The Internet of Things

Last night, home alone eating applesauce and watching a movie on Netflix, suddenly everything went black. My first thought was that I had died, but since I was still holding the dish of applesauce I thought probably not. Next guess: the power was out, which was odd since it was a beautiful night, lacking rain, wind or disturbances of any kind.

Remembering that blind people go out to the market or a job or take the subway or do anything at all aided only by a stick, I cautiously groped my way around the furniture to the nearest box of matches and lit a candle. Then I lit some more and, grumpily accepting that I wouldn't find out how the movie ended, at least not right away, went to bed. A few hours later, an intense beeping woke me. The power was still out, but our bedroom plug-in carbon monoxide detector was screaming for me to get out of the house!, flashing GAS, GAS, GAS, GAS, over and over in bright red neon. No dummy, I got out.

So there I was, standing in my driveway in the pitch black outdoors at one in the morning with a furiously beeping carbon monoxide detector on my hands. By chance my cell phone was in my bathrobe pocket, so I called my husband somewhere where it was two hours earlier. He assured me that there was no gas in the house, that the thing was probably beeping because of the power outage, and that I should go back to bed. I wrapped the beeping thing in a blanket and left it inside my car, then trudged up the stairs to die peacefully in my sleep.

This morning the power was back on and I was alive. All the digital clocks on all the appliances were flashing RESET. When I opened it, my refrigerator beeped and flashed the words Power Outage in case I hadn't noticed. Our land line telephone with built-in voicemail intoned, "Your outgoing message has been erased..... Your outgoing message has been erased.... Your outgoing message has been erased.....

A call to Maine Central Power revealed that an animal -- no mention of species -- had come in contact with some wires at a power sub-station, causing a shortage that plummeted four adjacent towns (Total pop. approx. 37,000) into darkness for eight hours. So much for all that technology.

Color Blind

I am not color blind. Face to face with someone whose skin color is different from mine, I notice. If that makes me a racist, which these days is considered to be the worst thing you can be, then I'm guilty. To people of a certain age, raised at a time when segregated water fountains were seen in public spaces, it just happens. It's like looking at the sky and noticing that it's blue: I can't NOT see the blue. Yet we are all supposed to pretend that we are color blind, since that makes us better people. Some fortunate souls among us truly are, no pretense necessary. My son is one of those.

I learned this fact about him when he was a teenager. I had driven Zack to the Department of Motor Vehicles in Washington, D.C. for his driver's test. Back then it was located in "a bad neighborhood," which is what the white residents of the Northwest quadrant of the city called all black neighborhoods, or basically the other three quadrants of our racially divided nation's capital.

As it happened, on that particular day we were the only two white people in the waiting room, along with about a dozen or so others there for the same purpose. We signed in and sat down. I stared at my lap and tried to look ethnic. After about fifteen minutes, it was our turn. Someone shouted "Next!" and both Zack, a thin, white 16-year-old boy, and a tall black man of about 25 (who could have stunt doubled for The Incredible Hulk) stood up at the same time and stepped forward.

Fearful the other guy would become angry or violent or who knows -- maybe pull out a knife -- I whispered to my son, "Let him go first, honey." But Zack was unperturbed. Smiling, he approached the man and said, "Dude, no disrespect but I'm pretty sure I'm next." The guy smiled back and said politely, "Sorry man, you're right. My mistake."

Later, driving home with his new license in hand, I asked Zack if he had been at all afraid of the guy. His answer was, "Why would I be?"

Happy Monday, You're Going to Die

Often teetering on the edge of depression due to a genetic tendency towards anxiety heightened by one or two annoying health issues, it's a constant battle for me to remain upbeat. This might apply to anyone who reads the news every day, what with all the death and destruction, murder and mayhem, and political mudslinging. So you can just imagine how much harder it is when the person you live with, in this case my spouse, ruins breakfast with the declaration, "Being over seventy is like being engaged in a war. All our friends are going or gone and we survive amongst the dead and dying as on a battlefield."

My husband now talks about death constantly thanks to his iPhone app called "We Croak," which reminds you five times a day that you are going to die. Supposedly this will help you live in the moment and enjoy life to the fullest. All I have to say about that is, "Ha!" I wrote about it in this very space exactly ten days ago when it was a new thing around our house. Now it's an old thing and it's driving me nuts.

For example, we're out somewhere having a good time, like walking in the glorious autumn foliage deep in the Maine woods, when Mitch's phone pings and he shares the message, "Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends." Or we might be out at the movies, chomping on popcorn waiting for the feature to start, when suddenly he intones,"When you're dead you're dead. That's it." 

