13 Unasked Questions for Christine Blasey Ford

The girl at a party with four older boys from another school.

1. Why, at the age of 15, would you go to a beer party attended by four boys and only one other girl, especially since the boys were older and attended a different school?
2. How did you know who Brett Kavanaugh was since he attended a different school and you weren't in the same social circle, and he says the two of you never met? Where or how had you seen him before?
3. What was your sexual experience with boys prior to that night? Had you ever kissed a boy? Had any boy ever tried to kiss you, or go further?
4. How bad was your relationship with your parents that you would not tell them about such a traumatic experience? Did you have a troubled relationship with them? Did you fear they wouldn't believe you?
5. Why did you feel ashamed of yourself if you had done nothing wrong?
6. At that age and at that time, did you understand what the word "rape" meant?
7. Since you claim to not remember, can you guess how you may have gotten home from that party that night, several miles from your home?
8. Did you have any feelings, romantic or otherwise, for Brett Kavanaugh before that night?
9. Why did you claim to have developed a fear of flying from that traumatic experience 36 years ago, yet you have flown countless times since?
10. How, as a psychologist yourself, did you procure a degree in the field without years of therapy where you would have dealt with this trauma during your schooling?
11. How come you don't know the meaning of the word "exculpatory," despite having several advanced degrees from major universities?
12. As a psychologist, are you aware of the well-documented common inaccuracies of memory that all people experience?
13. As a psychologist, are you aware that memories can be created by dreams and story lines, often  becoming indistinguishable in the mind from actual events over time?
14. At what age did you lose your virginity, and what were the circumstances?

Raise A Glass to the Good Old Days!

Young Brett Kavanaugh. (Democratic Party photo.)

Today is National Drink Beer Day! How ironic, since all day yesterday at the televised pow-wow of the Senate Judiciary Committee, half the members spent many hours on the subject of beer drinking, specifically that done by a certain teenage boy 36 years ago.

They made it seem like a dangerous activity that leads to memory loss, unconsciousness and aggressive behavior, including sexual assault and gang rape. They also inferred that the teenage boy in question, now a successful and accomplished adult nominated to become a Supreme Court Justice, has a serious "drinking problem."

Back when I was in high school (in the good old days), drinking too much beer led mostly to vomiting and/or falling asleep at highly inopportune moments. It was done mostly by the boys, with the girls preferring "cocktails" adorned with pretty little paper umbrellas.

These days the drinking of beer approaches cult status, with trendy micro-breweries popping up everywhere. Today's young women drink beer alongside the men and consider it just as sophisticated as the consumption of snooty wines or fancy mixed drinks. Sadly, that's not the only thing that has changed over the years. Another thing is the presence of any shred of common decency in our elected officials; now it's nowhere to be found. (Someone should check the bottom of Poucha Pond on Chappaquiddick Island where a big chunk of it may have been lost.)

Anyway, everyone drink up and raise a glass to the good old days!

Don't Make Me

I thought I had seen everything, but turns out I was wrong. Now I have seen everything. Just now, in an article about how to achieve the same "curvy" body as Oprah Winfrey by eating what she eats every day. 

Please, don't make me. The truth is, I would die if I were ever as fat as Oprah. I find fatness an appalling, uncomfortable, unappealing, sad and downright disgusting sign of weakness, gluttony, self-hatred and lack of discipline. I know this is a politically incorrect opinion, but I have my reasons and that's how I feel. Sue me.

Hey, I don't care if you are fat. Fine with me, have a ball. It's just that I simply could not handle it.

Just Shut Up About It

What's going on in your life? I mean your real life. Anything interesting? Are you enjoying nourishing relationships with friends, those people you actually can reach out and touch in the flesh? Are you happy within your family? Do you take good care of your health? Do you understand that anything you say to the people you know will not impact the results regarding Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh, or are you delusional? Do you fully accept that your involvement in the situation is the same as when you binge-watch Breaking Bad or Game of Thrones or Orange is the New Black or The Handmaid's Tale or whatever fictional TV series holds you in its grip? For example, I really wanted Dr. Cristina Yang to stay in Seattle and hated that Dr. Mark Sloane died on Grey's Anatomy, but the writers went ahead and obliterated both of them anyway.

Don't be a watcher; do something. And BTW, sitting down inside a school building with all your friends or marching around a public square holding a hastily scrawled sign in one hand and a mocha latte in the other doesn't count. If you're still young, go to law school. If you're older, get into local politics and run for office. Be someone who actually makes a difference.

