The Death of Saint John

McCain's last words?

For reasons that escape me -- possibly just a slow news week -- the death of Arizona's Republican Senator John McCain five days ago is being handled by the media, and even by the citizenry, as a major blow to humanity. The front page of today's Wall Street Journal has a large color photo, shot from above, of the Widow McCain kissing her dead husband's flag-draped coffin. As a former newspaper Art Director I'd have to say it was a setup shot. Besides, who kisses a coffin?

All this hoopla, including which flags are flown at half staff where and for how many days, feels like a blatant insult to the many other famous people who died without a fraction of the coverage afforded McCain. Yes, I know he was captured by the Viet Cong during the war and spent five years blindfolded without food, or something like that. I also know that he was mean-spirited to the end, requesting that both President Trump and Sarah Palin, the attractive but ill-equipped Alaska governor plucked from obscurity by McCain to be his 2008 running mate and turned into a running gag on Saturday Night Live, stay away from his funeral, an elite event he envisioned as "by invitation only."

What I wish instead is that more of the newspaper column inches devoted to his passing would cover what kind of brain cancer killed him, how common it is among what demographic, how does one get it or prevent it, which treatments work or don't work, and other news we can use. Surely we can glean more from this man's death than the childish taunt, "See, he hated President Trump too. So there!"

Why We're All Crazy

I finally figured out why everyone is nuts. Yes, I mean everyone and that includes you. Come on, you know you are, even though you hope nobody notices. Still, there's that thing you do -- that weird thing -- when nobody's looking, or at least you think nobody's looking. And that other thing too. Anyway, all is forgiven because to be alive in today's screwy culture where contradictions rule is to be made crazy. It's inevitable.

The truth of this hit me today when I went to pick up a prescription at the local CVS. The first thing I saw upon entering the store was a mannequin dressed as a witch, leaning on a huge candy display adorned with miniature plastic pumpkins, under an orange and black banner proclaiming "Happy Halloween." WTF? Not sure what month it is where you live, but here in Maine it's August, or more accurately friggin' August, with temps hitting 90 for the last three days and more to come. It's hot, buggy, muggy and gross. My primary concerns are scratching my itches and avoiding heat stroke, so excuse me if I'm confused about the promo for a holiday that is still more than two months away. Hey, I could be dead by then, and so could you, so I'd hold off on buying those trick-or-treat goodies for awhile.

Much more important than whether or not we stock up on Snickers is our universal and ongoing attempt at following the advice of experts on the art of living plastered on books, magazine covers and yoga studio walls everywhere: Be Here Now. We are each instructed that the key to living well is being mindful. We must live for today! Not only that, but we should live each day as if it were our last!! We must embrace the now!!! And above all, stop and smell the flowers!!!!

So if we're all busy being here now and smelling the flowers, who's got time for Halloween in August?  No guru anywhere ever said, "Live for sixty days hence."

Keep Your Hands Off My Feet!

Boomer Role Model

There are plenty of things I don't like about getting old, most of which are obvious to the naked eye and thus require no explanation. Still, old does not mean dead and so as long as I live and breathe I will continue to be myself, with all my familiar habits and quirks and, most certainly, wardrobe. I may go gray, but at least I can still wear socks with colorful stripes, or maybe socks imprinted with dogs, cats, butterflies and birdies, right?

Wrong, apparently. According to an article I came across entitled, "20 Things Older Women Should Never Wear," so-called "silly socks" are verboten for my age group. Instead we are instructed to "stick to black." I'm guessing this is in case we drop dead on the street, making our feet one less thing -- actually, two -- for the undertaker to deal with.

It's not like that's the only article telling my generation to just go ahead and die already. A quick Google search revealed the following articles online:

10 Things Middle-Aged Women Should Never Wear

What Not to Wear After Fifty: The Final Say

 6 Things A Woman Over 40 Should Not Wear

What Not to Wear If You're Over Fifty

Clothes for Older Women

What Not to Wear If You're Over A Certain Age

50 Things No Woman Over 40 Should Own 

10 Items You're Too Old to Wear

I could go on but I have stuff to do today. The point is, SEZ WHO? The fashion mavens of the younger generation? You know, those purple-haired lovelies with the gag-inducing holes in their earlobes, pierced snot rings hanging from their nostrils and tattoos on their flabby arms, calves, and necks? Those are the ladies telling me that I'm too old to wear striped socks? And believe me, it's not just my feet that are being chastised, it's all of me from head to toe, like this bit of advice from How Not to Look Old by Charla Krupp: "Whether it’s flowery scrunchies, banana clips or your daughter’s plastic kiddie barrettes, whimsical hair accessories are not fitting for a fully grown woman."

Too bad Meg Ryan didn't read that book before her career-ending facelift. She could have saved thousands of dollars and maybe even made a few more movies.

