The Selfie Stick Goes to Italy

Tourists pose on bridge with the aid of their selfie stick. Scenic Venice in background.

Venice has two things you notice right away: water and tourists. The major activity involves both, wherein the tourists take pictures of the water. I've been doing my share, and after just three days here I already have 388 photos of canals and lagoons -- some with gondolas, some without, many with the moon reflected in the rippling water, others with the sun, as if there aren't hundreds of books filled with the exact same photos that I could buy. But of course none of those have me in them.

Apparently the only way to really capture all the beauty, glamour and romance of this magical city with you in it is with a selfie stick. They are ubiquitous. Gondolas full of tourists glide by, and the occupants of the gondolas are not looking at the passing scenery, they are instead saying "cheese" (or possibly "formaggio") at their iPhones perched on the ends of their selfie sticks. The stick allows them to get much more of the scenery in the photo, so when they get home and look at the pictures they can see a lot more of where they were.

I know what you're thinking and yes, you're right -- I could buy one here. But then I'd have to carry it around, and at my age someone might mistake it for a cane, and that is simply not the look I'm going for. As it is, I'm taking pictures of the scenery without me in it, and hoping I'll remember I was there.

The Dying Art of Being Wrong

Humans are a sorry lot. They have to be right about everything, even when they are wrong. It doesn't matter -- as long as they think they are right, and make you agree that they are right, they're happy. This brings to mind one of my favorite plays, Right If You Think You Are, written by Italian playwright Luigi Pirandello in 1917, wherein conflicting versions of the truth are told by the main characters, each of whom claims the other is off his rocker. (Read it, it's a hoot!)

Anyway, following my heart attack last September I had three doctors -- not one, not two, but three -- strongly suggest that I eschew eating red meat altogether and seriously consider adopting a vegetarian diet. One cardiologist even said I should be vegan. I posted that in one of my blogs, and have told friends when they invite me to dinner, and I am stunned at how many people who never went to med school, never treated anyone with a heart attack, and never had a heart attack themselves insist that is 100% wrong information because they read it in a book. I have been told many times that "the doctors have an agenda." What, I wonder, could it be -- do they have pet cows at home?

So, to avoid being one of those people who have to be right all the time I am starting a new phase in life where I will aim to be wrong, but proudly, and with flair. I will profess to know nothing, saying things like, "Don't ask me," "Who knows?" and "You got me there!" Heck, I don't even know if that's a good idea.

Those Wild and Wacky Brits!

Drinking out of this should spice up my mornings!

Breakfast this morning was dull: Same old oatmeal, same old blueberries. Even my coffee seemed been-there-done-that, despite drinking it from my favorite Polish hand-made, ceramic mug. I wondered, was songstress Peggy Lee right -- is that all there is? Is there nothing more?

Then I turned the page of the newspaper and there it was: A story all about the approaching wedding of Prince Harry and his bride-to-be Meghan Markle, an American actress and divorcee, and of mixed race no less. How absolutely titillating can you get? But the best part is that I can buy a mug with their pictures on it! There are dozens from which to choose, showing the couple in a variety of poses and moods.

It was hard, but I finally opted for the one shown above. It's so classy, just like the whole Royal Family, except of course for Harry's dad, Charles, the Prince of Wales and heir apparent to the British throne who gained notoriety for cheating on his wife Diana (who also had a boyfriend) and telling his then-mistress Camilla, in a recorded phone message, that he wished he could be her tampon. But besides all that.

Beware of Democrats

Hey you -- yeah, you American person. In case you think ours is a free society wherein you can voice your independent opinions, think again. This place is getting to be more and more like Nazi Germany every day, and I'm not talking about right-wingers or skinheads, I'm talking about those holier-than-thou liberals who would have you beheaded in a second, if that sort of thing were fashionable, for admitting you voted for Trump.

Today Canadian singer Shania Twain was compelled to apologize after saying in a recent interview, "I would have voted for him because, even though he was offensive, he seemed honest. Do you want straight or polite? Not that you shouldn't be able to have both. If I were voting, I just don't want bullshit." Sounds reasonable, right? But considering the dire reaction from the twittering masses, you'd think she had admitted to hiding Jews in her basement during World War Two. So she tweeted out a four-part apology, just so she can sleep soundly at night.