If you know anyone who is considering getting this app, don't let them.


 


 

Film Review: FIRST MAN

Gosling channeling Armstrong.

People over a certain age have surely heard and seen enough details about the 1969 Apollo 11 moon landing by now, but not so much about the lives of the men who accomplished the feat. First Man, directed by Damien Chazelle (most recently known for La La Land), takes us into the hearts and minds of the people inhabiting those puffy moon suits, especially flight commander Neil Armstrong (Ryan Gosling).

It also depicts with amazing clarity and impressive special effects just what it feels like to be imprisoned inside a rocket propelled at Warp speed to parts unknown. We see the training involved, watch the test flights, and mourn the deaths of more than a few pilots. It's scary stuff, bringing into sharp focus the immense bravery required of our astronauts.

Besides all the men in suits who huddle together smoking cigarettes (this was the 60s when it was an acceptable activity) and making big decisions at NASA, there are gauzy flashbacks concerning Armstrong's deeply scarred personal life. A family tragedy early on impacts his marriage, and his lovely wife Janet (Claire Foy) suffers through her own private Hell while watching her husband, "Slip the surly bonds of earth," as America's anchorman Walter Cronkite famously said at the time, paraphrasing a line from Air Force fighter pilot/ poet John Magee's "High Flight." 

Although the dialog is sparse in the extreme, almost annoyingly so, the apt soundtrack and stunning cinematography more than compensate. My Personal Oscar Prediction: Gosling will at the very least be a Best Actor contender, if not the winner. His performance as the stoically tight-lipped Armstrong, ridden with unrelenting personal grief while attempting to make history, is nothing short of miraculous.

Make Room for Your New Roommates

I have an absolutely fantastic solution to the housing of all the so-called "Caravan" of approximately 7,000 people who are fast approaching our southern border. Once the hordes of disillusioned, distraught and unemployed Mexicans, Guatemalans and Hondurans cross into the US, each individual or entire family should be assigned to the home of a registered Democrat. That would solve all our problems, and I'm sure the impromptu hosts will be thrilled to see some new faces around their Thanksgiving table this year, and for years to come.

"Hi Nancy, we're your new roomies!"

Some of the lucky immigrants would find themselves settling down in the sprawling mansions of Hollywood celebrities like Jim Carrey and Alec Baldwin, or the glorious high-rise apartments of Manhattan -- Chelsea Clinton's Park Avenue pad has nine bathrooms! --  and even the houses of former presidents, like Obama and Clinton. And Nancy Pelosi has multiple houses and a vineyard, so she'd be able to handle several dozen new roomies, at the very least! (If I know that Nancy, she'll have them harvesting her grapes in no time.)

Someone should tell the president about my plan, since I don't know him. This is definitely a win-win for all!

I'm in the Wrong Galaxy

Let me state emphatically at the outset that while I've had a suicidal thought or two in my deepest, darkest moments, I would never do anything to hurt myself, mostly because I'm such a baby when it comes to pain. For example, I fainted when I had my ears pierced. And besides, life is simply too interesting to leave early. All that being said, if it turned out that one absolutely had to commit suicide in order to transcend to a higher and more wonderful State of Being, I now know how I would be able to do it: Just sit me down and force me to watch Guardians of the Galaxy (Vol.1) all the way through, and I'd surely figure out a way to end it all.

Last night, on the advice and consent of two people near and dear to me and in their company, I set out to view the aforementioned film, released in 2014, in the comfort of my own home thanks to Apple TV.  I lasted a full 25 minutes before fleeing the unrelenting noise, silly costumes, plot confusion, bad acting, stupid jokes, annoying soundtrack, amateurish makeup and general nonsense assaulting my eyes and ears. In a word, I found the film appalling. Even worse, my very own husband and visiting best friend stayed glued to the TV, laughing their asses off and loving it. "Oh well, there's no accounting for taste," I thought, writing them off as unsophisticated film simpletons.

This morning, still annoyed that such a movie had even been made, I checked online for film reviews, assuming they would all be negative. But no, every single one of the highly-paid critics had praised the movie to the skies, calling it a masterful masterpiece, witty and fun and even touching and heart-warming. To my horror, a sequel -- Guardians of the Galaxy Vol.2 -- came out in 2017, again to the welcoming arms of fans and critics alike.

I feel so alone. Now that's enough to make me end it all.

FILM REVIEW: A Star Is Born

Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga

Despite all the hype about Lady Gaga's singing and Bradley Cooper's directorial debut, the true stars of A Star Is Born are those old favorites, Drugs and Alcohol. The very first scene features them and they reign throughout the film, ultimately killing off our hero. As usual the crowds love them, and thus far the film has grossed many, many millions at the box office since its release in early October.