Two Kinds of People

Recently I visited a friend who is a textbook extrovert, and it was exhausting -- for me, not for her. Not only was she babysitting her 15-month old granddaughter for the weekend, certainly a full-time job, but she had invited eleven guests for dinner and was not the least bit ruffled. In fact, she actually thrived amid all the chaos! As for me, being one of the dinner guests I had to gird my loins for an evening of constant interaction with other people. Trying to figure out exactly where my loins are located and then how to gird them took some time but I finally got it done and found that the other guests were delightful, considering. Still, it was taxing for me to be "on" all the time since my default  switch is "off."

I was not always an "off" person. In my earlier years I was quite outgoing, and I can still pass for an extrovert if I put my mind to it. But despite all the chatting and smiling I am often slumped in a corner of my mind, reciting my mantra or perhaps girding my loins. I believe this to be true for many people, which is why sometimes you'll get that glazed expression from someone you're talking with.

(FYI: To "gird" means to prepare for a military attack, but more loosely the expression has come to mean readying oneself for any kind of confrontation.)

Woe, These Tacky Times

Sometime during the night my brother-in-law Neil emailed me an anti-Trump article from the New York Times, a common occurrence these days. This one had a note saying it was "blogworthy," meaning the contents of the article were worth discussing in my blog. Skimming the article before hitting "delete," I decided instead that what was blogworthy is his constant attempt to convince me that I'm in the wrong for not hating Trump's guts. Like a gaggle of Jehovah's Witnesses at my front door telling me their God is the only God, Neil and others like him view each new day (and middle of the night) as a fresh opportunity to spread the hate as best they can. Why, I wonder.

Let me say for the record that I did not vote for Trump last time and won't next time, should he be free to run and not locked up for the sins of buffoonery, impetuous tweeting and an unconvincing comb over. I do not hate his guts, but instead feel sorry for them: They must be in constant turmoil, what with the whole world and the media spewing poisonous half-truths about him and his family every minute. (Hope he's got plenty of Pepto-Bismol on hand.)

Not a party person, I vote for the candidate who seems best for the job; last time I wrote in John Kasich. I've tried explaining this "concept" to Neil, which I like to call "Thinking for Myself," but he remains a loyal Democrat who daily prays at the altar of The New York Times, ignoring other news sources. I wonder if he read their Opinion piece in yesterday's edition praising porn star Stormy Daniels to the skies as a strong, independent woman willing to do battle with our horribly corrupt president. Apparently Stormy is the "new symbol of female heroism" for going public about her one-night stand with Trump, no matter that she has earned her living thus far by stripping naked in front of a camera and allowing filmed closeups of her vagina being entered by various penises attached to other porn stars.

Peer Pressure

If you don't drink or do drugs or own a house on the water, or maybe a yacht, weekends are often a drag. There's so much pressure to have a good time. But what if your cat just died? Or you have a urinary tract infection? Fortunately neither of those things are the case for me at the moment, but I've been there, and I know for a fact that the arrival of the weekend does nothing to alleviate the pain in either situation.

Today it's a beautiful Saturday in Maine but I'm in a bad mood anyway. Sue me. And stop telling me to "Have a great weekend!"

Crazy Time

Living in Maine and not having a job makes it is easy to be a recluse. I choose to stay home more often than not, and with good reason: things are crazy out there. I know this because I own a computer, and the things I read make me happy to stay put. Just today I read that:

A man in Birmingham, England died in a movie theater when he attempted to retrieve the cell phone he dropped under his seat and the reclining seat mechanism jammed, trapping him under it and causing him to have a heart attack. On the floor, at the movies, with all the sticky soda and popcorn. What a way to go.

A young woman went for a swim at the pool in her apartment complex wearing a one-piece bathing suit, but since she had a rather large rear, not all of it was covered by the suit. Other people at the pool approached her and said she would have to leave immediately because too much of her body was revealed in that bathing suit, and there were teenage boys at the pool who might have sexual thoughts about her. As if they wouldn't have sexual thoughts if her bathing suit fit better. Teenage boys. Sexual thoughts.

The former head of the CDC during the Obama administration has been arrested after a 55-year-old woman said he "grabbed her buttocks" in her Brooklyn apartment last October. Oh, and she didn't want him to, so now he is in jail. For grabbing a woman's ass. In jail. She's 55. Oy.

A man killed his wife and two young daughters because he was $70,000 in debt and had to declare bankruptcy. Now he's going to live in jail forever and have three meals a day and all the medical care he ever needs, and not have that annoying wife and those pesky little girls to deal with. Oh well, finally a happy ending.

