The Four Daves

The Four Daves dismantling our kitchen.

Taking leave of our senses, my husband and I decided to have our kitchen renovated. The planning stage was fun, but today the actual demolition began and it's not fun anymore. And this is just the first day of what we are told will be 31 days, so you know we are looking at maybe 45 days until the dust settles, and I mean that literally.

As yet little has gone wrong, although I'm sure plenty will, but one thing that's odd, for lack of a better word, is that the crew is comprised of four men who are all named Dave. Naturally they call each other's name constantly. It's only been a few hours, but the word "dave" has ceased to have any meaning for me.

Finally another man came in to do some electrical work who was not named Dave. His name was Tom, but he offerered the information that his last name is Davison. This led to one of the Daves telling me that his last name is Thomason. Get it? Tom Davison, Dave Thomason. We all had a good chuckle over that. Another one of the Daves told me that his father, his son, his father-in-law and his brother-in-law are all also named Dave. I asked how they deal with the confusion at family functions, and he said that each different "Dave" is spoken with a different intonation and they each recognize their own sound.

Right now one of them is leaving and all the others are saying, "Bye, Dave" and "See you tomorrow Dave," and he is saying, "Later, Dave," and "See ya, Dave," right back to them.

I hope our kitchen turns out okay.

Mean People Get Results

At their core, humans are mean. Even the nice ones. 

About a month ago I visited a Portland art gallery with a friend who is also a painter. We spent a long while studying all the work, then got into a conversation with the gallery owner. She was quite friendly towards us while she entertained the possibility that we might buy something, but cooled considerably when we confessed we were both artists and wondered if she were taking on any new clients. Handing me her business card, she replied that she was full up at the moment but was always open to new talent and suggested I email some images of my work. I went home and did that the very next day.

I never heard back. Not even an automatic reply. Nothing. I was surprised because when I owned my gallery I always made a point of answering any queries from artists as soon as possible, knowing they were waiting. It seemed needlessly cruel to not respond at all.

Today I wrote to the gallery owner and voiced my frustration. Actually, what I wrote was this: 
      "It's hard enough being an artist! What makes it really suck is gallery owners who treat you like dirt. I was really hoping for a response as you seemed so nice when I met you. Here's a tip on how to gracefully reject artists: 'Thanks for visiting our gallery and for giving us the opportunity to see some of your work. Unfortunately, it's not quite the right fit for us at this time.' Even though it's a lie, it feels better than silence. Try it sometime."

I know, it wasn't very nice, but as I already said, humans are mean. Anyway, she replied in less than 15 minutes! She said harsh things like how I was "burning bridges" and I'd "better not try that again with other galleries" and she's "very busy with the gallery" and I should have been "more patient" and it "takes a couple of months" for her to get back to artists and blah, blah, blah. I wrote right back to her and said it was "peculiar" that she had found time to answer my nasty email in mere minutes but was too busy to answer my first one, that was all sweetness and light, in more than a month. 

I guess my first one should have been meaner.

Too Many Beach Buns

A week vacationing in a Florida beach town is quite an eye-opening experience. In many cases it is also an eye-closing one, as many of the people who have come here to "let it all hang out" do just that, and with somewhat dire results.

This morning on my brisk 2.5-mile walk I saw more butt cheeks than a pediatrician sees in a lifetime. Tons of young women and, unfortunately, another ton of old women seem to believe that strutting around in public wearing only a thong and a bra is fine as long as they call it "a bathing suit." Many of them complete their skimpy outfits with platform heels, a sun hat and a purse, as if they're headed out for a day of shopping and sightseeing. Apparently body size and/or condition is never a factor, with cellulite so common it's almost a must-have accessory.

Like much of modern life, it's sad and funny at the same time. What cracks me up is that so many of these same women are likely supportive of the recent "Me Too" movement, railing against those horrid men who treat them as sex objects. (How dare they?) I'm not suggesting that women at the beach, or anywhere, should cover up from head to toe in burqas, but a dash of decorum goes a long way towards being treated with respect.

