Happy Tuesday Eve

It's here again, seemingly much sooner than it came last time. I'm talking about New Year's Eve, which will be followed by New Year's Day tomorrow if all goes as expected. (You never know.) As usual, the newspapers are filled with lists of what's to come and what's over, and resolutions and all that other filler they stick between the ads. Ditto the Internet, with stories popping up about the end of 2018 and the start of 2019. One was about  "The 20 Hairstyles That Won't Make the Cut Next Year." I did not click for fear that mine would be on the list and then what would I do?

Coming hairstyles in 2019. (Don't blame me, I just report the news.)

The sad and happy truth is that when it comes to life, it's all one day! We break it into bite-sized pieces by falling asleep when it gets dark outside and waking up with the light, and calling that a new day. But really, if it's so damn new, how come you wake up in the same pajamas you wore to bed the night before? Anyway, just a thought.

Today is called Monday so I took all the pills in the Monday section of my pill holder. Tomorrow I'll take the ones in the Tuesday section. If tomorrow were Thursday and the following day were Sunday, that would be new! I could get behind that. But no, it will be Tuesday. But before it is I have to go to a big party tonight and shout "happy new year" at midnight, and potentially kiss strangers.

I don't get it. I'm not proud that I don't get it. I wish I got it. But I don't.

Let's get real: tomorrow will not bring magic. The only change in my life will be writing 2019 on my checks and hanging on hold with my insurance company trying to fix the mess caused by those new benefits cards they issued, making the one I have for last year which paid for all my prescriptions null and void.

Look Out for Those Curveballs

My husband and I spent last New Year's Eve with a couple we no longer speak to. Funny how that happens: what we thought was the start of a beautiful friendship was really the middle of it. In fact several of my friendships came to an end during the past year, and only one was because the person died. The dead one was a huge shock to my system and is the only one I miss. The others drifted away not with a bang but with a whimper, making me wonder what made us friends in the first place.

This New Year's we are going to a big party being thrown by a couple of new friends we really like a lot who we barely knew this time last year. It's possible that by the end of 2019 we won't be talking to them either. Or maybe they'll be dead by then, or we will -- you simply never know. Life keeps throwing curveballs. It's best to put down that cell phone and pay attention.

A Different Basket of Deplorables

"Hey, quit being so tall or I'll call the police!"

Hillary Clinton got it wrong: Liberals are the real deplorables. Want proof? Try this:

Recently at the University of Missouri (known as Mizzou), a tall, black male Ph.D. candidate asked a short, white female fitness trainer for a date. The girl felt "pressured" by his mere asking, and reported him to the campus authorities. They agreed that his asking her out constituted sexual harassment because "his physical size gave him power over her."

The male student was suspended.  He sued, and the case is pending. The University's policy is that students need to have "a legitimate purpose" for asking someone out on a date. (Lord only knows what that might be.)

I don't know this for a fact, but I am willing to bet all four of my limbs,  my 16-pound Maine Coon cat and my 2018 Audi A4 that the people in charge of this "policy" over at Mizzou are all Democrats. (Just a wild guess.) And if you think I'm making this up, Google it. Sadly, it's true.

No Fun for Anyone

Looking outside, up there.

Yesterday I spent five hours in an airplane. After the introductory greetings from the Captain and flight attendants and a prerecorded safety message, all was quiet except for a couple of babies crying. There was no conversation between seatmates. Every head hung downward towards a cell phone, iPad, laptop or Kindle. Wires dangled from most ears.

It was eerily silent.

I thought back to my first flight to Europe 45 years ago when the entire plane was buzzing with conversation and people walked about the cabin, chatting and making new friends. It was much more fun. Or maybe I was more fun, being 45 years younger. Anyway, I remember a good time.

These days, the whole experience of flying is unfriendly. Last week when we arrived at Boston's Logan Airport parking garage, we had to stop and have our car searched for explosives since we were parking close to the main terminal. (I guess if you park in one of the lots further away they don't care if you blow up the garage.) This "search" consisted of the following exchange:

Airport Worker: Open the trunk of your car please.
Us: Sure.
Airport worker looks inside trunk, where there are two large suitcases and one large briefcase stuffed to the gills. He does not stick his head into the trunk or open any of the luggage.
Airport Worker: Okay, you're fine, go ahead.