I did not vote for Trump, although according to many of my friends I might as well have since I also didn't vote for Hillary and now look what happened! As I have said in this space many times before, I cast my vote for John Kasich, and now don't you all wish you had too? If I had voted for Trump I would never in a million, billion years admit it, for fear of serious reprisals. Yes, fear -- those all-loving, all-encompassing, Democratic free-thinkers are really, really scary.

The Many Gifts of Marriage

Today's Wall Street Journal, which miraculously arrived at the end of my driveway before I sat down to eat my oatmeal, thus making this a good day already, contains an article on the dilemma facing many of today's engaged couples: which co-workers to invite to the wedding. It explains such thorny issues as how to avoid hurting someone's feelings if they are left out, and the impact it could have on your career if you dis someone in power.

This is a subject I could not care less about if I tried. I have had two weddings, both attended by next to nobody. Naturally this resulted in receiving far fewer gifts; the first time we got absolutely nothing from anyone, but the second time, older and wiser, we threw ourselves a big party a month after the civil ceremony at the Alexandria, Virginia office of the Justice of the Peace that netted us several serving platters and one kitchen appliance. Still, it's a good one -- we use it at least twice a week and have for the last 31 years. (I highly recommend the Cuisinart food processor.)

I have recently been invited to two weddings, neither of which I will be attending, in part because I don't even know any of the betrothed, just their parents. If the events were reachable by car I would show up, but since in both cases attendance requires getting on an airplane, it's simply out of the question since I only fly to destinations worth dying for.

One couple interviewed in the newspaper article worked together and was dismayed because they had to "pare down the list to only thirty" work colleagues. Only thirty -- and that's just the people from work! I bet those two will end up with a ton of kitchen equipment.

Brother, Can You Spare a Prayer?

We've got a new guy delivering our daily paper and it's been a real drag. The last one had it here each morning at six by the latest, but this one shows up whenever he damn well pleases, or not at all, far too often. I caught a glimpse of him one morning as he sped off in his beater sedan with the loud muffler, looking bleary-eyed and only half-awake, and decided he's either a drug dealer or a new father. Either way it's none of my business, I just wish the paper arrived in time for my breakfast.

Kim and her extra five pounds.....

I'm no Einstein, but I've always thought that's not a problem anyone would, or should, care about besides me. So I was surprised to read an article online about Kim Kardashian West losing five pounds on a stringent diet she's undertaken to look her best at an impending black-tie gala. She's got another five pounds to go to reach her goal, and with what little strength she has left she asked her 59,701,010 Twitter followers to "pray for me."

Even though I have no Twitter account I do have this blog, and Kim's request has emboldened me to ask my readers to pray for me later this week, specifically on Friday, when I fly to Venice on a 10-day holiday. Naturally, considering recent events, I am worried that I will be partially sucked out the window of the plane, then pulled back inside to no avail, and die before reaching that magical city. My husband says since we have first-class seats that fold down into sleeping pods, that likely won't happen. But what if it happens while I'm still sitting up? As my father always said, anything is possible.

While you're down there on your knees, could you also pray for my cat? Lurch will be home alone with a pet-sitter who certainly will not go the extra mile and microwave his food for ten seconds like I do, which means he'll have to eat it straight out of the can. He hates that. And of course, it almost goes without saying that a prayer for my paper to come earlier would be greatly appreciated.

I Love Woody Allen!

Why is Donald Trump such a lightning rod of emotions? You can say you don't like just about anything or anyone or anyplace -- a movie, a book, a restaurant, a food, a city or an entire country, and chances are your audience will yawn and move on. But say you don't like Trump and they're out for blood, put up your dukes, waddya mean, why not?

This happened to me recently with one of my dearest and oldest friends who balked because I said I dislike Sean Hannity, not because of his weird haircut which is indeed really weird, but because he is an apologist for the president while masquerading as a journalist. Several defense-of-Trump emails later, she asked me, "How perfect are YOU?"

Well, let me state here and now that I am not perfect and I love it! I drink, I smoke pot, and I lie liberally. I curse like a truck driver, I've had several abortions, and I hate fat people.

The good news is that I am not the president! Also, I am not a leader of any kind, nor do I aspire to be. I am that wild and wacky thing called an artist, so I am free to be me, with all my faults, as long as the painting turns out nice. And by the way, I sold one this week to  my wonderful friend Jay R. who insisted on paying me, a rare thing among my many wonderful friends who have loved and accepted my art for free.