The Latest Modern Annoyance

Last night my husband and I went out to dinner at a mid-sized Italian restaurant with a split personality. One side of Amante's offered full entrees and the other served only pizza. Outside, a musician entertained those patrons dining on the front patio with his singing and guitar playing. Since the main door was left open we could hear him inside as well, although somewhat muffled. There was also some canned Italian music wafting in from somewhere, making the noise level of the place fairly high and necessitating leaning in towards your dinner companion to carry on any sort of conversation.

Making things worse, underneath all the hubbub I heard the constant and distinct sound of a dog barking. At first I thought I had had too much sun that day and was hearing things. Then I figured maybe I'd had too much Chianti. I tried to ignore it but the sound persisted. Finally I asked our waiter if there were a dog on the premises. He rolled his eyes and nodded his head in the direction of the pizza room, saying, "These days people slap a vest on their dog and call it a service animal and there's nothing we can do. We have to let them in."

This I had to see. I went into the next room and saw a man and woman seated in a booth who were sharing a large pizza while their dog, some sort of hound, sat on the floor underneath their table, begging for food and barking soulfully as only a hound can bark. It was pathetic. The couple ignored the dog completely; no treats under the table for him. And apparently no concern that they might be bothering everyone else in the restaurant.

I was reminded of a friend of mine who got a dog at the pound, a huge mixed breed boxer and pit bull. She claimed the dog was "a sweetheart" but still it was damn scary-looking, that's for sure. Anyway, Judy wanted the ability to take the dog everywhere with her, so she applied for it to be a service animal. All she had to do was go to City Hall, pay ten bucks for a certificate and get one of those vests. Now the dog can accompany her on flights, on the train, in restaurants, to the doctor's office, in fact anywhere and everywhere, because supposedly Judy "needs her for emotional support." FYI, what Judy really needs is a shrink since that dog has not done one thing to make her any less crazy. (I'm just sayin'.)

Pit Bull People

Beware of pit bulls masquerading as people running around off-leash. Today I met one who was dressed as a fat lady in a bathing suit. I totally bought that she was human until she opened her mouth and started growling and barking. That gave it away.

At least she didn't sit on me.

The ugly altercation unfolded at the swimming pool of the hotel where my husband and I are currently staying. A large sign states THE RULES OF THE POOL right where you get the towels, so you can't miss it. Rule #1: NO RESERVING OF LOUNGE OR POOL CHAIRS PERMITTED. Yet by 7 in the morning a few of them have been "claimed" with towels draped over them while the claimant is nowhere in sight, off having breakfast or out for a run or sleeping in. Whatever. By 8, fully half of them have been towel-claimed, and by 9 it's all over: No chairs left.

This morning Mitch and I got to the pool at about 10:30 and saw rows and rows of empty chairs with towels on them. We decided that we were in the right and took two towels off of two lounge chairs, stretched out, put on sunscreen and settled in for some sunshine. Our good time was short-lived, as 20 minutes later the pit bull showed up, baring her teeth and roaring, "Get out of our chairs!" No "Hello," no "Excuse me," just naked bloodlust.

I tried civility for about a minute but she would have none of it. Suddenly she was cursing and shrieking that we "stoled" her chairs. Her incorrect grammar was my trigger, alerting me to the fact that we were dealing not only with a woman who lacked even a shred of self-control but was dumb to boot. A bad combination in my book, I said she should go on a diet because it's very unhealthy to be that fat. Meanwhile Mitch was yelling, "Right is on or side, look at the sign with the rules!" This elicited her angry retort, "You must have a little dick!"

How does someone go from "you stoled my chairs" to "you have a little dick?" What's wrong with people? Is this all because Donald Trump beat Hillary Clinton? Is it because of the NRA and school shootings? Is it that fat people have anger issues? I don't know, but the fact is that half-dog, half-humans are out there, so be careful.

My Secret Vacation

Tomorrow I will board an aircraft and fly to an undisclosed destination. Over the next nine days I may post photos, and it's possible someone with deep knowledge of world geography will be able to discern my location. If so, I hope that person keeps my secret. I'm not doing this to evade nefarious characters with evil intent, I'm doing it because I'm sick and tired of Facebook knowing every last detail of my life. Enough!