Surely it's a great yarn, so great in fact it's been told on screen three times before: The doomed love affair between a rising star and one about to burn out. Even though we've heard it or seen it already, this latest version seems brand new, without a single stale or hackneyed moment. Great acting by just about everyone, authentic concert footage of screaming fans and memorable music make it a standout, equal in impact to the 1954 version starring Judy Garland and James Mason, a hallmark in film history.

Still, in the end it's depressing, and not just in the end but pretty much all the way through. Drug addiction and alcohol abuse are simply not fun topics no matter how much you dress them up. Anyway, I smell an Oscar or two (probably more), so if you want to be in on all the buzz, go see it.

Picasso's Cat

This morning my cat decided he wanted breakfast at 4:41. I know because I keep my cell phone next to my bed just in case. In case of what I'm not sure, but anyway I could see the time quite clearly when Lurch came in and started his meowing. Despite my throwing a pillow at him he persisted, enough to get me out of bed, down the stairs and into the kitchen. Naturally I stayed awake since it's impossible to go back to sleep once you've dealt with the contents of a can of cat food. Sadly this situation is not at all uncommon, which might explain why I run out of steam most afternoons.

Picasso and friend.

When I had a dog I would sometimes wonder how much fatter I'd be if I didn't have to walk him three times a day. Usually I had such thoughts while we were wandering around in a blizzard or a thunderstorm, just to give it a positive spin. (I find it helpful to consider dire situations as weight loss opportunities.) After Rufus died I found out: seven pounds fatter.

Now I'm wondering how much more I might accomplish in life if only I could get more shut-eye. For all I know, sleep deprivation is impacting my creativity. (Maybe that's why so few of my paintings sell.) I'm willing to bet that Picasso's cat let him sleep in.

Sez Who?

"Streisand can't act and Whoopie Pies suck!"

In order to write an article for my local newspaper column comparing  three versions of the same film, last night I tried to watch the 1976 version of A Star Is Born. I really tried, quite hard in fact, but after 50 minutes I grabbed the remote and shut off the horror. That was all I could take of the preening, screaming nonsense emanating from both of the leads, Barbra Streisand and Kris Kristofferson. Really, the military could use it to coax information from war prisoners.

After some googling, I learned that the movie had won four Oscars and that Kristofferson had won a Golden Globe for Best Actor for his portrayal of an alcoholic rock star, a performance I personally topped a few nights ago after two glasses of red wine. (Next time please remind me that one is my absolute limit.) Now I'm worried that I won't like the latest version which every professional critic has called God's gift to filmdom, and everyone who has seen it has also raved. Then what-- my deadline fast approaches. (BTW, the 1954 version starring Judy Garland and James Mason is possibly my favorite movie of all time, just so you know.)

So what's wrong with me anyway? Why I don't like things that so many other other people do? This question has plagued me my whole life. Are we all supposed to accept that something has value because others say so? That could explain so much -- like Whoopie Pies which are all the rage here in Maine, despite being just two giant cake-y cookies with super-sweet frosting slathered between them. Supposedly they are "wicked good," but I just find them nauseating. Ditto Whoopie Goldberg. And especially whoopie cushions, which are gross and immature and not funny at all. Even the very word, like shouting "Whoopie!" on New Year's Eve, irks me. Also the whole New Year's thing, with the parties and the drinking and the resolutions and the "out with the old and in with the new," even though it's just the very next day.

I suppose I need a support group.

Making Death Your Friend

According to a Bhutanese folk saying, "To be a happy person, one must contemplate death five times a day." Taking that idea and running with it, an app called WeCroak sends you random messages throughout the day in the form of quotes from famous people reminding you that death is inevitable and could come at any time. (Gee, thanks.)

Bhutan, the tiny South Asian kingdom tucked in the Eastern Himalayans, is best known for its innovative policy of "Gross National Happiness." Conventional wisdom says it's a place where contentment reigns, and was long considered the happiest country on Earth until recently when it fell off the Forbes Top Ten list. (Finland is now Number 1). No doubt the Bhutanese are certainly happier than most Americans, especially people living in certain parts of Chicago, or Philly, or Flint, Michigan. Still, if you ask me, that whole "thinking about death" thing sounds like a major downer, so how happy are those Bhutanese, really? Here are a few pertinent facts about the place; draw your own conclusions.