As we drove past the guy I wanted to yell out that our luggage was loaded with bombs and box cutters but my husband wouldn't let me. I wondered how that cursory glance had netted any useful information, feeling a bit depressed as I realized we must look very non-threatening and ordinary.

Once inside the airport we got our boarding passes from a machine so there was no need to talk to anyone, ever. Going through security I got to leave my shoes on since I had been deemed "Pre-check." However that came about, I was happy about it since over in the next lane where the people apparently appeared less trustworthy, everyone was busy taking off belts and undoing boot laces. One lady complained loudly that she wasn't wearing socks and so had to walk through the X-ray machine barefoot, on the yucky floor. Oh well, that's what you get for being so trendy -- sockless women in UGGs were everywhere.

Perhaps the oddest thing of all was the slice of pizza I ordered in the airport food court before boarding. It was not a large slice, maybe the size of a small paperback book, with two or three mushroom slices and a few slivers of red bell pepper on top of the cheese, and mostly bread. It cost $8.31, which I thought was a lot. Too much, in fact.

Seated in an exit row, I had to verbally assent to being willing to help people out in case of an emergency, or else I would be seated somewhere else. Naturally I agreed because the extra leg room was nice. I didn't bother telling the flight attendant that if an actual emergency arose I would be a blubbering idiot and no help to anyone.

A (Recurring) Christmas Nightmare

A recurring seasonal neurosis stems from the darkest stain on my childhood: I outed Santa Claus.

We Jews are a lonely lot on Christmas: While our Christian friends are snuggled in front of a cozy fire, opening gifts and scarfing down plum pudding (my first husband was one of them so I know this for a fact), we huddle together on wooden benches, eating gefilte fish and reading the Torah. 

Okay, not really, but that’s how it feels to me. Despite the growing commercialization of Hanukah, Christmas will always be the Numero Uno holiday the world over. And despite my own participation in the festivities, baking sugar cookies for the post office crowd and sending gifts to distant friends, December 25^th usually finds me and my loved ones bereft from dawn till dusk. There’s little to do but wait it out: Everything is closed except for the 7-11, and after an hour skimming through magazines that’s pretty much played. As for TV, how many times can you watch Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed discover that “It’s a Wonderful Life” after all?

Growing up in the New York City suburbs in the late fifties, in the shadow of St. Agnes Cathedral, ours was one of only two Jewish families living on a street full of hardened Catholics. Holidays of any sort ignited full-blown block parties involving anyone who owned a Tupperware container. Naturally in such an environment Christmas was a big deal, spawning an array of blinking colored lights, glowing rooftop reindeer and giant candy canes worthy of a Fellini dream sequence. Among all the holiday glitz on Willow Street, two houses remained dark: ours and the Shreibmans, who lived across the street.

What made Willow Street special was that Santa Claus, in the flesh, visited every house on Christmas Eve. (Apparently our street was one of several rest stops on his global tour.) He did the whole milk-and-cookies bit, leaving behind a gift for every child. He even came to our house, he being an all-inclusive Santa.

One snowy Christmas in my sixth year, as I was hurrying to get home before dark after a spirited snowball fight, I noticed something odd over at Joanne Rooney’s house: There was a light on in the garage, and there was a man dressed only in his long underwear! Boy, he must be cold, I thought. Then I noticed, hey, that guy looks sort of like Mr. Rooney, but when did he get so fat? He was stuffing a pillow into his suit--and wait a minute, that suit looks familiar. The sack of toys, the white beard, the black boots-- Jew or no Jew, I knew Santa when I saw him. Joanne Rooney’s father was Santa Claus!

Still reeling from the recent shock of learning that my mother was the “Tooth Fairy,” I plopped down into a snowdrift to catch my breath, all the while watching Mr. Rooney complete his transformation into Old Saint Nick. Then, bursting with the news, I raced home and confronted my parents, demanding some fast answers about a certain Irishman and a red velvet suit. After some preliminary stalling, they caved, explaining that Mr. Rooney was “helping” Santa. “Promise me you won’t tell any of the other kids,” my mother begged, a haunted look of terror in her eyes. “Promise!”