Otherwise, as Hawaii's junior Senator Mazie Hirono recently suggested to all the men in America, "Just shut up about it." Spreading half-truths through uninformed and self-aggrandizing comments on Facebook accomplishes nothing besides making yourself a few new enemies.

Grab a Stone and Throw It

Okay, it's that time of year and Brett Kavanaugh is "It." Just find a stone, pick it up and toss it, preferably at his head. The goal is to beat him to a pulp, which the media and many Democrats are already doing. The job is almost done, but just a few more willing accomplices need to come forward to finish him off.

So far we have two women who admit they were so drunk that they can't remember anything, but they know for sure he sexually assaulted them at a party. (Don't ask what party.) Then there's a woman who says he wrote something offensive about her in his high-school yearbook alluding to the fact that she was slutty and slept with everyone. (How rude!) Next up, a former Yale roommate who says although they were not friends, he remembers that Kavanaugh "drank heavily."

Bringing up the rear is porn star Stormy Daniels' lawyer Michael Avenatti who claims he's about to  hurl a bombshell detailing how Kavanaugh participated in a "gang-raping train" of boys at a college party! Wow, that's the best one yet. (Funny that didn't come to light when the FBI vetted Kavanaugh so thoroughly a few months ago. I guess all the girls who were raped were too drunk to remember.)

So go ahead and make up one of your own. For example, my cousin who taught at Yale mentioned one Passover when he and I got drunk together on all those glasses of wine at the seder that some of the male students "got out of hand sometimes." I can't be sure because as I said I was drunk but I think he may have said "Kavanaugh." (Or else he was coughing on a matzoh ball.) Anyway, that's my stone and I'm tossing it. Now I gotta go call Ronan Farrow.

Your Tax Dollars At Work

$6,600 - Fidget Spinners 

Department of Defense (2017)

$1.4 Million - Sex Education for Prostitutes

Barbara Lee, Democrat, California District 13 (2016)

$20 Million - Luxury Artwork

Department of Veterans Affairs (2007 to 2016) 

$114,375 - Cigar Taste Test

Robert Scott, Democrat, Virginia District 3 (2016)

$567,529 - Using Soap Operas to Reduce HIV in Urban Black Women

Mike Capuano, Democrat, Massachusetts District 7 (2016)

$5 Million - Hipster Parties

National Institutes of Health  (2015)

$932,741 - Study: Are Physician Trainees Racist?

Tim Walz, Democrat, Minnesota District 1 (2016)

$44 Million - 650 Federal Gardeners and Landscapers

US Office of Personnel Management (2016) 

$2.1 Million - Measuring Blood Pressure at Black Barbershops

Adam Schiff, Democrat, California District 28 (2016)

$788,664 - How Air Pollution Affects Birth by Race

Jerry McNerney, Democrat, California District 9 (2016)

$9.2 Million - Airport at Martha's Vineyard

Department of Transportation (2016) 

$4.8 Billion - 35,212 Federal Lawyers

Office of Personnel Management (2017)

$882,841- Reframing Latino Beliefs About Death & Dying

National Institutes of Health and Human Services (2015)

$815 Million - Funding Christian Seminaries

Department of Education (2014 to 2017)

$4.3 Billion - Federal Government Public Relations

All Federal Agencies (2007 to 2014)

This Month's Lottery Winner

Well, that whole baking thing was fun but too much work. It's no picnic finding recipes and listing all the ingredients, and if you make a mistake someone could die -- either by food poisoning or their oven exploding if you get the temperature wrong -- so I'm done with that. Which brings me to Brett Kavanaugh.

My advice to Brett is to go into that Senate hearing and flip the bird to all the Senators, tell them to take their stupid SCOTUS job and shove it, then walk out and grab his wife and kids and go for a vacation in Hawaii for a couple of weeks. Okay, so his kids would miss school, but really, how nice a time are they having at school these days? Do you think anyone is bullying them or saying bad things about their Daddy?

It is possible that in his younger days, before his brain was finished forming -- they say it takes until age 30 in men -- that he drank a lot of beer and tried to score with chicks. This has nothing to do with the man he is now. But the Democrats, consumed by hate, won't stop throwing tantrums until they have virtually stoned him to death. Once again, I urge you to read Shirley Jackson's short story, The Lottery, to see how modern life works.

The Best Chocolate-Chip Cookie on Earth

Having never been to outer space, like most of us, I have no idea about the quality of chocolate-chip cookies that may exist, either in our own or in another galaxy. I only know about the ones on Earth, and I can cite with confidence three that are worth breaking a diet for: the ones you get in your room when you  stay at a DoubleTree Hotel, the kind you bake at home commonly called Toll House, and Tate's cookies.