1. The first nation to ban all tobacco use, smoking anywhere in Bhutan is against the law. 
2. Homosexuality is illegal. Same-sex sexual acts, even when consensual and done in private, are punishable by a prison sentence of between one month to less than one year.
3. Polygamy, while not common, is legal.
4. According to 2016 data from the World Bank, Bhutan's citizens have a life expectancy of 70.2 years. (69.9 for males and 70.5 for females)

While I completely applaud the wisdom of facing my own mortality, if I could learn what Jane Fonda (80), Clint Eastwood (88), Mel Brooks (92), Tony Bennett (92), Betty White (96), Doris Day (96) Olivia de Havilland (102) and Herman Wouk (103) contemplate five times a day, I'd definitely do that.

Don't Mess With October

Here it is more than half over and I didn't know until today that October is "Breast Cancer Awareness Month." (Thanks a lot, Georgetown Lombardi Cancer Center, for your informative email.) I feel like such a fool. I have not thought about breast cancer once all month, nor have I been aware of it. I've thought about COPD, which recently took the life of a close friend. I've thought about heart disease, which landed me in the ER last week. And who's not aware of mental illness, what with Massachusetts Senator Elizabeth "Pocahontas" Warren releasing her DNA test results?

Until now I've always considered October as our most fun month, with crisp leaves crunching underfoot, the glorious colors of fall dotting the horizon, hayrides and corn mazes and farmer's markets, and of course Halloween, with bright jack-o-lanterns and festive costumes and lots of leftover snack-sized candy bars, and who doesn't like that? But from this day forward I'll have to add breast cancer and chemo and hair falling out and reconstructive surgery -- all things that will surely tarnish October's glow.

If you ask me it should be in April, which is already known to be the cruelest month because of the first line of T. S. Eliot's famous 1922 poem, The Wasteland: "April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain."

Certainly not October.

As Indian as A Jeep Cherokee

While I personally have never used the term, many folks around these parts refer to our southern neighbors as "Massholes." I heard the word on my very first day as a Maine resident and was told it was because they are bad drivers. This turned out to be true, what with their penchant for tailgating and never giving an inch when you're trying to merge onto the highway, but still I thought the derogatory moniker was undeserved; why not just call them bad drivers? However, I now feel differently and it's all because of Senator Elizabeth Warren who is clearly a Masshole, and that's spelled with a capital A.

As everyone knows, the poor, possibly demented, Warren is being mocked for her recent disclosure of a DNA test showing she is one-millionth of a percent Native American, or some such meaningless amount. My concern is that she ever dreamed up such a thing in the first place. Wasn't she good enough to be hired as a professor at Harvard Law without minority status? I've heard her mumble something about having high cheek bones and family lore, blah, blah, blah. But really, that's insane, not to mention rude and disrespectful to every true Native American, especially the Cherokee tribe to which she lays claim.

It's all a crock, and yet she's up for re-election in Massachusetts and remains the front runner of the Democratic Party in 2020's presidential election. That's crazy talk! The party leaders should put their headdresses together and come up with somebody quick or else it's Trump for another four years. More crazy talk.

In Defense of Mary Jane

I had my first puff of marijuana at age 24 and now I am 72. It's been an on and off thing since then, and I can't see any way smoking the stuff has hurt me. I've driven under the influence and in my 54 years behind the wheel I have never had a car accident. Okay, so I've run a few yellow lights, but that's because if I stopped, the drunk on my tail would have crashed right into me.

In case you still don't know, drinking alcohol is far worse than smoking pot. It poses a bigger danger on the road and on the job. Whereas it's barely noticeable if someone has smoked pot, drinking raises a big neon red flag, to mix a few metaphors. Finally recreational marijuana is legal in many places, and it's about time. Still, there are some backwards folks who consider it a sure sign of the Devil at work inside you.

I once was friends with one of those backwards folks. Our friendship was already teetering on the edge, but what pushed me over was her gasp of horror when I said my husband and I might go for a quick walk before her other dinner guests arrived, just to smoke a little pot and relax. "Oh God no!" she exclaimed, as if I had suggested pulling out a few syringes and shooting heroin in the middle of her living room. "I have people coming over... I'm running for the president of the Historical Society!! I can't have that... oh NO!"

I should add that the "historical society" was for a tiny island off the coast of Maine with about 100 houses on it, and that the woman is a proud alcoholic (she thinks it's endearing to be tipsy) who was drunk within half an hour of the start of the party, as were most of the other guests she was hoping to impress. I'll stick with my ladylike puff of pot, and nobody ever needs to know when, where or if I did it.