Children, Behave

Lately I've been trying to understand why most people are so mean-spirited, and the only thing I've come up with is that everyone is incredibly angry because they know they're going to die someday and they don't like it one bit. A perfect example of this was displayed on TV last night for anyone to see who tuned in to CNN, which still calls itself "the most trusted name in news." (Hah!)

Hoping for some sort of update on the growing national frenzy of pummeling Donald Trump into oblivion for the sin of besting Queen Hillary in the last election, my husband and I watched in horror as newsman Chris Cuomo, the weakest link in the Cuomo political family and host of his own talk show, shouted non-stop like a petulant schoolboy at his invited guest, Trump mouthpiece Kellyanne Conway, who met him and raised him. Had they been spitting instead of talking they'd have made as much sense, and been a lot more fun to watch. Sadly, theirs was supposedly intellectual discourse between two educated people who hold powerful positions in our society, so it's no wonder the lower down the scale you go, the worse the vitriol gets.

People give me a hard time for using the word fat to describe fat people, as if by saying something less accurate they will magically be thinner. For that transgression I am called "mean." Personally, I'd rather have someone tell me nicely that I'm getting fat, than say nothing to spare my feelings and instead watch me get fat. Still, I wouldn't want them to shout out "Fatty!" There's a difference.

So choose and use your words carefully, and be nice. No matter how much you mistreat someone else, you will still die someday.

Thanks, Mom

Ben and his mom, in happier days.

When my son was seven he performed in an acting-school production of Peter Pan, playing the dastardly Captain Hook so convincingly that afterward many in the audience approached me with the prediction that someday he would be thanking me in his Oscar speech. I agreed, hoping I lived long enough to see it. But despite starring in all the following school plays, majoring in drama in college and a brief stint at a renowned Manhattan acting school, Zack ultimately decided that pretending to be other people wasn't how he wanted to spend his life. Instead, he set his sights on being himself.

I was sad for awhile, having really looked forward to that Oscar speech. But he's made me proud every day doing other things, and so I moved on, barely giving it another thought. Until today, when I read an article online about actor/alcoholic Ben Affleck going off to a rehab facility for the third time at the age of 46.

Ben has won countless film awards for his acting, writing and producing, earning tons of money (his net worth is reportedly $160 million) and rising to the top of the heap in short order. Like him, his younger brother Casey Affleck made it to the top as well, despite his also being an alcoholic and, more recently, an accused sexual predator. Both of these talented young men have won Oscars, and each one publicly thanked his mother in his acceptance speech. That was nice for her, I'm sure, but I doubt she's as as happy as I am today about how her sons turned out.

So You're Having a Baby

While having a baby has always been considered a joyful occasion (not counting abortions), these days a declaration of pregnancy is akin to announcing you've discovered a cure for cancer. Suddenly nothing else matters. In fact, except for all the animals, the whole "baby bump" thing has become a viable replacement for the now defunct Ringling Brothers Circus.

It was not always so. Way back in the 1800s most women gave birth at home with nary a balloon in sight, and certainly no confetti. Sometimes the bundle of joy arrived while Mom was working out in the fields, and after she got herself together she just kept on picking. Even as recently as 1987, when I gave birth to my son, one wore maternity clothes instead of skin-tight Spanx, and exposing your naked, basketball-sized tummy to every Tom, Dick and Harry was strictly verboten.

Baby showers have always been around, but mostly they were attended by a small group of women who sipped on wine and munched on snacks while watching the mom-to-be open all the presents. Those days are over. Recently a young pregnant friend of mine coordinated a catered baby shower with open bar attended by 80 people, men included. Wow, think of all the gifts she got! Then, just a few months later it's time for the Gender Reveal party, which naturally requires more gifts and maybe even a video posted on Facebook. I wonder who's got time for all this?

Ironically, when push comes to shove (literally) the only one actually having the baby is the mom, and that's when she could use a little help from her friends. Alas, few of them are around to share those contractions, not to mention the 2 AM feedings, the endless dirty diapers, the constant ear infections, the inevitable strep throats, the chicken pox, all the inoculations and those horrid early dentist visits.

The Greatness of America

After making an appointment two days in advance, last week I went to the Apple store at Maine Mall to have the cracked glass screen of my iPhone repaired. I arrived on time but still had to wait about 15 minutes at "The Genius Bar" for an available genius to consult with me. During that time I saw a toddler of about two, sitting in a stroller, playing on an iPad. He seemed incredibly adept at the controls, despite his mother insisting, "I hardly ever let him use it." After the genius -- his name was Dylan --  told me to return in an hour, off I went in search of one of those hideously unhealthy, fabulously decadent, extremely salty and buttery pretzels that I only eat at the mall, so it's a good thing I rarely go there.