Obviously the ones at the DoubleTree are the most expensive. Depending on what city you're in and if there's a convention in town or not, one of those cookies can start at $140, or $70 if you're with a companion since you'll each get one. Honestly, they're good but not that good. Certainly the home-baked variety are the most cost-effective, but pose the biggest risk to any healthy eating plan since there's a lot of pre-baking batter tasting followed by post-baking cookie tasting to be sure they turned out right. Tate's are sold everywhere and are distinctively crunchy, but you may end up eating the whole bag, which I think contains a dozen cookies. Either way you're screwed, since the consumption of carbs and sweets fuels the craving for more of the same.

So, all things considered I'd say a night at the DoubleTree, where you can't get another cookie even if you beg the front desk clerk, or lie and say you dropped your cookie down the elevator shaft or wherever, is your safest bet diet-wise, although it's admittedly a steep price. If it's any help, my independent research (involving a sole participant) yielded the following reviews of each:

DoubleTree: "They're great, but they're almost too oily, with too many nuts and basically just too much everything." (I must caution that they can be nauseating if you check in late and go right to bed after eating one.) 
Tate's: "They're really delicious, but they're almost too crispy, and with no comforting mouth feel."
Home-baked Toll House: "Crispy and chewy and chocolatey. Always perfect even if they get a little burnt around the edges. Plus you get to lick the bowl."

So there it is. You be the judge. To decide for yourself just book a night at the DoubleTree, buy a bag of Tate's, and whip up a batch of these Toll House babies:

• 2¼ cups all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
• ¾ cup granulated sugar
• ¾ cup packed brown sugar
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 2 large eggs
• 2 cups (12-oz. pkg.) NESTLÉ® TOLL HOUSE® Semi-Sweet Chocolate Morsels
• 1 cup chopped nuts

1. Preheat oven to 375°F
2. Combine flour, baking soda and salt in small bowl.
3. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl until creamy.
4. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.
5. Gradually beat in flour mixture.
6. Stir in morsels and nuts.
7. Drop by rounded tablespoon onto ungreased baking sheets.
8. Bake for 9 to 11 minutes or until golden brown.
9. Cool on baking sheets for 2 minutes
10. Remove to wire racks to cool completely.

How to Bake an Apple Pie

From now on this blog will never mention politics, or people, or my pathetic life. It's all too sad and frustrating. So from this day forth The Daily Droid will be a cooking blog since, and this is the last thing I will say about myself, I am a great cook and excellent baker. Today we will learn how to bake an apple pie. It will be the best apple pie you've ever made.

In the refrigerated section of any store, near the yogurt.

There was a time when I made my own crust, which is a pain in the ass but some people think it tastes better if you make everything "from scratch."  I was one of those until Pillsbury came out with their product (see photo) and it's better than you can do yourself, trust me. So just buy that and follow the directions on the package.

1. Gather apples of several varieties, since using only one kind of apple makes for a dull pie.) Between 8 and 10 will do nicely, depending on the size of the apples and how high you want your pie to be.
2. Peel and core apples, then slice very thin.
3. Toss them in a bowl with lots of sugar and cinnamon.
4. Fill the bottom crust with the apples, then dot them all over with little pieces of butter.
5. Carefully cover the apples with the top crust, making sure the two crusts meet and seal to avoid spillage of the juices as the pie bakes.
6. Slit the top crust in several paces with a sharp knife, and sprinkle sugar all over it.
7. Bake according to the directions on the pie crust box.

If you want to go rogue, SPRINKLE A HANDFUL OF RAISINS OVER THE APPLES or squeeze some lemon juice all over before applying the top crust.

Diversity in the Senate

I now hate all Democrats (except for Ira, Patsy & Tony, Jay & Doug, Mary M. and my son), and why not? Almost all of them have exhibited very poor judgment in siding with an unknown person they never heard of, never met, and who has accomplished nothing but to derail the workings of our government for going on two weeks. The Hollywood production factor cannot be ignored, advanced by a silly, sappy, downright sickening TV spot involving a dozen or so out-of-work actresses, none of whom know the woman, chanting in a monotone, "We believe you. We are your sisters." 

So if I cry rape, will all women be my sisters? I'd like that, since I always wished I had come from a large family. But what if I believe Brett Kavanaugh, who has denied the allegation against his former boyhood self? Then what? No sisters?

Kirsten partying with pal Harvey Weinstein.

Even worse, the stupidity factor also cannot be ignored, with junior senator Kirsten Gillibrand (D., NY) saying, actually screaming, into a live TV camera, "I believe her because she is telling the truth." In other words -- in case her statement shorted out some of your brain cells -- "It's true because it's true."