And it's not just Facebook. Yesterday when I got into my car, my smarty-pants smartphone displayed the message, "Under current traffic conditions it will take 16 minutes to CrossFit in Topsham." As it happened that's exactly where I was going, but it pissed me off that my phone knew. Today when I get in my car it will probably tell me how long it will take to get to the supermarket. I hate that!

Starting right now I will no longer tell my phone or my computer where I'm going or what I'm doing. They can beg me, but I will remain firm. You should do the same. Seriously, someday all of our electronic devices will run the world and have us do their bidding. (If you know what's good for you, you'll delete this blog post after reading it.)

Don't Drink the Kool-Aid

Based on yesterday's horrific shooting at a Florida high school, it's clear that institutionalized education centers are fast becoming some of our most toxic environments. What can we do? Here are some suggestions:

Don't be sucked in to the media coverage of the chaos that was created by one person with severe mental problems. News reporters just love stories like this one and will milk every poisonous drop with round-the-clock coverage to increase their ratings and thus get more money from more advertisers. In fact, they are just getting started; over the coming weeks we will be bombarded with pictures of the dead children, maudlin interviews with the grieving parents and lots of tales about the shooter, all presented to us as valuable information we need to go about our productive lives.

It isn't.

Don't spread the disease. Instead, look away. Do something fun today. Go to a yoga class. Send someone flowers. Bake a pie and take it to a neighbor. Get a puppy. Buy a new car, or at least pretend to; test drives are free. Most important, if you own guns, hide them from your kids. If you have kids, take them to the zoo instead of to school. If there's no zoo where you live, write to your congressman and complain. Better yet, start one yourself.

Well Shut My Mouth!

I must have received a copy when I was little but if so I lost it and thus have been flying blind for years. I'm talking about The Rules of Conduct for Humans on Planet Earth. I am often -- no, let me change that to I am constantly -- excoriated for being "too judgmental." This condemnation confuses me. Exactly when does one cross the line from ordinary discourse into being too judgmental? And how can one not be judgmental and still remain alive? (i.e., "Look out, that bus is coming at us really fast!")

Isn't everything we do or say an implied judgment? Let's say you're out for breakfast and the server arrives to take your order. If you ask for an omelet without cheese and with extra spinach, you are implying that you find cheese somehow inferior, which is why you don't want any, while you think spinach is the bomb. You are judging all of these foods, plain and simple. Or perhaps you're out shopping with a friend and comment that the sweater she has chosen looks lovely on her in the red but you strongly dislike it in the blue. Too judgmental or a helpful critique?

Do we all have to embrace every movie, every book and every person we meet? Should we be like an old friend I finally dismissed for her lack of discrimination who deems every single thing regardless of merit as "brilliant," even when whatever it is is clearly not? Is it permissible to say, "I hate cold weather and prefer a warmer climate?" How about, "The acting in that production sucked!" Is that too much?

Is it written in The Rules that we simply keep our opinions to ourselves, except pertaining to our national whipping boy Donald Trump, about whom we can say the most horrid things and receive a high-five and a pat on the back for it? I'm asking because I'm really tired of hearing this particular criticism, especially from a bunch of thin-skinned, no-nothing scaredy-cats with half my intelligence and twice my insecurity.

PTSD Paranoia

Right now I have the hiccups which immediately makes me worry if I'm having a heart attack. Not that hiccups are a symptom of heart attacks, but they might be, who knows. The truth is that whatever I feel that is out of the ordinary makes me worry that I'm having a heart attack. A headache, a sore neck, my teeth hurt, indigestion, a leg cramp, dizziness, a new cough: it's a heart attack.

According to a friend of mine, who coincidentally is a therapist and had a heart attack herself ten years ago, this is because I actually did have a heart attack four months ago so now I have PTSD from it, which I can expect to last for at least a few years.

My hiccups stopped and I am still alive, so obviously I've got PTSD. I guess that's better.

Polly's House

For the past nine years a woman named Polly lived directly across the street from our house. It seemed like I saw her constantly, certainly every day, since she walked her dog Bailey up and down our street in all kinds of weather. I always gave Bailey treats, so of course he was happy to see me.

 

I often ran into Polly at the post office. Sometimes she and I would walk there together, with Bailey. She came to dinner at our house a few times and attended our neighborhood holiday parties. For a couple of years she and I tried being friends and would go out to dinner together when my husband was away.