Dubious Celebrities Who Make My Skin Crawl

Most people have good qualities and bad qualities, usually in equal parts. Often the good outweighs the bad, making it easy to forgive their faults. But the following people literally make me sick! I leave the room immediately whenever they appear on TV, or anywhere, and go straight for the bottle of Pepto-Bismol I keep handy for such moments.

Sometimes, just waking up in the morning, I fantasize about a world in which these human insects do not exist. It's wonderful there, unlike here where it is not at all wonderful and these creatures have become wealthy celebrities despite having slithered out from under a rock in some slimy, oozing wetlands.

Whoopie Godlberg about to eat her lunch.

 Rachel Maddow

Bill Maher

Sean Hannity

Whoopie Goldberg

Nancy Pelosi

Al Sharpton 

Joy Behar

Maxine Waters 

Kim Kardashian

Chuck Schumer

The Haunted House Across the Street

When my son was a mere tot of three or four, he would sit in the back seat of our car as we drove through our neighborhood and proclaim, every so often and in a somber tone, "That house is haunted!" At first we were alarmed, and also a bit proud, speculating that perhaps Zack had special powers. Was he a modern-day oracle? It sure would be handy to have one in the family. But then so many houses were supposedly haunted it seemed impossible, especially when he would declare, "All the houses on this street are haunted!"

It's downright unsettling....

Eventually we understood that in Zack's mind, a house where nobody was home and all the lights were off was a haunted house. How funny! We laughed, and explained that the people were just away, at work or on vacation, and that the houses were perfectly fine and not haunted at all. He remained unconvinced, sticking to his assessment that things were just not kosher in certain homes. Now I'm not so sure he wasn't onto something, because the house across the street from us has been empty for five months and it is clear to me  that it is indeed haunted.

It used to be Polly's House, where she lived with her cheerful dog Bailey and was visited often by her children and grandchildren. Sometimes Gracie the bulldog who belonged to one of Polly's kids came to stay for a few days. Those were fun times. I loved Gracie. But then Polly moved, having sold her house to a couple who have yet to show up.

All the windows are dark. The house just sits there, all alone in snow, wind, rain, ice and sleet -- unoccupied and unloved. There's never a cheerful light twinkling from within, suggestive of a big pot of soup simmering on the stove and a fire in the fireplace, with maybe an adorable doggie running around chewing the furniture, or possibly a child having a bath before being tucked into bed. It's just dead space.

Even worse, it's freaking me out! Who wants to live across the street from an empty grey hulk? And just what is the story with these people? Why buy a giant house and never move into it? I met the new owners at our neighborhood Christmas party last December and they seemed normal enough, despite giving their names as "Bruce" and "Brenda" with no last names. That sounds mighty suspicious, like they made them up on the way to the party. Are they meth heads? (I watched five episodes of Breaking Bad and it changed me.)

I should ask Zack to come over and take a look and see what he thinks. He's 30 now and his skills have likely been perfected over the years.

Pill Popping

I would definitely take #2, 5 and 6. How about you?

I have become something of a drug addict in my later years. Sadly this is not unusual, as most people take something for something once they pass the age of fifty, which I did two decades ago. Now I take six pills a day at the behest of my physician, and although collectively they might be saving my life, I walk around feeling like crap most days. Dizziness, dreariness, blurriness, depression, sadness, fatigue and lack of appetite are traded for high blood pressure and blood clots. Oh well, I guess.

We are a nation of pill poppers. I wonder what would happen if we all stopped. Would there suddenly be a lot of deaths? More hospitalizations? Or just lots of executives at big pharmaceutical companies jumping out of high-floor windows?

God is Where You Find Him

Yesterday morning my husband and I attended an Episcopalian church service at the invitation of a friend who worships there weekly. Mostly we went to hear that friend sing during the service, but part of me was hoping, as I always do when I go to any church -- this was only my fifth or sixth time since I'm Jewish -- that God would also be there. Once again I was disappointed by his absence, and by the total lack of spirituality I found there.

Don't get me wrong, it was a pleasant experience. The parishioners all knew one another and were happy to be together and sing songs in praise of Jesus, standing up and sitting back down at the direction of the leader, who in this case was called the Rector. She was a cheerful young woman who wore a long white smock over her black pants and shirt and a satiny shawl around her neck, setting her apart from the rest of us as a direct conduit to Our Heavenly Father. But the black plastic Crocs clearly visible on her feet dispelled that idea and marked her as an ordinary lady who shops at the mall. I am pretty sure she too has never met God, despite "taking Jesus as her savior."