Poor Kirstin is apparently a high-functioning moron who serves as an example of diversity in all areas of society. After all, if a model in a wheelchair can roll down the runway during Fashion Week, I guess a moronic senator here and there can't hurt. I bet there are already plenty of them.

How to "Fix" the Problem

There are periods in history that are so abysmally small-minded, it's embarrassing to witness them. We are in one of those now, and I wish I were deaf, dumb and blind, at least until it's over. While the loudest voices claim it's the fault of the Republicans, it's actually the Democrats who are dragging humanity through the mud, and it's a pitiful sight.

The trigger of this very low point is the accusation by one of America's 323.13 million never-before-heard-from citizens that Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh "groped her" at a party 36 years ago when they were both minors. (If she had reported it at the time and he was found guilty, it would have been tossed out when he turned 18 and the record would have been expunged.) Well, all I can say to her is "Boo-fucking-hoo," and "Get over it."

And she has. She managed to "survive" that alleged horror, go to college and earn herself multiple degrees, then find a teaching position at a reputable college and a husband, somehow. Now, suddenly, she wants to "save the public" from the horrible fate of -- what? Does she fear Kavanaugh will paw at the robes of Lady Justice? Will he jump the bones of Justices Kagan, Ginsberg or Sotomayor in chambers? That's highly doubtful since none of them are what we would call "babes." 

So what is it then? Exactly what is the fear behind this outing of a man who has led an exemplary life since his boyhood days when, according to her hazy memory -- she can't recall where or when it happened -- he got drunk at a party and tried to score with a chick, like millions of teenage boys have done before him and will continue to do forever, unless or until Congress is overrun by women who pass a law that all male babies have their testicles cut off at birth, like we do with male dogs? (BTW, it would solve the abortion problem too.)

More "Two Kinds of People"

A friend recently took umbrage at my stating, in this very space, that there are two kinds of people in the world: Introverts and Extroverts. I stand by my statement, and if there's a brand of human who is neither of those, he or she has yet to cross my path. But hey, that's not to say there aren't other distinctions, because there are many other "two kinds of people in the world" categories.

By the time you've reached a certain age you're either a Grandparent or you aren't. If you aren't, you have to figure out how to amuse yourself and your friends on your own. If you are, lucky you -- you can just blab about the grandbaby and share pictures and videos of it, and pull out all the adorable clothes you bought for it (or them) and describe what fun you all had yesterday or last weekend or whenever the last time it was that your kids dumped them on you. You are literally brimming -- dare I say overflowing -- with adorable stories forever, certainly until the kid turns into a druggie or a shoplifter, at which time you  may pipe down.

Then there's this: You're either a Dog Person or a Cat Person. (If you hate all animals you are beyond help.) Some are both and they shall reign in the Kingdom of Heaven, but God help the person who loves one and not the other. They shall not be ascending, like the Extroverted, Dog-loving Granny who scolded me for worrying about my cat when I was away for the weekend, saying,"Who cares -- it's just a cat! Just dump some food in a bowl and forget it!"

Then there's another group of two kinds of people: Those who would let a comment like that roll off their back, and those who would remember it and, still smarting, write a blog post about it.

The Meanness of #MeToo

Early indoctrination in the War Between the Sexes.

In the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I worked for Pier 1 Imports. Back then it was a brand new store, and I was excited to have been hired to help create the company's full-page newspaper ads. The store was located in or near -- I can't remember exactly -- the Roosevelt Field shopping mall on Long Island, about a 20-minute drive from my home. Most days I took the bus, and on weekends my father drove me.

One Sunday I was at work, as usual sketching some of the merchandise for the ads as well as handling the cash register for the occasional customer. The store's manager was an Indian man whose real name I forget, which will make it hard to find him and accuse him and mess up his life today, although if I contact the store they might be able to help if they keep such records. Anyway, he told the staff to call him Peter, saying it was easier than his Indian name. He was about 25, maybe older, married and the father of a new baby.

This particular Sunday Peter came into the stockroom where I was set up drawing pictures of the merchandise. He locked the door, approached me and put his hands on my breasts. He kissed me several times as I backed away from him, crying for him to stop. He became more aggressive and I was sure I was about to be raped, even though I didn't fully understand what being raped meant. I ran away from him and started pounding on the stockroom door, and a customer heard me and called out, "Are you locked in?"

Peter opened the door and walked out like nothing had happened, and began helping the customer. I used the store phone to call my father to come pick me up.