The mall was shockingly crowded for a weekday at noon. It was hard to believe that anyone could need most of the things offered for sale, yet all the stores were full.  A free-standing kiosk shop was crammed with customers buying decorative cases for cell phones in every kind of design imaginable, and in all colors. I doubted that a new phone case would lower my blood pressure, help me lose weight or fix the mess our country is in, so I kept going.

The pretzel obviously inspired the Genius Bar logo!

Another popular spot was the latest entry in self-debasement, an edible cookie dough store called Dough Life. Set up like an ice cream shop, its clerks happily filled the gaping maws of dozens of willing customers with "safe" cookie dough flavors such as Monster M& Ms, S'more Please, King Caramel and Peanut Butter Mother, none of which had any nutritional value or in fact any redeeming qualities at all, besides a short-lived respite from depression and anxiety. Two young women decked out in chef's hats and aprons strolled around out front extending trays of free samples to the passers-by, but I was saving myself for that pretzel so I demurred.

I almost got out alive but made the mistake of going into Macy's handbag department on my way back to pick up my phone. They were having a sale, and if I opened a credit card I could save $40 on the new bag I just had to have. I'm pretty sure buying it helped lower my blood pressure on the spot, which I desperately needed after eating that super-salty pretzel.

Wisdom of the Aged

The best thing about getting older, partially compensating for things like your body falling apart, is that your bullshit monitor has become finely honed and sounds an alarm so much sooner than when you are young, unless of course you have Alzheimer's or other sorts of dementia, in which case everything sucks. But if you're lucky enough to retain your mental acuity there is more time to spend on things that matter and less on meaningless frivolity. You can also shave down that cumbersome list of so-called friends you've been harnessed with for years, keeping only the ones who have your best interests at heart.

Since my personal bullshit monitor started out really strong to begin with, these days it is razor sharp. This explains why it takes me just minutes to read the paper each morning, and even less time to scan the Internet. There is a ton of bullshit out there, and it's more often than not stuff you already know. For example, an article entitled "Six Things to Never Do In Paris" included the advice, "Don't wear uncomfortable shoes." This made me wonder if A, the author of that story is a moron and B, is it okay to wear uncomfortable shoes in other European cities? How about here at home?

As for those old friends you've been lugging around -- ditch 'em at the first indisputable sign of poison. I say indisputable because there are always going to be circumstances that may cause people to be nasty or downright unsupportive. But absent those on just an ordinary day, if your friend slips up and lets you see that all respect for you has evaporated, leaving only rubbernecking and a perverse interest in seeing you fail, dump that bitch. (Or bastard.)

It's Tomato Time

And God said, "Let 'em eat tomatoes." 

No wait, that was Marie Antoinette. God said, "Thou shalt eat tomatoes."  

Whatever, we are now eating tomatoes at our house, pretty much non-stop. 

Which of course implies mayonnaise. If I weren't so health conscious I'd 

go out and buy some white bread, but I just can't bring myself to do it. 

Nevertheless, a tomato sandwich on wheat bread is pretty close. 

And then of course there are the buckets of cherry tomatoes to be dealt with. 

Too bad I don't have more kids. 

Or friends.

This Is Not A Free Country

In the United States, you damn well better have the right opinions, or else. For example, today a famous celebrity and wonderful person, Aretha Franklin, died. She was an icon to many, although I wasn't a fan. Yes, I know -- she was fabulous, a great talent, etc., but still, I never responded to her music. I was more of a hard rock, Queen, Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton kind of person. Anyway, today I read some comments following an article about Aretha's passing, and someone wrote that "she couldn't sing!" Let me tell you, it's lucky that guy's address wasn't posted or he'd be long dead by now.

The sad truth is that here in the United States, you better feel a certain way about a lot of things if you know what's good for you. For example:

Saturday Night Live is still funny.
Transgender surgery makes perfect sense.
Donald Trump is a moron and his wife is a slut.
All Republicans are evil.
Barack Obama is a saint and his wife should run for president.
Hillary Clinton was robbed.
The Russians elected Trump.
CNN is the ony trusted source of news.
Paul Manafort should be executed for his crimes, like buying a jacket for $15,000.
Bill Clinton is still the smartest man in politics.
Hamilton is brilliant, the best thing to hit Broadway since Cats.
Rush Limbaugh is an ignoramus.
The New York Times is a bastion of truth.
Bestsellers are good books.

To all of the above I say, "Ha!" But I try not to say it too loud.

Bakery Fakery

This cake celebrates a birth or an abortion.

Thank goodness I finally stopped taking Plavix, the horrid-blood thinner I was put on after my heart attack last September. My bruises, which dotted my body from head to toe, are finally all gone! I must celebrate this, but how? I know -- I'll get a cake! Yes, a cake is surely the best way to celebrate anything! It could be decorated with purple splotches on the outside, and inside there could be a red heart with a couple of stents, everything made of icing of course. I'll invite all my friends, who certainly give a damn.