Towards the end of the service the congregants lined up to receive the little cracker and sip of red wine that represent the body and blood of Christ. Mitch and I passed, but we did partake of the coffee and some delightful blueberry cakes laid out afterwards. They were representative of nothing but were still quite tasty.

This morning when I woke up I prayed alone in my own bedroom. There was no music, no singing, and no book of prayers to recite, but I'm pretty sure I felt God there with me.

Are These the End Days?

The perfect woman?

Sadly, television is good for little besides learning which new drugs on the market that cause dizziness, irritability, nausea, shortness of breath, suicidal thoughts and suicidal actions I should ask my doctor about.  That, and the latest pizza deals at Little Caesar's. Despite that, having awakened early this morning with a severe stiff neck caused by working out at the gym trying to defy my age, I settled down on the couch with a heating pad and turned on the TV in hopes of distracting myself from the pain. I succeeded.

I watched a show called "Botched," which is about plastic surgery gone bad and the two doctors who specialize in revision surgery to fix the mistakes. One case involved a woman, about 35, who is devoting her life to what she calls "Bimbofication." She wants to turn herself into a bimbo, fulfilling  her ultimate goal of appealing to men on a physical level. She wants nothing more than to look like a Barbie doll, and to that end she has had countless surgeries to enlarge her breasts to their current size of watermelons, as well as getting cheek implants, a forehead implant, and Botox in her lips and around her eyes. As she put it, "I like having a frozen face."

Next she will have several ribs removed and have an "internal corset" installed to create a teeny waist. She also wants to sew her fingers together to have what she calls "doll hands."

That show ended and next Dr. Phil came on, His show was about a 37-year-old woman who married her son's best friend who is now 15. They started their affair when he was 14 and had a child together.

I read somewhere that certain religious sects believe that, according to hints found in the Bible, the world will end on April 23,  nine days from now. That means I won't get to go on my scheduled trip to Venice on the 27th, but still, I can't help but think it might be time.

Thinking Outside the Box

I'm in hot water with several family members because I won't trash Donald Trump. Honestly, I have never met the man and hope not to, but it's such a tired subject and I have little to add. Besides, there are so many other things to talk about of far greater interest.

For example, one of the things more interesting than Stormy Does Donald is that today is National Grilled Cheese Day (NGCD). Another is that pink KitKats are now available in the UK. I find both of these events intriguing. I wonder who decided that today of all days should be NGCD, and who came up with pink chocolate? Let's hear more about those people.

Sadly, I am unable to celebrate NGCD because I am on a restricted, non-dairy diet. But I can get some of those KitKats at Walmart, and I just might do it. What I'd really like to try is a grilled cheese sandwich with a miniature pink KitKat melted right inside it. Sounds sickening, but anything to not think about politics.

The End of Obesity

According to a 2017 report issued by the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, America is the fattest nation in the world, followed closely by Mexico. Despite that whole "fat acceptance" movement, which consists of fat people themselves and the demented people who like their partners that way claiming there is "more to love," being fat is bad on numerous fronts. I don't need to spell them out; it's just common sense. Anyway, I have a plan that will end obesity forever!

My plan will work, I have no doubt. It's been hard to get people on board; whenever I tell someone about it they roll their eyes and slowly back away, claiming they just remembered they have to be somewhere. Still, all great ideas are met with skepticism at first, so I remain undaunted.

In a nutshell, it's just like speeding. There are posted limits on all the roads and highways in every town and city. If you go above those limits you risk being stopped by a police officer and getting a warning or a ticket. If you get a ticket you have to pay a fine. In some cases, if the infraction was severe, you'll have to appear in court to plead your case. You may get off with little more than a stern talking-to or you might even do some jail time. Either way the speeders are kept to minimum, and some of the worst lose their right to drive altogether, which in turn makes all of us even safer and cuts down on the number of dead doggies, kitties and baby deer on the side of the road.

Now think of the same approach applied to obesity. Every town, city and state will post the permissible weight for its citizens. (Actually, I think it's best for the federal government to make it a law but my husband feels that smacks of totalitarianism.) Random spot weight-checks will be conducted by officials armed with electronic devices that look like blood-pressure monitors. If you're just a few pounds over, you'll get a warning and possible a slap on the wrist, depending on the personality of the officer. But if you are found to be obese you will be fined for every pound in excess of the legal weight.