We did not call the police. My father did not beat Peter up. We did not tell his wife, or the newspapers. We simply wrote him off as an asshole schmuck. (I did tell my co-worker and good friend Norman, who was gay. Norman quit the next day.) I was not traumatized in the long-term, although I became cautious when it came to dating after that experience. The good news is that I continue to adore Indian food to this day.

But now I'm thinking maybe I should try to find this "Peter" and see if he's any sort of bigwig and try to ruin his life and reputation. You know, because of #MeToo. Just my luck he's probably a big nobody, or maybe even dead by now. But surely with all those men who groped me over the years, some of them quite important, there must be somebody whose life I can ruin ...

"He Said, She Said" Redux

Poor Anita Hill, and poor us who are old enough to remember. She went through hell back in 1991 when she worked for Justice Clarence Thomas, and so did we. Anita allegedly suffered the horror of hearing him utter the words "pubic hair" in her presence. And supposedly he boasted about his large penis and that he gave women pleasure with it. As if all that were not bad enough, she worried he might fire her, which is odd because you'd think she would have quit right after the penis comment.

A televised Senate hearing starring Hill and Thomas transfixed the gossip-hungry public for days. I endured a lot of it with my old ex-friend Carol, a hardened lefty. She lapped it all up and believed Thomas should be tossed aside like trash, while I did a lot of eye-rolling. Meanwhile our two little boys played together in the backyard.

Now all these years later, another Democratic woman is accusing another Republican Supreme Court nominee of bad behavior exhibited back when he was still a boy, which he flatly denies ever happened. We are all poised on the precipice of another televised hearing of "He Said, She Said." Sources say the woman came forward with her story after 35 years because it was "her civic duty." I'm wondering what ills she fears Justice Kavanaugh might rain down on the public stemming from his alleged drunken groping of her at a party when they were both in their teens, and are they worse than the damage she is inflicting on us all?

Me,Too!

Come to think of it, I too may have been sexually abused. In fact, maybe so many times it's difficult to remember who may have done what and when.

I possibly was almost raped at Leslie McNeill's party when I was 16, memorable for being the first and only time in my life I ever got drunk. I know for a fact that some of the boys present spiked my screwdriver with all sorts of hard liquors and I spent most of the evening in an upstairs bedroom, head reeling and nauseous.

But wait -- did somebody come in during that time and try to rape me? I can't be sure, it's all a haze. At least one of the attendees grew up to be successful in the world of international banking and was on the cover of a major news magazine years later. Might he have been one of them, and if so, could I ruin his career and get lots of money for my story? (That would certainly help pay for our new driveway.)

Then in college I almost remember possibly blacking out after someone slipped me a weird drug without my consent. More than a few of my NYU classmates went on to fame and fortune -- Fortune magazine for sure. And when I worked in newspapers in Washington DC, I was often hit on by giants of the publishing industry. But by far the worst was the year I worked for the Democratic National Committee. (Of course many of the top people there were cokeheads, so I guess they deserve a pass.)

It's small wonder I suffer from high blood pressure now. I should write an anonymous letter to Nancy Pelosi, or maybe to the head of the FBI directly. (Heads will roll.)

The Ugly Truth About Brett Kavanaugh

Women running from Kavanaugh's clutches may have looked something like this.

I have it on good authority -- sorry, I simply can't name names -- that when Brett Kavanaugh was a young man he sucked on his mother's nipples on a regular basis! Okay, he was a very young man -- a baby, really -- but still -- is that the kind of person we want making decisions about women's bodies? Even worse, after he was finally broken of that repulsive habit he developed a drinking problem and was rarely seen in public without a bottle, either in his hand or within easy reach.

As he grew he began a pattern of torturing women and is alleged to have pulled the braids of a girl sitting in front of him in math class. Another time, according to several witnesses who have requested anonymity, Kavanaugh touched and grabbed at a woman (she was a girl back then) who was desperately trying to avoid his clutches. A few people have stated that this behavior was often repeated, usually while playing tag during recess.

Surely we can all agree that Kavanaugh's long history of abuse towards women makes him unfit for almost anything, let alone sitting on the highest court in the land. Be sure to check back here tomorrow for the inside story on Justice Elena Kagan's eating disorder, a clear indicator that she lacks proper judgment and self-control.

Sometimes It's All About Me

If I may take just a moment of your time here to clarify something: This is my blog and it is all about me. In case you wondered, or thought maybe it was all about you, or politics or Donald Trump or Mahatma Gandhi. Nope, it's all about me. In fact, right here is the only place in the entire world where it's actually "all about me." I have no client to please, and reading this is optional so there's no audience to please; if someone reads it that's great, and if nobody reads it that's fine too. I read it, and I write it, and I like it, which is good enough for me, especially since it's free.