Film Review: CHAPPAQUIDDICK

I recently watched the 2018 movie about the tragedy of Chappaquiddick, entitled Chappaquiddick. Even though I knew the story, still it was a gripping, and even sympathetic, telling of the tale, and a tall one it was. Suspenseful and dramatic, it would have been so much better if only it hadn't been true.

By now most people know what happened, but the younger generation barely cares about the Kennedy family and thus the film was in and out of theaters in a flash. Still it's a great story and the film does it justice, even if Justice was never served: Senator Ted Kennedy went free and never got so much as a slap on the wrist from the voters of Massachusetts despite his causing the drowning death of 28-year-old Mary Jo Kopechne (Kate Mara) back in 1969. The fact that he did not call the police for ten hours, thus making any rescue of the woman impossible, is presented in a "Poor Teddy, he was so freaked out" kind of way, which sticks in your craw if you think about it too much, so don't. Instead, think about these things:

1. Kennedy's hallmark Boston accent comes and goes like the wind. This is understandable since the actor portraying him is Australian (Jason Clarke), so you kind of have to forgive him. Still, it's distracting.

2. Bruce Dern plays the senator's father, Joe Kennedy, after he's been incapacitated by a few strokes. Dern, who is actually now 82, looks about 175 in the movie and deserves this year's Oscar for Best Dead Person Still Alive.

3. The car driven by Kennedy goes off a bridge, overturning and landing in about four feet of water. Kennedy escapes but his passenger Mary Jo does not. How come? There is no explanation offered. The car doors are closed tight, no windows are broken, and nobody even wonders aloud how Kennedy managed to get out, except for me who wondered aloud about it all during the entire movie, driving my husband batty. (Later he wondered too.)

4. Actor Ed Helms gives a great performance as Kennedy's cousin and closest confidante. Somehow Helms never seems to get the credit due him and seems stuck as second banana in every film. At the very least he deserves the Oscar for Best Second Banana.

5. We all have to watch Mary Jo die, trapped inside a car underwater. This is disturbing and I guess the director (John Curran) thought it was artsy, but take it from me you won't like it.

6. Kennedy matriarch Rose Kennedy is nowhere to be found, for reasons we never learn. This was a  glaring omission, especially since right off the bat somebody tells Kennedy to "call your mother so she won't have to hear about it on the news."

Besides all that, Chappaquiddick is definitely worth a big bowl of popcorn and an hour and 45 minutes of your time.

Trump's Looking Better and Better

The arrogance of the Left, a.k.a the Losers, continues to expand and amaze. One particularly rabid member of my husband's extended family recently wrote on Facebook: "Trump supporters aren't good people." He went on, "Women who are for Trump are crazy, stupid, sad, ridiculous and short-sighted." This generalization is akin to Hillary saying half the country is "a basket of deplorables." I actually know several women in the flesh who favor Trump and they are all fine, upstanding citizens.

Not only that, but I am a woman myself, and while I wasn't for Trump at the outset of all this nonsense, I'm leaning his way more each day when I consider the alternatives: There's Maxine Waters, a lunatic who advocates publicly harassing people with opinions other than hers. And Senator Richard Blumenthal, a reptilian liar who often touted his non-existent military service in Vietnam. Of course that oldie but goodie Bill Clinton, an accused rapist -- as an adult, not a teenager -- and repeat sexual predator. And a possible presidential contender for 2020, Senator Elizabeth Warren, who famously clings to being "Native American" because there was one of those in her family ten generations back. Now there's your basket of deplorables!

But wait, there's more! How about Nancy Pelosi, who said about the Affordable Care Act, "We have to pass the bill to see what's in it." Or Al Gore, who predicted years ago that part of Miami's Dade County would be under water by now -- the exact spot where the country's largest mall is set to break ground any day. Or Barack Obama, our first black president who now lives in D.C.'s richest and whitest enclave when he's not hobnobbing in Martha's Vineyard, playground of the super-wealthy and connected. It's a sorry bunch, I tell you. So who's crazy, stupid, sad, ridiculous and short-sighted? Sounds like the Democrats to me.

The Newest Black Sheep of the Family

Suddenly it's perfectly acceptable to call a black person crazy! Or even a "Negro" who should "read a book." I guess that's racial progress. Who knew that all it would take for the slanted mainstream liberal media to trash an African-American, I mean black man, I mean Negro was for said Negro to openly support President Trump, especially while wearing a red Make America Great Again cap?

Rapper Kanye West is worth $250 million and is married to every man's wet dream of a woman, yet he is now considered, by everyone from basement internet trolls to CNN's carefully coiffed political analyst Gloria Borger, a certifiable lunatic -- some claiming he's bipolar or worse -- all because of his open adoration of Trump.