Yes, it's ridiculous, I know. The only way to celebrate anything is to live well and enjoy life every day, thankful for whatever it is you wish to celebrate. Take, for example, changing from a man to a woman. If you think that will make you happy, go for it, although personally I would rather have oral surgery than have my genitals messed with by some maniacal doctor with a Frankenstein fixation, but that's just me. Anyway, some woman who used to be a man wanted a cake to celebrate her 7th year of transgendered bliss. But who could make her such a special cake? How about that guy in Colorado who just got his business back after the misery of a lawsuit about baking a cake for a gay wedding, or rather not baking it, for religious reasons shut it down. The woman, who just happens to be a lawyer, walks into the very same bakery. What a coincidence!

Naturally the baker, still a man of God despite what has been thrown at him, refused to make her desired cake (blue on the outside, pink on the inside, as if that nicely sums up her condition), to celebrate what he sees as a travesty against God. So the transgendered customer went crying to the authorities --who wouldn't? -- and more than a year later the Colorado Civil Rights Commission ruled that there was "probable cause that Phillips (the baker) had discriminated against Scardina (the customer) on the basis of gender identity." Now the baker is suing the state of Colorado for going after him in such an obvious way.

Raise your hand if you think we live in a free country.

Call Me Gender-Nauseous

For anyone hoping to maintain even a shred of political correctness and thus avoid having an angry mob of protesters assemble on their front lawn, or worse, their Facebook page, keeping current is a full-time job. To that end, in the timeworn tradition of Henry David Thoreau, J.D. Salinger, and Maine's own Hermit of the Woods, I practice a form of semi-reclusivity. This makes it almost impossible to say the wrong thing, since my trips to the supermarket or the CVS rarely require any conversation. 

"Circus" by Mark Ogge

The down side is that it makes me clueless, which is sometimes frustrating and a little embarrassing, and may be the root of my son's calling me "out of it." For example, this morning I spoke with a friend whose daughter is pregnant. She mentioned that this weekend she will be hosting a Reveal Party for the family. I asked what they were revealing: the new addition to their home, or did someone lose a lot of weight or have a facelift? What, exactly, would be revealed? Turns out it's the gender of the expected baby. WTF?

Apparently, gender reveal parties are all the rage among the very same generation that is undergoing sexual reassignment surgeries, demanding to be called "they" instead of "he" or "she," and rebelling against any stereotypical behavior aimed at children, such as dressing girls in pink and boys in blue. In fact, gender neutrality is where it's at, and anything less makes you an irrelevant Cro-Magnon. 

Here's what Wikipedia has to say on the subject: "Gender neutrality (adjective form: gender-neutral), also known as gender-neutralism or the gender neutrality movement, describes the idea that policies, language, and other social institutions should avoid distinguishing roles according to people's sex or gender, in order to avoid discrimination arising from the impression that there are social roles for which one gender is more suited than another."

But don't tell this lady, who joyfully describes her own Gender Reveal party in an article in "Parents" magazine:  "We hosted the party halfway through my pregnancy. A bakery was told what sex our future child would be, and filled cupcakes with colored frosting to match: pink for a girl, blue for a boy. As I prepared to take a bite of the cupcake and learn (as well as reveal) the gender of our second baby, I was happy that my friends and family were there to experience the anticipation with me. It was such a joy to show off the pink frosting—it's going to be a girl!"

Maybe, if it isn't an "it" or a "they" or possibly a genderqueer, non-binary, gender fluid, pangender, trigender, genderless, genderfree, agender, other-gendered, third-gendered or neutrois bundle of joy, in which case, "Oops!" See, this is why I stay home a lot. And don't ask me, I have no idea what a "neutrois" is or how to spot one.

How to Be Your Own Shrink

My favorite uncle and lifelong best friend, now deceased, was a brilliant physician, serving simultaneously as the Chief of Anesthesia and Head of the Intensive Care Unit at a major metropolitan hospital for at least 35 years until his retirement. Growing up, I turned to him for all sorts of advice, and he surely saved me thousands of dollars on medical care since most of the time he could diagnose and fix my problem with just a conversation.

When it came to psychiatric problems, he repeatedly said, "Anyone who isn't depressed in our society is simply not paying attention." I totally agree with his statement, which is akin to the old saying, "Ignorance is bliss." Gee, I wish I were dumb. But I'm not, and I do pay attention, so I am often depressed, like approximately 19 million other Americans if we are to believe the surveys. What to do about it is a question many of us face daily.

One method that I have found to be quite effective is saying aloud how thankful I am for whatever I can think of that isn't bad. Just hearing my own voice saying things like, "I'm thankful for living in such a beautiful part of the country," or "I'm thankful for my morning coffee," or "Thank you for my wonderful son," or "I'm blessed to not have cancer," is an instant pick-me-up. Nothing is too trivial; one of my favorites is, "I appreciate having a perfect bowel movement this morning,"  which is especially relevant after an unpleasant bout of constipation. Try to come up with as many as you can. And don't laugh; it works.