“Yeah, sure, I promise,” I said, but that promise didn’t apply to my very best friend who lived right next door. Suzanne was French, and certainly could be trusted: since returning from a Thanksgiving visit to her grandparents in France, she had all but forgotten English anyway. Unfortunately her older sister, who at age seven was fluent in both languages, overheard me, and before you could say Rachel Maddow the story hit the street.

Of course there were the usual skeptics who assumed I was just bitter about the Holocaust, but most of the kids conducted their own research, pulling at Santa’s beard and asking him if Joanne could come out and play. The jig was definitely up.

Things were tense on Willow Street for many months. The Shreibmans soon fled to friendlier waters in Boca Raton, and I took to playing with my friends from school. Eventually I was forgiven, mostly because there were no applicants for my position as permanent-ender in jump rope. And though Santa Rooney kept his appointed rounds the next year, he never stopped at our house again, leaving a void I experience anew every Christmas Eve. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t say a word.

Nobody Pays Attention Anymore

Yesterday there was a small article in the Portland Press Herald, the local city paper most folks around here read, about a program being offered by my son's non-profit organization called Rewild Maine. Zack was interviewed on the phone by a reporter about the details. Not only is his name visible in many places online, where I assume the reporter got some of her info like date, time and place, but Zack gave his name as "Zack with a K, Rouda -- like Gouda cheese but with an R."

So the article identified him as "Zach Rudin." I learned of this when a friend texted me asking, "This guy seems to be doing the same thing as your son. Is it him?"

There are a couple of lessons inherent in this anecdote. The first is to never assume what you read in the paper is accurate, or even true. Sure, it may have sat next to the truth in grade school, but often it's just plain wrong. The second lesson is if you live in Portland you should not waste your money on the Portland Press Herald and instead read a real newspaper. The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post and The Boston Globe all will have errors as well, but of a much higher caliber.

The Bright Side of Childhood Traumas

How Mitch sees it.

If the common expression, "It is what it is" resonates with everyone, why isn't, "You are what you are" also acceptable?  For example, let's say you were abducted at an early age, found safe after 36 hours, then grew up to never trust anyone. As an adult you see the potential danger in every situation. Is that any more your fault, or within your power to change, than being six feet tall or having brown eyes? I say no. (I've tried, believe me.)

This morning, pondering the possibility of taking a 10-day cruise through the islands of Bali aboard a luxury ship full of affluent vacationers, my husband got all excited that I would even consider such a thing. Looking at photos on the ship's website showing happy people holding drinks and smiling broadly as the sun shined down on their glorious foreign adventure, my husband "oohed" and "aahed" over the beautiful staterooms, fully outfitted gym and well-appointed restaurants serving appetizing fare prepared by a highly-acclaimed chef.

"Yeah, yeah, it looks great," I said, going on to mention that it looked exactly like the kind of a ship that desperate pirates would attack, climbing on board to rape all the women and plunder everything else. Mitch had an instant reaction: "I feel sorry for you. Whatever it is, you instantly think of the thing that can wrong." Driving his point home, he added, "You're very sick in the head!"

What I see.

How sweet. My husband says I'm sick in the head because I prefer not to be held hostage, raped and plundered -- I know, people don't get plundered but the words often go together -- by pirates, the kind that were in the 2013, based-on-a-true-story film Captain Phillips starring Tom Hanks, which I personally think was his finest film ever in terms of pure acting, but anyway, I digress. Who knows -- my traumatic childhood abduction may have saved my life!

For example, I have never gone hiking with a girlfriend in Marrakesh and camped overnight, just the two of us in a flimsy little tent, like those two Norwegian women did last week who were beheaded by members of ISIS. If those women had been a little less adventurous and a bit more focused on the worst-case scenario they'd be alive today enjoying a more boring life, but still, a life. Sadly, they had apparently never suffered any childhood traumas that might have saved them.

Everyone's A Liar

About George Washington: That "cherry tree thing" was a lie!