My advice: Hide your cards when you're with a Democrat. They are the new Nazis.

Politics Explained

I finally understand the difference between our two main political parties. The Democrats are the Children and the Republicans are the Grownups. Think of them on a school playground:

The Children want to make a lot of rules about everything.  They want every kid to get a free bike to ride, for as long as they want. They also think everyone should get tons of free stuff, like juice boxes, safe spaces to hide out, health care, four years at college, and even houses to live in. And anyone who wants to can just come right in and play, even bad kids from really bad neighborhoods. Why not -- the more the merrier! Most of all, they hate the mean Grownups who say "No!" to a lot of their childish desires. In fact, whenever they see Grownups, they throw tantrums and sticks and stones and chase them away, calling out loud insults. They think that's a perfectly fine way to behave, and all of them encourage it.

Meanwhile, the Grownups insist that each one of the Children should contribute something to the whole group in order to earn some rewards; not everyone gets a gold star! They think neither the school nor the government should be a replacement for Mommy and Daddy. They think those who work the hardest should get the most stuff as a result of their hard work. Of course, Grownups recognize the need to help the weak and infirm, but believe that not everyone deserves a special snack, or their own bike, or four years at college, or a free heart replacement, without first demonstrating some sort of merit. They try to explain this to the Children, but can't be heard over the raucous shouts of the mob of crybabies.

A Squirrely Tale

There's a zany news story floating around about a woman who was removed from a Frontier Airlines flight after it was discovered that her pre-approved "comfort animal" turned out to be a squirrel. Yes, a rodent was this woman's choice for comfort. Although her shrink said it was fine, the airline did not consider it to be fine, so off she went, and her little squirrel too. They did book her on another flight which she took, sans rodent, but still she's threatening to sue and says she will eventually end up "owning a large part of the airline."

This story grabbed my attention more than it might have another time because just a few nights ago a squirrel got into our house and made both me and my husband extremely rattled for the next 48 hours. It was, you could say, our discomfort animal.

The squirrel was a baby, which was the only thing he had going for him. Had he been full-grown I would have worried he had rabies and called in the big guns from Terminix. But this little guy, lacking street smarts -- and roof smarts -- had fallen down our chimney flue. When we heard noises coming from that area my husband, AGAINST MY ADVICE (which I offered quite loudly but he says he didn't hear me so there's another whole issue we'll have to check out), opened the flue and out he dropped. He didn't stick around long and was off in a flash, literally. For the whole night, the next day, and the next night, we searched for him in vain, while our cat Lurch barely raised an eyebrow and slept quite soundly despite the odd noises at odd hours and the dashing little body darting about from here to there.

None of it was good. I worried he'd bite us in our sleep. Or that Lurch would find him and finally get with the program and eat him and, even worse, then throw him up. Or that the squirrel would die somewhere hidden, sad and hungry and alone and wondering, "Why me?" Not only was that scenario heart-wrenching but potentially quite smelly. Miraculously, through unrelenting diligence and wielding a shoebox (my idea), Mitch was finally able to chase the intruder onto the front screen door, which we quickly opened (actually I opened it) from the outside and managed to slam him off it, into the bushes and the cover of night.

The whole ordeal was the opposite of comforting. In fact it was incredibly stressful, causing a leap in my blood pressure and some weird chest pains that sent me to the ER the very next day. That lady from the airplane is obviously nuts.

A Visit to the ER

The ER at Maine Medical Center.

The worst thing about having a heart attack is constantly worrying that you're having another one every time you feel the slightest whatever. Okay, so maybe the worst thing is the actual heart attack, but surely the second worst thing is the constant worrying. Today I experienced a set of alarming physical conditions that caused me to call my doctor, and he decided they were alarming enough to send me to the ER, ASAP. I really did not want to go, but he insisted enough so that I figured he knew I was dying and just didn't want to tell me. I went.

The big hospital here in Maine is currently undergoing a huge renovation which has closed off some areas. One bit of fallout from that is the fact that the ER now shares the same space with the Acute Psychiatry Department, a.k.a. walk-in psychos. As I lay in bed awaiting my test results -- blood, chest X-ray, EKG -- I overheard a woman right outside my door, really just a curtain, saying she needed a Coca Cola and she needed it RIGHT NOW! A doctor was trying to reason with her, saying he didn't want her to drink a Coke before a blood test, but she said she needed her Coca-Cola NOW, "or else a tranquilizer." And suddenly I understood the global popularity of Coke, a beverage I have never enjoyed. Who knew?

Anyway, I'm fine and it was not another heart attack but still I need to make an appointment with my cardiologist right away, just to be safe. And next time I get freaked out I might just try a Coke and save my Lorazepam for something really big.