Two years ago Polly asked me to come over and help her choose new paint colors for all the rooms in her house. I did, and then went back to see how it all looked. A few times I walked Bailey in the afternoon when Polly had to be gone all day.

I took countless photos and did several paintings of Polly's house since it is so pretty and I can see it perfectly from my second-floor art studio. Last summer Polly put her house on the market and eventually took me over to see the new condo she had bought in the next town. The place was still empty and I gave her some ideas on decorating.

She moved out right before Christmas and now lives six miles away. I have not heard a peep from her since then. It's not like we were close or anything. Still, it's kind of sad.

Polly's house is still empty since the new people have not yet moved in. They are named Bruce and Brenda and when they live there I will know them and run into them and exchange pleasantries with them, until they move or we move. But I will always call it Polly's house.

Old Ladies of the Symphony

                                                                                                      Illustration: Sandra's Mixed Bag

Having season tickets to the Portland Symphony for the past nine years, which allows me to assemble with other classical music lovers on five to eight Sunday afternoons per year, I can now claim to be an expert on old ladies in this part of the country who share this interest. What I have concluded is that Maine women enter old age early. Many of them are likely only in their 50s and 60s but could easily pass for 80 or more. They do this in a variety of ways which I will describe here:

Plastic surgery not being a New England thing, wrinkly skin is abundant. 

Most concert attendees have white "man hair." Some are grayer than others, but the overall look is white hair reaching no longer than the nape of the neck.

Every one of them wears large earrings, usually of gold or pearl and never dangling, only the kind that just sit quietly on the lobe.

Many of them sport beautiful tailored clothing that look quite expensive. I have seriously lusted after many a fine cashmere sweater or tweedy jacket seen on the backs of women in the audience who looked like they might not live through the next concerto.

They all wear a scarf around the neck which remains on during the performance, regardless of the temperature in the concert hall.

Most old Maine ladies, or at least the ones who attend the symphony, are thin. Think Barbara Bush, only stretched out like in a fun house mirror.

Many of them arrive in wheelchairs or have walkers or canes.

Finding myself 71 years old (!) despite my best efforts, and loving classical music, I am obviously heading towards becoming an Old Lady of the Symphony. But having been born and raised in New York, I will always bear some telltale differences. For example, my hair will never be gray. (They'll have to pry that box of Clairol from my cold, dead hands.) And while I find the habit of "dressing up" for the symphony immensely endearing, hearkening back to the days before ripped jeans cost $400 and were considered suitable apparel for any occasion, I stopped dressing up for anything years ago. At yesterday's performance I wore jeans, and if you must know they had a few oil paint stains on them, but it was a crummy day and besides, in a dark theater, who knows?

Despite my daily oatmeal with walnuts, nightly application of moisturizer, twice-weekly gym workouts and monthly root touch-ups, aging continues and is a distinct drag. Still, if I have to be an Old Lady that bunch at the symphony seems like a group I don't mind joining. (Except for the wheelchairs.)

It's All Good

Normally I would mock this, but actually it's cute.

There's an old saying along the lines of, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." Sitting down to write today's post, I suddenly realized that if I followed that suggestion this blog would not exist. This realization made me feel ashamed. So to make up for all the things I have written that mocked, cajoled, criticized, complained, and other words like that, today I will write only about the good things in the world.

Comet Cleanser: It really works! It's amazing. I guess it's the bleach, but whatever it is, you just sprinkle a little on your tub, kitchen sink, in fact any tiled surface, and rub it with a wet sponge and in seconds it's sparkling clean. I appreciate it since so many products do not live up to their claims.

Lorazepam: I just love it! I hope I am not becoming addicted, and I just take the tiniest dose once a day to counteract my anxiety and keep my blood pressure from hitting the high notes, but it certainly makes everything seem a lot better. It takes about 20 minutes to work, and for such a small pill it does the job all day long, which is surprising. I don't understand why all those addicts who ruin their lives with heroin and opiates don't just take a teeny little Lorazepam and be done with it.