Illustration by Roz Chast

I say this because just today I was told by someone who had read one of my posts written a few weeks back about an experience I had that involved her, "It's not all about you," adding that it actually was all about her since the experience took place in her house. She got it wrong, since it's "all about me" for most of us, most of the time. We each have the starring role in our own life, a fact quite evident on Facebook when someone announces they are going on a trip. Ever notice the comments? Instead of "Have a great time," people write things like, "I had such fun when I was there," "Be sure to go to this fabulous restaurant I loved, "We go there every year," and more like that -- just in case you think you're something special. (You're not.)

So everyone's a star, surrounded by supporting players. For most of us our children have the lead roles when they are small and unable to care for themselves, but in the adult world it's about each one of us trying to be the best "Me" we can be, striving to live the best way we know how, and hopefully not hurting anyone else in the process.

What Cynthia Nixon Doesn't Know

What's with the nose?

Here in Maine there are many wonderful things which account for the state's motto, "The Way Life Should Be." But there are no bagels, which makes me think the motto should be amended to, "The Way Life Should Be for the Goyim." Yes, sure -- there are bagel shops and supermarkets that sell bagels, or what they think are bagels, or what look like bagels to Mainers. There is even a ubiquitous chain here called Mister Bagel which I have never patronized because their logo is so ugly, it offends me both as a graphic designer and a Jew. (Not only is the typeface hideously outdated, but the depiction of the baker with his big nose is almost a cultural slur. And look at those bagels! They're all puffy, like Krispy Kreme donuts, and a true bagel should not be at all fluffy but instead dense, chewy and almost flat.)

This is on my mind because I was in New York earlier this week and had the delightful experience of dining at a place called Goldberg's Bagel Company & Deli. It was heaven. Entering the store I was immediately in a trance, my whole body aquiver over the sights and smells of the place. I asked the manager why bagels can't ever be found outside of New York and he explained, "It's the water." I understood immediately, since I learned early on that bagels are boiled in water before they are baked, and if the water is wrong then the bagel can't be right.

Now that's a logo!

Another thing that got me going was an article in today's Wall Street Journal about Cynthia Nixon, she of Sex and the City fame who is now running for Governor of New York, caught on camera ordering a cinnamon-raisin bagel, loaded (meaning with lox, cream cheese, capers, onion and tomato), at Zabar's, Manhattan's Upper West Side temple of specialty foods. Putting it plainly, this is simply not done -- certainly not by anyone sane.

Apparently her culinary and religious faux pas ignited a storm of controversy online, causing many New Yorkers to vow right then and there not to vote for her even though she is a lesbian TV actress and who's more qualified to run our nation's fourth-largest state with the third-largest economy and a population of almost 20 million citizens than that? Of course she is a shiksa, so what does she know about bagels? (Probably as much as she knows about governing.)

Bob Woodward, Naked

By this time in the proceedings I don't give a hoot about President Trump. I also never gave a hoot about Bob Woodward, and would certainly not add to his riches by buying FEAR: Trump in the White House, his new tell-all book that takes advantage of the salivating public clamoring for new dirt on Public Enemy #1.

Now he's an old coot, but I met Woodward back in the early 1970s when he was at the height of his power and considered to be somewhat of a stud. (Remember, he was played by Robert Redford in the movie about Watergate.) He was naked at the time.

He was dating the woman who lived in the apartment right next door to mine in the Georgetown neighborhood of DC. It was two in the morning and they were blasting music and making a ton of noise. Because he had to get up early for work the next day, David, my boyfriend at the time, rapped on the wall a few times and shouted, "Hey, keep it down in there! Some people are trying to sleep!"

The noise continued unabated. Finally David lost it and went into the hall and pounded on their apartment door. Woodward answered, in the altogether, and yelled, "Do you know who I am?" This was during the media frenzy of the Watergate scandal and his daily reporting in the Washington Post, so we were supposed to be in awe of the great Bob Woodward. David responded with, "I don't care if you're the Holy Father himself, shut the fuck up!"

I went out in the hallway to see if I could help, just in time to see Woodward take a boxer's stance and put up his dukes, and hear David say, "I don't fight naked people. Go put some clothes on." Then we both returned to my apartment, laughing hysterically over Woodward's teeny-weeny peeny. 

If I Were President

I decided early on not to enter politics. This pleased my mother, who wanted me to follow in her footsteps and become a Rockette. My father didn't much care what I did, as long as I went bowling with him once a week. The truth is, had I entered politics I would only want the top job, but I couldn't be president because I'm not much of a morning person, preferring to hang around in my PJs playing Words With Friends before I interact with anyone. Besides, if I ever were elected I would surely be assassinated almost immediately, and who needs that?