Here's how it would work. Say you're in a food court at the airport or a shopping mall and you just sat down to enjoy your meal of French fries, a bacon cheeseburger and a large soda. A member of the WCF (Weight Control Force) notices you and approaches:

WCF: Excuse me sir, but I'd like permission to weigh you.
Diner: Certainly officer, although I'm sure it's fine. (Nervous laugh.) Just a little extra holiday weight, you know?
WCF: What is your height?
Diner: About six feet. Well, more like 5'11" or so.... does that really matter? Let's say 5'10".
WCF: Please extend your right arm.
Diner: Okay, maybe I'm up a few pounds, it's just that my wife is a fantastic cook....
WCF: Sir, my electronic weight cuff shows you at 212 pounds. That's 24 pounds over the legal weight for your height in this jurisdiction. I'll have to write you a ticket.
Diner: Oh no! For how much?
WTC: Since it's your first infraction it's just two dollars per pound, so that comes to $48.00 today. You have ten weeks to lose the weight. Here's your court date. If you don't weigh in at 188 pounds on that date you will be fined again for the remaining amount, but at a higher rate. Have a nice day!
Diner: Can I still eat my lunch?
WCF: Sure, go ahead -- after all, it's your funeral. (Laughs heartily.)

And there you have it. Pretty soon everyone will be healthier, happier and a lot better-looking. As for all those weirdos who like fat women, they'll have to find another fetish.

Don't Blame Me for Your Problems

Local outbreaks of paralytic polio began to appear in Europe and the United States around 1900. In the US, the worst epidemic occurred in 1952: of the 57,628 cases that year, 3,145 of the victims died and 21,269 were left with mild to disabling paralysis.

In 1954, when I was eight years old, I was enrolled in the first national tests of a trial polio vaccine. Kids my age, called Polio Pioneers, were used as laboratory mice and given injections of the newly-minted Salk vaccine in a controlled blind experiment. Half of us got the drug, the other half got water. There were three doses, the first one followed weeks later by two more boosters. At the end of the trial letters were sent home telling the parents which their child had received. I can still remember my mother standing in the kitchen, clutching the open letter and weeping tears of joy after learning I had gotten the real thing. 

So I never got polio like so many of my peers, including my friend Sue who was exactly my age in a town across the country in California. I met Sue 25 years later when we both worked at the Oakland Tribune; she was an editor and I was the paper's art director. Sue lived her life in a wheelchair, even though she could walk on crutches. "It's just easier," she admitted to me one day at lunch. "And so much less grotesque-looking, since I look like a monster when I walk. I don't want to scare children." She said this with a grin. I asked if she had ever felt bitter about not getting the vaccine in time to protect her. "Not at all," she replied. "People treat me like I'm a princess! They always have."

And it was true. At work I noticed how Sue was always given the benefit of the doubt. Any errors she made were instantly forgiven. Everyone loved Sue, or "Poor Sue" as they called her when she wasn't around. Few people loved me, however, as I was the east coast transplant with a bigger salary than theirs. Also, I could walk, I was a white executive on a predominantly black staff, and I wasn't bad to look at, at least back then. In fact, there was nothing at all wrong with me, or at least nothing that showed. Who could like that?

I stayed in California about six months before my lack of friends and fear of earthquakes sent me scurrying back east. Now all these years later I'm not that great to look at anymore but I'm still white, which means I suck. I'm guessing that if I were in a wheelchair, or morbidly obese, or deaf, dumb or blind, with some sort of apparent deficiency that made me miserable on a daily basis, my whiteness wouldn't be seen as so obnoxious. But I have none of those things, and so I am deemed "privileged" and thus should feel guilty and ashamed and possibly rot in Hell forever.

Well guess what? I'm white and I like it. But it's not all it's cracked up to be, believe me. For starters, there are all the blacks who hate us. That's no fun. As for the privilege, it's true I can walk into Tiffany's on Fifth Avenue without raising any eyebrows, but if you cut me I still bleed. In fact now I bleed a lot more since I'm on Plavix, a blood-thinning drug prescribed after my heart attack last September. So please, all of you out there shouting "black lives matter" as if the others don't, shut up about white privilege. Life delivers the same bad news to everyone: it ends, and we don't know when.

You Are What You Eat, So It Better Look Good

This won't win you any followers on Instagram, and isn't that what life is all about ?

