet: New Poems. 

© Copper Canyon Press, 2005.

President Cuckoo

Trump would fit right in with this bunch. (Still photo from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest")

I'm no shrink but I'm pretty sure the president is almost completely crazy. This really should be no surprise to anyone since he was already slightly off the rails before he was elected. Now, after a year on the job as "the most powerful person on the Earth," and under attack from all sides with no apparent relief coming from any quarter, it's a wonder he hasn't hopped onto Air Force One and flown to southern France, then taken one of his limos to the Millau Viaduct, the world's tallest bridge at 1,125 feet, stopped in the middle and gotten out, then jumped off. Now that would get him into the history books for sure!

Instead he hangs around his 24-acre estate in Palm Beach, playing golf, tweeting and picking fights with people. The strangest part is that he is permitted to continue to do so, despite his clearly apparent and growing nuttiness exemplified by his increasingly dangerous repartee with other world leaders, some of them just as crazy as he is.

Isn't there a safety net written into the Constitution? You'd think there would be something somewhere about what to do if and when POTUS goes bonkers in office. After all, even Nancy Pelosi was locked up for awhile. (See photo)

Good Old Gramps and Granny

Recently one of my Facebook friends posted a photo of her grandchildren. (This was not the first time.) The string of comments in response to that photo were predictable, praising the beauty of the children, how adorable, so sweet, nothing compares to grandchildren, and more like those. But one woman wrote: "Grandchildren make you feel young again." I found that surprising, since grandchildren make me feel old.

I don't have any myself but many of my friends do, and I'll tell you, they act like a bunch of codgers, pulling out the pictures and the videos constantly, as if any of the little ones look any different from any of the others, which they don't, by the way. This bums me out because all these Gramps and Grannies are my peers. I tell you, it can be disheartening.

Still, that woman wrote that comment, so I thought who knows, maybe it's true, in which case I would start working on my son to get busy having a baby ASAP. So I did some research but nowhere could I find anything about grandchildren being the Fountain of Youth. I remember one of my own grandmothers was always crotchety, complaining about her aches and pains, and the other one was already dead by the time I paid any attention.

Creepy, Creeping Anti-Semitism

I am stunned and sickened by the flood of anti-Semitic comments that are permitted to exist online. A recent tragedy brought this to light, as I've been living under a rock and thus had no idea what's been going on out there. I've always assumed that people who abhor me do so for my own abhorrent qualities, but now I'm thinking it might be because I'm a Jew.

The aforementioned tragedy involved  a family of five vacationing in Costa Rica over the Christmas holidays. The Steinbergs of Scarsdale, NY all died when the small plane they rented for an excursion crashed and burned. Also aboard was another Jewish family of four who perished. Two sets of parents and five teenagers all set off an exciting adventure together, only to die.

It was absolutely heartbreaking. I read the story on Huffington Post through my tears, but the comments that followed it were even more heartbreaking than the plane crash. They went on and on, far more than I could stomach reading: It was lucky that so many Jews died without anyone even having to fire up a gas chamber, and how their "shekels" didn't get them very much after all, and how it would be an example of white privilege except Jews aren't white or even human, and Hitler should have finished the job. Several common slurs for Jews appeared repeatedly.

I imagined what would happen if instead of white Jews, a black family of five had perished. Would it be permissible to say good riddance to all the jigaboos, that's great, now there's five less monkeys to feed at the zoo, it shows those stupid niggers right? I am guessing not, and that a firestorm of protests would ensue, yet the ultra-ultra-liberal Huffington Post apparently sees nothing wrong in allowing this insulting debasement of Jews to remain on its website.

Clearly intense hatred for Jews still exists among those fat and pasty dumb-ass, trailer-park-trash morons who eat Krispy Kreme donuts for breakfast and take their coffee with four creams and five sugars, their ankles swollen as they schlep around Disneyland in their cheap, slogan-covered t-shirts and rubber flip-flops, all the while inhaling cotton candy and funnel cakes and hating with all their ugly, plaque-laden hearts the mentally superior, artistic, creative and financially successful Jews they see as their oppressors.

But is it confined to that group only? I doubt it, especially since I have known a few hard-core anti-Semites, wealthy and well-educated, who pose as bleeding-heart liberals in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., their hearts aglow with a burning hatred for "those" Jews, you know, "the bad kind" who are so "loud and pushy and cheap." Take a look in the mirror: are you one of them?