Rage Against the Machine

As I have stated many times before, I am a pacifist. In fact I am a severe pacifist, so much so that I don't believe in war, don't believe in weaponry, have no respect for the military and don't give money to vet charities. Just the other day I got a calendar in the mail from the Wounded Warrior Project and I threw it in the trash. (They're the worst, those Wounded Warriors. What did they think was gonna happen?)

Anyway, I don't own a gun, would certainly never hold a gun, and would flee if anyone showed up anywhere near me with a gun. All that being said, if I were a different person and thought violence was the way to avenge a grievance, I know who my target would be: VW Leasing in Liberty, Illinois. These are the folks who hold the lease on my new 2018 Audi, the very same ones who sent the Repo Man to our house for the car because we hadn't paid our bills in three months. Thing is, we hadn't gotten any bills in three months, and nobody pays bills they don't get unless they are an idiot/savant, and I am neither.

After much ado my husband paid our bill over the phone and the Repo Guy went away, but now it's that time again and still no bill. So today I called VW Leasing and was on hold for 35 minutes -- I guess because my call was so important to them, otherwise I might have been on hold for two hours -- and finally a guy came on to help me, only he kept saying "You're breaking up, you're breaking up," which is what my son used to say when he was a teenager and wanted to get off the phone with me. So I said, "I have four bars, I hear you perfectly, why am I breaking up?" And then he hung up.  

So now I am back to square one only minus a mind since I lost it when the guy hung up on me after I had been on hold for 35 minutes. I guess I could just keep an eye out for the Repo Man and do that whole thing again, or I could put on a wig and sunglasses and take a Greyhound bus to the offices of VW Leasing in Liberty, Illinois and give them a piece of my AK47 or whatever it's called, which I won't do, of course. But if I were crazy and wanted to go to prison and needed a way to get myself there, believe me, that would be so satisfying.

Trump and the Nazis

Recently a young friend of mine (who also happens to be my offspring) declared me and my husband as "out of it." His observation came after we had denied seeing any evidence of the rise of Nazis in America spurred on by Donald Trump. Apparently, he went on, we are just not looking in the right places.

I can say with 100% confidence that there are no Nazis running around Freeport, Maine, unless you count the big muckety-mucks at L.L. Bean's who don't hire Jews, but I tend to think that's just plain old anti-Semitism which has been around since the beginning of time and bothers me not at all. After all, it's natural for people to fear and mistrust that which they don't comprehend, and if you are not Jewish, lots of our behavior can be confounding.

For example, my husband and I visited some friends over the weekend and were asked to just "bring ourselves." This was a near-impossible feat, as we were both taught growing up that you never go anywhere empty-handed. There's always a cake or a box of cookies or a bottle of wine -- something -- to offer the hosts. I always thought this was a friendly ritual based on the native generosity of the Jew, but more and more I have come to understand it's at bottom an offering to make ourselves more palatable so we don't get shoved into an oven when we get there. (Just partially kidding.)

As for the rise of those "white nationalists" that many people fear, yesterday's rally in Washington, D.C. should put those fears to rest. A mere 20 of the heinous racists showed up, their presence dwarfed by the throngs numbering in the thousands who had assembled to shout them down. If the Nazis are hoping for a foothold they'd better get cracking because so far they've done little more than scrawl a few swastikas here and there. As for Trump, I can't see him as a Jew-hater since his daughter married one and converted to Judaism herself, and his three grandkids are Jewish. But then, what do I know -- I'm so out of it.

An Abundance of Cucumbers

Yes, I know....

My husband has planted a vegetable garden each spring since the start of this century. What began as a healthy hobby has grown into a psychotic obsession. Of course that's just my opinion; he sees it more as a combination "art project/doing God's work." Don't get me started on the fact that he talks to his vegetables, that would be an entire other blog post. 

Instead I'm here to discuss the fact that whatever vegetable is in season becomes the mainstay of our diet for that period of time. Mitch explains that "God wants us to eat peas" or "God wants us to eat squash," depending. This week, and last, and likely for the next few, it seems that God wants us to eat cucumbers. Personally, I've had it up to here with them after downing more than a few  cucumber sandwiches and too many servings of cucumber salad.

...it's the same picture.

Naturally, any neighbors who happen by when we are working out there get their share of these vegetables as well. Turns out that  people only want just so many cucumbers and no more. Still, there they are in the fridge (see photos).  

Lately there has been some talk of making pickles, and perhaps purchasing some large glass jars.

In Defense of George W.