I'm old enough to remember when The New York Times was something special, long before it turned into the liberal's bible of what to read, how to dress and who to elect. It's understandable, since those poor souls lacking an inner compass do need guidance. Still, it irks me that this former pillar of intelligence now regularly kowtows to the increasing superficiality of its audience. A clear example of this trend is subtly tucked into yesterday's Travel section, wherein a food review of an Italian restaurant includes the following assessment of one of the pizzas on the menu: "It is both Instagram-ready and delicious."

Several things annoyed me about that sentence. First, the fact that an editor did not delete it. Second, that the writer, clearly a millennial, even had such a thought. And third, not only was the inherent message that one could gain in stature by showing your friends you ate such a thing obnoxious, but how it looked was deemed to be more important than how it tasted, as the fact that it was "delicious" was secondary to its beauty.

Apparently to be worthy in the eyes of the people who matter (including the editors at the Times), not only do we have to look good but our food does too. No telling if this extends to those mud pies they eat in Haiti, but probably not.

Film Review: A QUIET PLACE

If you have a heart condition, do not see A Quiet Place -- or if you do be sure to bring your nitroglycerin pills since it's heart-stoppingly scary. It's also mind-numbingly dumb, with so many loopholes you'll spend half your time wondering how this or that thing could possibly happen. The answer: it couldn't.

John Krasinski, the average Joe on television's "The Office" for years, has blossomed into a serious player. Besides directing the film and co-writing the script, he shares star billing with his real-life wife, British actress Emily Blunt.  Mom, Dad and their three kids -- oops, now two kids -- struggle to survive in a post-apocalyptic world where hideous (and I do mean hideous), blind monsters roam the landscape, triggered  by sound. Hence the title, since if you make any noise you are instantly dead meat.

Krasinski cleverly borrows memorable scenes from several other popular movies that made it big. There's the one where the two kids trapped inside a car are being attacked by the T-Rex in Jurassic Park. There's the one where someone gets slowly buried in corn inside a silo from Witness. There are whole scenes from Mel Gibson's Signs, and in fact the monsters might be those guys' cousins: skinny, long-limbed and really, really slimy. The way our heroes figure out how to ultimately destroy the enemy is straight out of Mars Attacks, while the premise of normal life gone awry mimics the feel of the recent hit Get Out.

Now here's the dumb stuff:
1. I was particularly mystified at how the mother gave birth to a healthy baby, soundlessly and alone in a bathtub, without screaming during her contractions, which lasted about twenty minutes, unlike mine that went on for 23 hours. Wow, those breathing exercises really worked for her! No clue as to how she cut the umbilical cord. (Details, details.) The newly-arrived infant whimpered a few times, but that was it -- nothing loud enough to trigger any monsters.

2. Old newspapers tacked up on a wall show headlines about death and destruction worldwide, but there's still plenty of electricity to run the dozen TV screens and security cameras that Dad, clearly a scientific genius even though he's a farmer, has rigged up. How is that possible? Where is it coming from? Who is running it? Aren't those generators noisy?

3. There are rows and rows of corn for hiding in, but as my husband pointed out, corn is an annual crop. If the monsters arrived almost two years ago, how did that corn get planted without a tractor making a lot of noise? (Details, details.)

4. Out of nowhere water begins pouring into the basement of the farmhouse where the Mom is hiding out, quickly rising dangerously close to the makeshift crib and its infant occupant. Suddenly one of the monsters pops up, and Mom has to hide from it while keeping the baby quiet. The scene ends and we never know where that water was coming from; after all, it's not even raining! (My husband thinks he saw a running hose somewhere; possibly it was one of the times I had my eyes covered.)

5. Mom steps on a rusty nail but can't scream, natch. In a gruesome close-up, we see the nail go ALL THE WAY INTO HER FOOT! But she just pulls it out and there's a little blood, and lah-de-dah, that's it. No tetanus or anything. (You'd think she'd limp for a few days.)

6. On an existential level, why try to stay alive under such circumstances? It's not like the kids will grow up and go to Disneyland and college and find good jobs and get married, etc. There's definitely not gonna be Christmas. The future looks grim, and that's on a good day.

Still, it's a great yarn that will keep you riveted -- and quiet. When we saw it, nobody in the theater even touched their popcorn. And what surely will please those politically-correct lefties is the underlying message about the loneliness of being deaf in a hearing world, since the fictional deaf daughter is played by a deaf actress, so everyone communicates through sign language. When we got home Mitch and I thoroughly checked the house for monsters, then cooked up a big batch of popcorn and proceeded to chew it loudly and with abandon.