Admittedly it would be gratifying to break the glass ceiling and be the first female president, and also the first Jew. But I'm pretty sure my core policies would be too forward-thinking for most people to appreciate. Hence, there would be lots of protests. Following are my key platform items that would likely be cause for general alarm :

1. Trucks would be banned from the roads every day except Sunday, which is the day all cars would be banned from driving. This would be nice for everyone, since who likes driving with trucks on the road? Nobody, that's who. Motorcyclists could do whatever they want.

2. All snack foods packaged in boxes and with silly names would be outlawed.

3. Mandatory weight loss programs would put an end to obesity, thus lowering healthcare costs, relieving crowded emergency rooms, opening up hospital beds for the truly sick and increasing the average life span.

4. Anything having to do with the military, trade with foreign countries, taxes and immigration would be handled by my Vice President, Condoleeza Rice, freeing me up to devote most of my time to redecorating the White House.

Why I Hate You

Politics

Religion

Sexual preference

Age
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Oh No, Not Again

These two were keepers.

A new arrival from a galaxy far, far away would conclude after just a few days here that the only things American humans care deeply about are killing unborn babies and eating pizza. Of course this is silly: many people care about eating Mexican food, and Chinese is still quite popular, certainly among Jews. (I don't eat it because of the high salt content, but I would if I could, believe me.) As for the murder of babies, that's still numero uno, evidenced in the current hearings being held on Capitol Hill pertaining to the most recent nominee to our country's highest court. Does he or doesn't he support abortion is the question on the lips and minds of every dinosaur -- oops, I mean senator -- grilling Judge Brett Kavanaugh, Trump's pick for the Supreme Court.

Seriously, are there not other issue to worry about? And the dinosaurs aren't the only ones who are worried. A group of alumni of Yale Law School (which Kavanaugh attended) wrote a public letter to the school saying, "People will die if Brett Kavanaugh is confirmed." The "people" they mean are the pregnant women denied the procedure if it becomes illegal, forcing them to undergo an illegal one which will kill them. (Something about coat hangers.) Of course, other "people" will surely die if abortion continues to be legal: There were 926,190 abortions performed in the US from 2015 to 2017, each one resulting in a death.

As Kavanuagh himself has said several times, abortion is a done deal, so let's move on. (I think he used the term "settled law.") Happily my opinion doesn't matter. All I know for sure is that I prefer pizza to Chinese, and actively dislike Mexican.

Still Crazy After All These Years

Twenty-four years ago, my husband played a practical joke on me that I never forgot. Today I finally got him back. It feels good.

I had gone on a much needed vacation from motherhood, my first since the birth of my son who was by then six years old. Leaving him with his father, the world's worst driver -- he's gotten better since then -- for more than a week caused me much trepidation, but I did it anyway. The "joke" was an alleged car accident. I returned home to find the two of them greeting me on our front porch:

It was all fake but fairly convincing, wouldn't you say? I certainly thought so, and didn't sleep well for the next ten years. So earlier today when I went for a facial and the esthetician applied something she called an astringent "sheet masque," I asked her to take a photo of me, seen here. Then I sent it to my husband who is out of town at a business conference, with a note saying I was in the ICU Burn Unit at the local hospital.
 
It worked! He fell for it and freaked! The only thing I did wrong was answer the phone when he called. But then, he's in Kansas City and he would have called the hospital and tried to get home and, well... I'm obviously a nicer person than he is and I wimped out. But still, I thought it was pretty, pretty, pretty good!

How to Live

An op-ed piece in yesterday's Wall Street Journal entitled "Ten Things They Didn't Tell You at Freshman Orientation" was written by a Yale physics professor and has me worried. He wrote that to be considered "educated" you must learn French, and if you want to be "cultured" you must "know Shakespeare and the Bible." I took four years of French in high school and survived reading all of Shakespeare for a college course so that's a load off. But I've never read one page, one paragraph or even one sentence of the Bible.

The French comes in handy whenever I'm in Europe, which has averaged out to about ten days every every three years, and for doing crossword puzzles. The Shakespeare has mercifully been forgotten, except for the stuff everyone knows like, "To be or not to be" or, "What light through yonder window shines," etc. As for the Bible, nobody ever made me read it, a fact that my husband finds incredible. But honestly, I can't imagine how knowing those stories could help me deal with any of my problems. I've heard vague rumblings about a man who was swallowed by a whale, and of course Adam and Eve and the talking serpent and a guy named Daniel who spent some time in a lion's den, but nothing about taming sky-high blood pressure or overcoming anxiety.