All About Bagels

The usual line at Fairmount Bagel in Montreal. Seen far right, two bags of recently scored bagels.

I am a skeptic. Just because a million people believe something doesn't mean it's true. Take, for example, Jonah being swallowed by a whale or, if religion isn't your thing, Christine Ford's old story of childhood trauma involving a boy now nominated to be the fifth conservative justice on the Supreme Court. I thought it was poppycock from the minute she showed up in costume: those big glasses, that dangling mop of hair and the wobbly little girl voice were all intended to distract us from the fact that she was lying through her teeth -- which you couldn't even see what with all that hair in the way. Anyway, I digress.

A few days ago I went to Montreal. I had heard all sorts of good things about the place from friends, some of which turned out to be true and some of which did not. One thing that did not was the myth that the bagels in that city rival those found in New York City, and even that bagels were invented in Montreal. Both of those rumors are laughable, which of course will not stop people from believing them. (See opening paragraph.)

First of all, bagels came into being in Poland. End of story. Next, the bagels in Montreal (which by the way is indeed very bagel-focused, evidenced by the long lines of customers outside the two most popular bagel shops) look sort of like the ones you get in New York, and if you are drunk (like Ms. Ford and Mr. Kavanaugh allegedly were on that fateful night that may or may not have ever been), you might think they are just as good. But they are not.

It's mostly because of the water; in Montreal they use "honey water," which naturally makes the product a bit sweet. Even if it's a garlic bagel or a sesame or an everything, it's still sweet underneath. (That's not what I'm looking for in a bagel; if I wanted sweet I'd get a donut.) So while they are a lot better than the bagels in many other cities, don't plan a trip around it.

Searching for Truth

You gotta wonder about a place that specializes in French fries smothered in gravy and cheese curds.

Last Friday my husband I drove to Canada for a weekend visit to Montreal. As we joined the line of cars waiting to cross the border I realized in horror that I neglected to bring my passport. With trepidation we inched forward, doubtful we would gain entry. This being our 32nd anniversary trip, I was ready to beg and/or grovel. Besides, the drive had already taken us four hours; if we had to turn around there was no telling what would happen. (Likely nothing good.)

Approaching the border guard I tried to look trustworthy and un-spylike. All my worry was for naught since the guy was happy enough with my Maine driver's license. After checking the computer to make sure we weren't on any FBI Most Wanted list, he waved us through with a cheery, "Bonjour!"

Just for the heck of it, when I returned home I searched online and learned from more than a few websites that "in order to enter Canada, a United States citizen MUST BE IN POSSESSION OF A PASSPORT BOOK, PASSPORT CARD OR VALID BIRTH CERTIFICATE," making me wonder what, if anything, one can believe these days, besides the obvious like all men are pigs, all women tell the truth and all white people are scum.

Remember Connie Chung?

Poor Connie Chung. Once the darling of the media, she has faded into oblivion. Until last week when she resurfaced, albeit briefly, in a Washington Post op-ed piece about being raped fifty years ago. There's nothing like a #MeToo confession to hurtle a has-been back into the news, which is where every celebrity yearns to be all of the time.

Many years ago I worked with a woman named Beth. She was the drab office manager in a wildly creative Baltimore ad agency brimming with designers and photographers, and was often overlooked when you wanted to have any fun. One day Beth and I had lunch at a nearby bistro. As soon as we sat down and ordered she told me how she had been raped many years earlier in a dark parking garage, after working late. Her compelling story filled our lunch hour. Stunned, I was of course sympathetic and consoling, until, as we were waiting for the check, she said, "And just my luck, it happened again two years later, in the very same parking garage!"

That's when I thought that maybe her story was just that -- a story, calculated to make her seem more interesting. Or perhaps she had re-created the circumstances at the time to make her life more exciting. Certainly I am not suggesting that's true for most rape cases, but it might help explain why so many celebrities choose to come forward with their old secrets.

Abandon All Hope

This afternoon, Senator Susan Collins of Maine gave a 45-minute speech explaining why she had decided to vote to confirm Judge Brett Kavanaugh. It was certainly the best political speech I have ever heard, completely devoid of the soaring rhetoric and lofty phrases common to Barack Obama and Bill Clinton that the Democrats lap up with a spoon. Instead she recited a litany of facts.

Collins had spent the last two months learning all she could about the nominee for the Supreme Court who had caused such a chasm between the two parties. She explained many court opinions the Judge had written on key topics such as abortion, education, health care and the limits of presidential power. Listening to her speak was like attending a university-level lecture on the history of seminal law cases. It was beyond impressive.