Take Good Care of Yourself

Are you still alive if you are sick? The answer is clearly yes, although it often doesn't feel like it, and many times you wish you weren't. But drive on any highway and you will see those ominous blue signs imprinted with the letter H, and we all know that stands for "hospital," a building specifically erected to house the sick, so we must assume there are plenty of them in every town across this great nation, enough to support a huge staff of doctors, nurses, radiologists, administrators, janitors, cooks and assorted hangers-on.

I spent the better, or actually worse, part of this week being sick -- getting blood drawn, having my heart monitored, breathing in and out while people listened to my insides through a stethoscope -- and I am here to tell you that healthy is better, so if you are not sick now I beg you to do anything you can think of to not get sick.

Much of illness is in our control, except things like Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva (FOP), or Stone Man Syndrome, where God forbid a million times you wake up one day and your bones have turned to stone, but that is an extremely rare connective tissue disease caused by a mutation of the body's repair mechanism which causes fibrous tissue, including muscles, tendons, and ligaments, to be ossified either spontaneously or when damaged.

FOP aside, staying health requires eating only healthy foods, no smoking cigarettes of course, no ingesting harmful drugs or copious amounts of alcohol, and for you severely broken people who live in remote Alaskan towns or Labrador, absolutely no sniffing of gasoline. And certainly get plenty of sleep and exercise, and eat bananas. (Something about the potassium.) Good luck!

A Bad Day

How is it possible that some days seem to drag on forever, like at a wedding where you don't know anybody but your husband works with the guy, or when you wait from 9 to 5 for the plumber and he never shows because you read your calendar wrong and it's tomorrow, or your cat is missing and you comb the neighborhood for hours, sobbing and shaking her treat jar, only to come home and find her sleeping in the bottom of your closet, yet your whole life goes by so fast and it's over before you know it?

Yesterday morning when I woke up I felt funny and decided to check my blood pressure. It was 233/109, a new personal best. Naturally I have been dealing with it since then. As usual, my primary care physician told me, "it's not uncommon." I wanted to say, "Yeah, and you know what else is not uncommon? Death!" But I didn't. Why ruin his day?

Better Than Condom Snorting

I think we can all agree that things are at an all-time low in the homeland. Where we disagree is assigning blame. I believe it's not all Donald Trump's fault, although he's Pelosi's go-to scapegoat for everything bad that happens. (I actually feel sorry for the guy. I've been there, and let me tell you, it can be quite demoralizing.)

One thing that Trump has absolutely nothing to do with is nevertheless a clear harbinger of doom for our nation. "The Condom Challenge" is the current viral fad being attempted by teenagers seeking to become famous, which long ago replaced all other previous goals for many youngsters. The revolting practice involves inhaling an unused condom through the nostril and expelling it out the throat. Naturally, one aims to do this without dying, passing out or needing a quick ride to the ER.

The alleged reason many teens are doing it is "to fight boredom," according to one article I read online. I too have been bored from time to time, yet I never imagined that inhaling anything through my nose would alleviate it, at least not for more than a few minutes, unless it caused brain damage which could certainly wipe out boredom, and everything else, for many years, if not forever. For those poor, misguided, unimaginative teens who think condom snorting is the only escape from boredom, I offer the following list of activities, none of which cause brain damage:

Clean your room
Wash the bathroom
Do your homework
Volunteer at a soup kitchen
Take a car repair class
Go for a long bike ride
Learn to play a musical instrument
Learn how to make ice cream
Bake bread at home
Volunteer at a hospital
Get a dog, cat, bunny or some goldfish
Build a koi pond in your backyard
Read a book
Read another book by the same author 
Take yoga classes
Walk the dog, feed the fish or clean up after the bunny
Mow the lawn without being asked
Have a yard sale of all your old stuff
Cook a meal for your family
Make a movie of your friends staring at their cell phones
Go through all your baby pictures
Start a neighborhood newsletter 
Start a neighborhood community garden
Paint a self-portrait
Do the family laundry 
Go running
Get into a sport
Clean the garage without being asked
Organize a make-your-own pizza party
Learn how to jump rope and do it with some friends 
Play Risk, Monopoly, Clue or Scrabble in real life, sitting around a real table, with other actual people, and some snacks and drinks, and no cell phones allowed
If you must use condoms, use them the way God intended