Anyway, it's too late for me now: My nightstand is piled high with books I want to read, and none of them are the Bible. (Also, none of them are in French.) Besides, I've met a lot of of Bible-thumpers over the years, and the last word that comes to mind about most of them is "cultured." My own list of advice for college freshman is short and sweet:
1. Don't smoke.
2. Don't do drugs.
3. Don't believe everything your teachers tell you.
4. Read "White Noise" by Don DeLillo and "Ethan Frome" by Edith Wharton. Then read them again.

20 Things You'd Rather

Would you rather be itchy or nauseous?
Would you rather live happily until 20 or miserably to 85?
Would you rather have no hands or no feet?
Would you rather have a pet pit bull or a pet tarantula?
Would you rather have been a passenger on the Hindenburg or the Titanic?
Would you rather get food poisoning or shingles? 
Would you rather die in a plane crash or be the lone survivor? 
Would you rather eat brains from a cow or a squirrel?
Would you rather have moderate to severe colitis or the heartbreak of psoriasis? 
Would you rather work 8 hours a day cleaning sewers or washing dishes?
Would you rather be unhappily married or be always alone?
Would you rather go bald or get fat?
Would you rather fly first class to Ethiopia or coach to Hawaii?
Would you rather be too hot or too cold?
Would you rather have quintuplets or remain childless? 
Would you rather read the entire works of Shakespeare or of Danielle Steele?
Would you rather be blind or deaf?
Would you rather serve in Heaven or reign in Hell?
Would you rather get lost at sea or in a forest?
Would you rather hang out with Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton?

Losing the Lottery

"Perhaps the high-water mark in contemporary morality tales, “The Lottery” marries the twin conundrums of democracy and decency to superstition, group think, public action, crime, punishment, judges, juries, victims, and human nature and make this one of the most potent (and remembered) works of fiction–even if the lessons are lost, or misconstrued."

People are so mean. I've said that before and I'm pretty sure I'll say it again. Another thing I've stated, repeatedly, is that the human condition is perfectly explained and described in a 1948 short story written by Shirley Jackson entitled The Lottery, which is required reading for anyone who plans to remain living among the species known as human beings.

Our latest lottery winner is Donald Trump. If he had any sense he would blow his brains out inside the Oval Office, but since he hasn't he will likely remain the punching bag of the world for the next two to six years, depending. This week he is being pummeled for playing golf on the same day as John McCain's funeral, even though he was told to stay away. And besides, McCain is dead and nothing will bring him back, so what's the difference?

Here is my dirty little secret: I never liked John McCain. First of all, as everyone knows he was captured by the VietCong and held prisoner for five years, then exploited his imprisonment for the rest of his life. He chose Sarah Palin as his presidential running mate because she was a hot chick who might inject his campaign with a little life, and he had a history of liking hot chicks. (He cheated on his first wife with multiple women, then divorced her after he began an affair with his second wife, Cindy.) When things with Palin didn't pan out he turned against her, going so far as not allowing her to attend his funeral either. He was mean until his last breath.

After Trump leaves office, someone else will be stoned to death in the public square. I wonder who it will be.

Death Comes to All, But Louder for Some

Last week was a busy one for a couple of dead people. Both Aretha Franklin and John McCain attended their own over-the-top funerals, each having lain in state for several days while the mourning masses trudged by their caskets to say goodbye, even though most of them had never even said hello to either one of them while they were alive. 

Former president Bill Clinton and presidential loser Hillary were at Aretha's funeral, hanging out with their fellow African-Americans. (Remember, Bill was deemed our "first black president" and Hillary confessed to always carrying hot sauce in her purse.) Barack Obama, Joe Biden and every other person in politics who wasn't Sarah Palin or Donald Trump were at McCain's funeral, which was surely a much less exciting event even though he was a True Military Hero. Joe Biden, a Democrat who is considering running for president in 2020, said that he loved McCain (a Republican) and trusted him with his life. (Surely that got him a few votes from both sides of the aisle.

Aretha's funeral came off like a full-blown TV special only without any commercials, with stars like Jennifer Hudson, Smokey Robinson, Ariana Grande and  Stevie Wonder belting out tunes to honor the deceased Queen of Soul. I know this for a fact since one of my dearest friends was also a friend of Aretha's and he was in attendance, posting many of the musical numbers live on his Instagram account. It was quite a scene. Personally I thought it was a bit too much, but my husband reminded me that she was, after all, a Queen.

It's funny how we all come into the world the same way but leave it so differently. I'm hoping to sneak out a side entrance with nobody noticing.