I am so sick of hearing people, of course Democrats, who never accomplished one damn thing in life, who add nothing to the world, in fact possibly detract from it, call George W. Bush "an imbecile." I won't bother to list his many positive attributes here, beyond the fact that he served as President of the United States for two terms, graduated from one of our finest institutions of higher learning, has been married to his lovely wife Laura for 41 years, raised two wonderful daughters and continues his life-changing charity work across the globe while also creating beautiful paintings in his retirement years. Everyone should be such an imbecile.

Haters Gonna Hate

In recent conversation with a friend, I said that I hated whatever it was we were discussing at the time -- I can't remember exactly what. But what I do remember is that she said, "I never hate anything." That reminded me of another friend who gave me a hard time for saying the same thing, reprimanding me with, "Hate is such a strong word. How can you hate anything?" All I have to say to that is, "It's easy." Following are some things I absolutely hate, and yes, it's a strong word, for a strong emotion. (Do you have any of those?)

childhood cancer
all insects
gangs, especially MS13
natural disasters that wipe out entire communities 
food poisoning 
power outages
being in the hospital
bug bites
summer
Rachel Maddow, Chris Hayes and everyone else at MSNBC
robocalls
people who say "haters gonna hate" and "it is what it is."

Twinkies Need Your Help!

Actor portrayal, not really God.

Forget Trump, Mueller and all those Russians -- we've got bigger problems! Hostess Brands, Inc., the maker of our beloved Twinkies and Ding Dongs, is in trouble, with profits plummeting and less shelf space devoted to their products at all Walmarts.

Like you, I also wonder how this can be happening when everywhere you look you see people shoving bad things down their gullets. Boredom, that's how. People crave new and interesting garbage to eat, and apparently a plain old Twinkie is so ten years ago. Just yesterday at the Maine Mall I saw a brand new store called Dough Life that sells "edible cookie dough" in a variety of flavors. (There was a long line of waiting customers.)

Into the fray comes the Deep-fried Frozen Twinkie (DFFT). It's a Twinkie that's been chilled, coated with a tempura batter and then deep-fried in oil for two minutes. "The cooking process melts the vanilla-cream center, which infuses the yellow cake and gives it a souffle or pudding-like texture," according to one foodie website. As a finishing touch and to add a few more luscious calories, the so-called "treats" are sprinkled with powdered sugar.

A real Deep-fried Twinkie.

Nutritionally, if such a word is appropriate in this situation, one of these DFFTs contains 150 calories for the Twinkie au naturel, with another 275 calories contained in the batter and oil, bringing the grand total to 425 empty calories. What's not to love? Nevertheless, shares of Hostess sank 18%, to $11.49 on Nasdaq yesterday. After that, Walmart promised more shelf space, sparking Hostess CEO Andy Callahan to say that he's pleased with the increased "merchandising support during the important back-to-school period." So do your part for our nation's economy and load up those lunch boxes with yummy, non-nutritional Hostess treats this fall!

Stop Spewing, Start Living

Depression is rampant the world over. Everybody knows it but few will admit it, talk about it, or try to help a fellow sufferer. Instead they focus on Donald Trump, as if this one ordinary human being who goes to the bathroom just like we all do and puts his pants on one leg at a time has some magic about him that is making all of our lives miserable. Not sure about you, but mine was miserable long before Trump came along and will likely remain so until I take some positive steps to change it. Trashing Trump and hating on FOX News may be how the looniest of liberals rationalize and channel their own demons, but it doesn't work for me.

Nowhere is this more evident than online, in comment streams filled with spewed hatred for the president and for anyone who dares not hate him enough. It's sickening while at the same time laughable, especially when you understand that the spewers must have nothing valuable or pressing going on in their own lives, or else how could they spend so much time on Facebook, spewing? As for me, I'm snapping my laptop shut and going to Macy's to return some underwear I bought in the wrong size. (Upside-down, 9 looks exactly like 6.)

Joke of the Day

Cover your eyes, he's got a cigarette!

The recent bomb of a film called "Chappaquiddick" received a G-13 rating because of a host of things, one of which was "Historical smoking." Yes, let's be sure our impressionable kids don't see anyone puffing on a cigarette! Meanwhile TV shows like Breaking Bad, winner of a total of 147 Primetime Emmy Awards and Golden Globes, which focuses on the world of methamphetamine drug users, drug dealers and drug makers, and which I had to stop watching after five episodes because it was giving me nightmares and making me sick to my stomach, is freely available online, on TV and on YouTube, all places kids hang out 24/7.

Film Review: CHICKEN PEOPLE

One of my favorite Seinfeld moments was when Elaine said to Jerry, after he complained about someone doing something annoying, "I will never understand people," and Jerry replied in a disgusted tone, "They're the worst." The line may have been spoken by Jerry, but it was written by the show's brilliant creator Larry David, and surely reflects his take on humanity.