My son: I guess most people feel this way about their kids, but my son is just about the best person I know. He's beautiful to look at, very interesting to talk to, incredibly smart about a wide range of things I otherwise would never even have heard of, and is the funniest person I know personally. Really, he cracks me up constantly, especially when he does his "Maine accent." Besides telling me that butter doesn't have to be refrigerated, which has basically changed my life, he gave us his cat, and I love that cat. (See next entry.)

Cats: Nobody knows for sure, and everyone has their own idea on the subject, but I'm guessing that God is a cat. Cats have the best take on life. They eat, sleep, enjoy the great outdoors and are very loving. Except for the going in and out so many times a day, they ask for so little and give so much in return.

The Philadelphia Eagles: I just love that they beat the Patriots in the Superbowl!

My house: It's perfect. Besides being pretty, everything is just the right size. I love how the garage is just off the kitchen, and throwing out the trash does not require me to put on shoes and a coat like our last house. And there's a hot tub which we use all year, not so much in summer but definitely in a snowstorm! I guess it would be fabulous if we lived right on the beach and overlooked the Atlantic Ocean, but then I would worry about tsunamis so in a way it's perfect that we are situated a mile from the water, on a high ridge.

My car: I drive an Audi and it is the greatest. I just get in and go. I've never had the slightest bit of trouble with it. It's the fastest car on the road when I want it to be, like when I'm at a traffic light and want to get ahead of some truck in the next lane, or when I merge onto the highway. The heater works in seconds, and I can talk on the phone hands-free. Except for it being German which I can't go into here since I vowed not to say anything bad about anyone or anything -- i.e. Hitler, the Holocaust, bratwurst -- it's flawless.

Coffee: Where would we be without it? I know some people don't drink it, but for me it is the reason to get up in the morning. It's also a nice break when I'm working on a painting and get stuck; I just go make some coffee and when I get back to my studio, it all makes sense. I never run out of coffee. I think I'll have some right now.

The Reality Olympics

Somewhere on the web, a FOX News opinion writer states, "One USOC official this week expressed pride about taking the most diverse U.S. squad ever to the Winter Olympics. That was followed by a frankly embarrassing laundry list of how many African-Americans, Asians and openly gay athletes are on this year’s U.S. team." Not that I think diversity is a bad thing, but shouldn't Olympians be chosen on the basis of innate skill and talent rather than because of the thinking that everyone deserves a chance, and besides, white people suck?

One answer comes from Jason Thompson, the USOC’s director of diversity and inclusion who is upset that this year's team is still overwhelmingly white. In a Washington Post interview he bemoaned the fact that, “We’re not quite where we want to be. I think full-on inclusion has always been a priority of Team USA. I think everybody’s always felt it should represent every American.”

Okay then, if we're going for "full-on inclusion," so be it! Following are several categories of people who are blatantly absent from this year's games, and if you ask me it's downright insulting to millions of Americans, like these:

The Obese: The vast majority of American adults are overweight or obese, and weight is a growing problem among our children. (Institute of Health Metrics and Evaluation)

Drug Addicts: Approximately 21.5 million Americans battled substance abuse in 2014, and it's gotten far worse since then. (National Survey on Drug Use and Health)

The Homeless: Nearly 554,000 Americans were homeless as of January 2017, with more reaching that status daily. (U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development)

Old People: More than 15% of America's population is over 65. (U.S. Census Bureau)

The Clumsy: No statistics available but stop by any dance club and see for yourself.

I for one look forward to the day when we have an Olympic team that really represents every American, including the fat, drooling, glassy-eyed, malnourished, unclean and destitute klutzes we see on our streets every day. That would surely make us proud.

Truth Abusers

Suddenly it seems that everyone's a victim of sexual abuse. Or else they've suffered verbal abuse or domestic abuse. But how about the abuse we have all experienced: truth abuse? That's the worst one since it goes on constantly, is hard to detect and carries little punishment. Liars are rarely "outed" and thus continue spouting their lies, hurting and confusing countless people along the way.
 
These days it's easy. All you have to do is exclaim in an incredulous tone, "What, you didn't get my emails?" Or else, "I texted you, something must be wrong with your service." 

If you know someone who lies to you all the time, be they big fat lies or little white lies, flush them out of your life! I have done so many times, and I always feel better for it.