So my husband's cousin's daughter, who has as big a mouth as her foul-mouthed mother, published the following thoughtful response as her Facebook status: "Fuck you, US Senator Susan Collins." After my husband tried to reason with her, pointing out how Collins had carefully considered Kavanaugh's 25-year record sitting on the nation's second-highest court, her clever retort was, "Fuck her and the high horse she rode in on."

I am now convinced that the Democratic party is not worth a damn. Anyone who believes that Christine Ford's shaky recall of her 10-minute teenage nightmare of 36 years ago should determine the future of our Supreme Court is simply beyond all hope of sanity.

Getting With the Program

This morning when I opened the door to the side deck for a gulp of glorious October air, I almost stepped on a "gift" from my cat lying on the threshold (see photo). Lurch was sitting nearby watching for my reaction, and when I gasped in horror he seemed genuinely confused, as if to say, "What, you don't like it?" Actually I don't like it, but as my husband is quick to point out, that's life. Meaning death.

I am still reeling from the death of my oldest friend Rick, who left a few days ago. It seems wrong, and the whole world seems out of whack. But then I remember that we all die and I'd better get used to it. Still, it's never pretty. Anyway, Rick had a lung disease that killed him, finally, but this poor little mouse likely was healthy, scampering around the autumn woods looking for food. It's not fair; Rick wasn't finished, and neither was that mouse.

I am considering withholding breakfast from Lurch as punishment. Someone has to pay.

What Democrats Know

As if things weren't polarized enough already, the chasm between the Democrats and the Republicans has widened considerably over the Brett Kavanaugh- Christine Ford debacle. Recently, when I hinted in a Facebook stream that perhaps she wasn't entirely truthful in her testimony, it in fact being full of holes, a total stranger lashed out at me with the following: "Obviously your husband or sons are molesters and sexual abusers, which is why you are attacking the woman! This is called the Stockholm syndrome."

What I found so eye-opening was her use of the word "obviously." I must be even more sheltered than I knew since I never even suspected that disagreeing with an alleged assault victim was clear evidence that I had been abused myself. We all have so much to learn from the Democrats.

Richard P. Whiting, 1945-2018

Illustration by Richard P. Whiting

My lifelong friend and former husband, Richard Prescott Whiting, died last week at the age of 72 after a long illness. His passing makes the world a little less interesting.

Rick was truly one of a kind. A gifted fine artist and natural comic, he grew up in Alexandria, Virginia and Bedford Village, New York and was a graduate of New York University. The son of a prominent and successful lawyer, he set out to follow in his father's footsteps but ultimately found that path unequal to his fiery spirit and creative gifts. 

After two years of study at George Washington University Law School, Rick quit to pursue a different career as an illustrator and graphic designer. His superior innate talent quickly secured him a position at a leading design studio in Washington, D.C. Eventually he became the Art Director of the colorful Weekend section of The Washington Post, where he worked for ten years. After leaving the Post he moved to Minneapolis where he freelanced as a web designer.

In case you wondered in this current climate of looking backward, the quote underneath Rick's senior yearbook photo at the Fox Lane High School read: "Better to Reign in Hell Than Serve in Heaven." A decent, honest and good-hearted soul devoted to a long series of cats, the last one being his beloved Edgar, I doubt Rick went south. Instead, it's likely he is already reigning in Heaven.

(Shown above is a photo of us circa 1970, back when we were married. At right is Rick's most recent drawing, done in colored pencil and inspired by a photo he saw of a young Appalachian girl during the Great Depression.)

Gossip and Rape

So many unimportant people are spending so much of their limited brain power gossiping about Brett Kavanaugh, a man they don't know and will never meet, and Christine Ford, a woman they don't know and will never meet, and what may or may not have occurred between them when they were teenagers 36 years ago. Their ugly little whispers and outlandish conclusions have no more significance in the grand scheme than conjecturing about whether Addison slept with Mark before or after Derek found about about Meredith's baby on Grey's Anatomy.

Gossip is evil. It starts out with one person telling sort of the truth , but quickly turns into a wildly inaccurate version of the same story. For example, Judge Kavanaugh is now commonly being referred to as having raped a girl, when all he did, maybe -- and that's a big maybe since it's only been proven in the mind of the accuser --  was paw at her, and lay on top of her, laugh drunkenly and put his hand over her mouth. None of her clothes were removed and she escaped unharmed, in fact strong enough to walk home eight miles since nobody has claimed they picked her up from that imaginary party in her head.

Under that definition, I have been raped too many times to remember. Who knew?