It's one I share. I've got nothing specific in mind, just a general uneasiness regarding humankind. So I found it easy to understand why some people choose to spend the better part of their days, and lives, with chickens. To see these folks up close and personal, I suggest renting the superbly entertaining documentary entitled Chicken People. We got it from iTunes for 99 cents, and it was the best bang for a buck you'll ever get.

Smartly directed by Nicole Lucas Haimes, with amazing photography and even more amazing film editing, this 2016 film will knock your socks off, plain and simple. It's a funny, heartwarming, eye-opening and somewhat scary look into a unique world I never knew existed, and chances are neither did you: the world of show chickens. It's the Westminster Dog Show for fowl, only more esoteric and bizarre since we don't eat dogs and we do eat chickens. But certainly not these chickens. The Marilyn Monroes of poultry, each one is more beautiful than the last.

The film delves into the lives of a handful of quirky competitors for the 2015 Ohio Chicken-Off (it's not really called that but you get the idea), in the months leading up to the big day. We see them at home following their daily routines, meet their families and eventually come to understand that raising chickens is the reason each one of them gets out of bed in the morning. Actually I was a bit jealous that these folks have found something so all-consuming and satisfying. (I'm still looking.)

One of the chicken people with one of his chickens.

We see them breeding the chicks and watching them grow, then getting their prized ones ready for the competitions. They bathe them -- one woman said she would be "spending the next 48 hours washing chickens" --- then fluff them with hair dryers, clip their toenails (talons?), spray their feathers with conditioners, redden their wattles to make them shine, and dote on them like, excuse the expression, mother hens.

They may lose this time, but there's always another show on the circuit. And besides, none of them care. They're chicken people, through and through.

A Walk in the Woods

Today, honoring marital vows taken 31 years ago to love, honor and do whatever my spouse wants so he doesn't have to go it alone (including watching football, eating dinner every night and sitting through boring theater), I went on a hike with my husband. For some reason he enjoys hiking, as do millions of other people, so much so that the activity has sparked an entire industry of clothing, footwear and related paraphernalia such as walking sticks, backpacks, granola bars and bug spray, whereas I think of it as just going for a walk only less fun because it happens on difficult terrain and lasts much longer than you want it to or thought it would.

Still, understanding the human desire for companionship when venturing into an isolated area, I went with Mitch to the Harpswell Cliff Trail, which the Appalachian Mountain Club's Best Day Hikes Along the Maine Coast describes as "moderate." (All I have to say about that is, "Ha!") I'll spare you the gory details since please don't make me relive it, but below are a few photos I snapped on our afternoon stroll through the tick-and-mosquito-infested Maine woods that Mitch called a "friendly forest." I saw it as less so, and as the saying goes, the camera never lies.

Does Anyone Know Anything?

Last September 28th I had a heart attack requiring the implantation of two metal stents into a blocked artery. To prevent a clot from forming around the stents I began taking the drug clopidogrel, which is marketed as Plavix. This is a blood thinner, and the side effects are nothing to sneeze at. In fact, sneezing on Plavix would probably be a bad idea, God knows.

What happens is this: You bleed internally because your blood no longer clots normally. So you've got to be very careful not to hurt yourself or you could end up in big trouble, like bleeding internally to death, or close to it. Also, the slightest impact on your body causes a severe bruise. In my case, I have been developing bruises simply by being alive, like sitting quietly and reading a book. I'll look down and see a new bump which then swells up and starts turning all sorts of colors. (My husband says they are free tattoos. Ha.)

Deciding to stop taking this drug, I went online to see what I could expect. Turns out all the following is supposedly true, according to various physicians and experts in the field of pharmacology:
1. If you stop taking Plavix you may have another heart attack or a stroke soon after.
2. Don't start taking Plavix as it has serious side effects.
3. If you stop taking Plavix, you must be weaned off the drug slowly.
4. It's okay to stop Plavix cold turkey.
5. Stay on Plavix for life following stent implants.
6. Take Plavix for a year following stent implants.
7. Get off the drug as soon as you possibly can. 

I may have to up my daily dosage of Chianti just to cope.

A Sad But True Story

Two women, both writers, were recently hired by a leading newspaper on the same day. Soon after, old tweets posted by the women years ago resurfaced.

One of the women, who is white, had posted anti-gay and anti-black comments, using the word "nigger." The other woman, of Asian descent, had posted a series of anti-white rants, likening whites to smelly dogs, saying that old white men make her sick, and more like that.

The white woman (Quinn Norton) was fired seven hours after her tweets were discovered by her new employer, The New York Times. The Asian woman (Sarah Jeong) is currently being celebrated as a "brilliant satirist" by her new employer, The New York Times.