It's A Mad World

I know I'm not preaching to the choir here, since the choir does not read my blog. Still, I must say what's on my mind and reap the rewards of getting it off my chest, at the same time cramming a couple of cliches into one sentence. What I want to say is this: Stop taking pictures of your life that you then post online, and just plain live it!

"Remains of the Meal"

What got me on this subject is a food column wherein the author mentioned that "with the proper staging" it "takes just minutes to prepare an Instagram-worthy meal." OMG -- have we really devolved into a society that plans meals based on what looks good?

This obsession with documenting our lives for others to see is sick, sick, sick! That's just my opinion but it's right anyway. Like those tourists you read about every so often who die falling backwards into the Grand Canyon or some other scenic hole while snapping a great vacation shot for Facebook, acting crazy is no longer reserved for the mentally ill. The worst part is that everyone is posting the same pictures. After all, how different does the sun setting over the ocean on a beach in Mexico look from one setting over the ocean on a beach in New Jersey, or Hawaii or Florida? Not much. Which means that posting those photos is nutty.

Therefore, in the interest of stopping the madness I will from this point on only post pictures that are singular to me. The one above features the remains of my breakfast, which even when it started out was not all that Instagram-worthy but instead quite nutritious. (FYI, those things that look like bugs are burnt sesame seeds that fell off a slice of whole grain toast. And I eventually ate those last two blueberries.)

How I'm Like Gandhi

Don't laugh, but I recently figured out that I'm a little bit like Mahatma Gandhi. First of all, we both wear glasses. Well, he's dead now so he's not wearing his anymore, but he did. Second, he was not big on food, and I am totally sick of eating.

To clarify further, I mean I'm sick of eating healthy. I'd love to dive into a big bowl of fettuccine with cream sauce and a side of garlic bread, or something else equally luscious that has absolutely nothing to recommend it. But I don't, and I won't, because I fear getting getting sick or fat, or both, and that's the truth. Still, it's enough with the salad and broccoli and cauliflower and whole grains and grilled fish. In fact, blech!

I'm pretty sure that's what was going through Gandhi's mind right before he started each one of his fasts. He went on 17 of them during the era of India's freedom movement, always claiming they were "hunger strikes" meant to underscore a variety of social issues, like improving the life of the poor or stopping communal riots. But probably he was just sick of the food. He was, after all, a vegetarian.

Schadenfreude Begets a New Fan

Eagles quarterback Nick Foles with his daughter Lily.

I know I shouldn't be admitting this publicly considering I live in New England, and even more especially since my friend Mary Martin who lives within spitting distance is so hardcore she almost left my dinner table in a huff two Saturday nights ago when I said Tom Brady was a cheater (oh please, those footballs did not deflate themselves), but this morning I am quite happy the New England Patriots lost the Superbowl game last night. That Brady is such a cocky little snot, he thinks he will just waltz through life and never lose anything. That should wake him up! 

My husband and I watched the game with friends who originally hail from Pennsylvania and are longtime Eagles fans, so it wasn't hard for me to root for the other team. And, knowing nothing about football and lacking even enough understanding to either hoot and holler or groan in dismay at what happened on the field, I cared less about the outcome of the game at the start than I do about whether or not Kim Kardashian has another round of butt injections. But as the game played on my heart went out to the Philadelphia team, especially the young, non-cocky quarterback with his brand new baby and regular, non-supermodel wife watching from the stands. By game's end I was ecstatic that the Eagles had won!

This morning I told my husband that I think I like football now and can't wait to see another game, so I was somewhat disappointed to find out that the season is over. Who knew?

Kickstarting a GoFundMe Campaign

I had a heart attack four months ago and today I am perfectly fine, but you never know. Because of that I have decided to start a campaign to get money for those things I really want before I die. Please send me some, since I am no spring chicken and have lost a lot of my mojo. There are so many things I want that I cannot afford. If you could find it in your heart to help, I would be so very grateful.

Your generous contributions will be used for very good purposes, rest assured. I am not going to squander it on drugs or alcohol. Here are the things I will buy:
1. A Jaguar. I have just always wanted one. Instead I have to drive an Audi.
2. A house on the ocean in Florida. (Nothing too fancy, a one-story ranch style is fine.)
3. A complete new wardrobe for our trip to Italy this April. (I have nothing to wear, really.)
4. Central air-conditioning for our house in Maine. (It gets so hot here in July and August, people never realize that.)
5. I would also love new bathroom scale, one of those digital ones they now have in doctor's offices. Mine is 21 years old and always needs to be recalculated. It's annoying.

Thanks so much in advance. Contact me here and I will send you the address for where to mail your check.

What Is Art?

Looking for something online, I stumbled across an old art review of a show in my now defunct gallery by some self-important would-be critic who never liked me. Personally I never liked him either, so it's not surprising he gave my work a negative review. What he said was that my paintings "couldn't decide whether they are just decoration or real art."

I have two responses to this pap. First, artwork does not have a brain and thus cannot "decide" anything. It is inanimate. Second, what is art if not decoration? You can't eat it. It doesn't shelter you from the elements. You can't sleep in it, wear it or actually do any damn thing with it besides look at it. Following are some examples of "real art" that look suspiciously like decoration to me.

 Henri Matisse

 Marsden Hartley

Andrea Rouda

Vincent Van Gogh

The Rise of the Angry Vagina

The outing of Hollywood producer/sexual predator/international villain Harvey Weinstein apparently unleashed a tsunami of women's complaints about men. Now all those complaints have been turned into money-makers in the publishing world, with books in the works about how much women hate men and how much women love other women. Niche marketing is planned for books about how much women who cook hate men, how much women who knit hate men (especially the ones who knit pink pussy hats), and how much women who have been sexually harassed hate men, complete with the sordid details on how those horrid creatures endowed with penises have gone about their dastardly deeds.

Another whole area percolating among the country's literary agents and publishers is how much women love their vaginas and no longer want men anywhere near them. I'd say this spells trouble for all male gynecologists. I'd also suggest that any woman who was planning to transition from female to male rethink it, since these days men are apparently scum. (Poor Chaz Bono!)

The preceding views do not reflect this author's sentiments. While I certainly value my vagina, I still love my husband and all of his body parts, think my son is a fantastic human being, and don't knit.

Learning to Love Yourself

Every "expert" in the growing field of spirituality, mindfulness and meditation training says the same thing, in slightly different ways: We are all one. Accept people the way they are. Forgive people their faults. Don't be judgmental. I try, believe me. But how do you love someone you consider unlovable? How do you accept flaws that make you think less of them? Admit it, it's a Herculean task. And it's even tougher when that person is yourself.

Note to self: I love you.

I grapple with my demons on a daily basis, and they are a lousy bunch of miscreants, I must say. The gang leader is anxiety, whose weapon is high blood pressure that shows up whenever it damn well pleases, without any advance warning, ruining plans made in advance by my better self. This totally pisses me off, which makes my blood pressure soar even higher, proving further how diabolical it is.

Naturally I give in it to its demands by "trying to stay calm," which is of course stupid advice at such times, kind of like telling the passengers aboard the Titanic to just relax and look at the pretty iceberg. Still, I make an attempt by lying down, sipping water and listening to relaxation tapes offered by some of those people I mentioned earlier, all of whom tell me to accept the wrongdoer with open arms. Fat lot of help they are.

Besides the physical stuff, and like millions of other people, I have a boatload of fears that run, or ruin, my life. While thankfully I don't have any of the most common ones (public speaking, the dentist, death), I do suffer from fear of flying, fear of insects, fear of driving in the snow and fear of being brutally dismembered by a psychotic escapee from a distant prison who has somehow found our property on its lonely, wooded two acres and sneaked into the house through an open basement window, which is really dumb since there are no windows in our basement. Still, I have the fear.

On the plus side, some of my past fears have completely disappeared after years of hard work. I can now drive over bridges easily instead of whimpering on the back seat under a blanket, and I'm no longer afraid I will mistakenly eat the cat poop while I'm cleaning the litter box. (That last fear doesn't have a name and I might be the only person who ever had it.) So I guess I'm not all bad. Hey, I might even love myself after all. Maybe even by this Valentine's Day, if  I work at it.