Day before yesterday I spent a small fortune on a pair of prescription sunglasses. I was told by the friendly optician that my lenses were being made in Germany by the master craftsmen at Zeiss. Or maybe it was Switzerland, who knows. Anyway, they are master craftsmen wherever they are and they make each lens with unbelievable precision, and not only that but my personal initials are cut into each lens! How about that? For such excellence I would have to wait about 10 days to two weeks for my glasses, which of course is only reasonable. So imagine my surprise when I got a call today, a mere 48 hours later, telling me my glasses are ready.

I sputtered about how that couldn't be possible and just getting them here would take longer, not to mention making them, etc., etc. The answer was gobbledygook, but anyway they are ready.

Earlier today I read about an award-winning journalist in Germany -- just a coincidence -- who was found to have been fabricating stories for the even more award-winning weekly news magazine Der Speigel for several years. After a co-worker outed him, he resigned in disgrace. That guy should come to America where lying journalists, like Brian Williams, get brand new jobs after just a slap on the wrist and a year off. And lying opticians make a bundle on glasses they make in their own backyard but tell you they get made in Europe.

And FYI: That whole story we were taught about how George Washington couldn't tell a lie to his father about cutting down the cherry tree was a myth fabricated by Washington's biographer in order to sell more books. What's next, no Santa Claus?

Getting Through the Night

If we are not our minds and we are not our bodies, what are we? And if we have to be one of those two, which would I choose? These are the questions assaulting me at 4:05 this morning, while it was still dark outside and way too early to get out of bed. But tell that to my cat.

Awake in the middle of the night is a bad place to be, unless you're in Paris or Venice or someplace you've spent a lot of money getting to and so every minute counts. But in your regular house in your regular town it's unnerving, especially if that house is in the woods and the woods contain certain wildlife you'd be unhappy to encounter. This is the case where I live. No bears, but other things with fangs and long snouts and potentially malodorous emanations that can foul your life for a week or so.

So I got up and went down to the kitchen and made some coffee and fed the cat. I rightly might have written "fed the damn cat," but I love Lurch and thus can't curse him. He ate and went out into the night, fearless about meeting up with any of the creatures alluded to in the last paragraph. (I've given up trying to keep him inside, since domestication of animals is hardly different from human trafficking or slavery if you ask me.)

Mildly anxious due to the blackness enveloping my house, I grasped my cell phone and turned on a familiar source of comfort, the guided meditations of Tara Brach, a Buddhist practitioner who's actually a Jewish woman about my age who holds meetings in Bethesda, Maryland, my old stomping grounds, thus offering not a brave leap into the unknown but more of a friendly hand-holding until dawn. But today Tara's soothing voice didn't cut it and my anxiety actually grew listening to her.

I turned to Garrison Keillor and the gentle folks of Lake Woebegone. It worked. He was hysterical as usual, and once again I saw the truth of the adage, "Laughter is the best medicine." I listened to small-town stories for about 45 minutes, eventually calm enough to make breakfast. After that, I opened my computer and looked around for awhile until I came to "Only 1 in 30 Women Can Identify These 60s Male Icons. Can You?" Up for a challenge, I took the quiz and aced it. At the end of correctly answering 75 questions I was told, "You got 100%! You're hot!"

By then it was light outside, although still ten minutes from sunrise. But I felt better. My mind had stopped producing non-stop thoughts of a recently deceased friend, an impending medical procedure and a 6-hour flight across the country the day after the day after tomorrow. Instead I was busy digesting my food and well into a second cup of coffee. I considered the possibility of moving to a place where it's never dark, or at least not for very long, like the Land of the Midnight Sun. Wherever that is.

Apps To Die For

I titled this post just to be funny since it's about phone apps and the first one I'll discuss is WeCroak. My husband, who is basically obsessed with the subject, loves this one, although I do not. I tell him I already know I'm going to die, I don't need five daily reminders, thank you very much. But I get them anyway since whenever one pops up Mitch reacts audibly, usually with a groan. Naturally this prompts me to ask him what's wrong, to which he replies, "I'm going to die someday." Keeping this knowledge in the forefront of your mind is supposed to enhance the quality of one's life, but based on Mitch's increasingly gloomy disposition, it doesn't. You can do what you want of course, but I'd steer clear of this one.

On a happier note, there are some apps I heartily endorse. A short list of my favorites follows, and I do mean short -- in 2018 there are roughly 2 million apps available to download.

1. Shazam  This app finds the name and artist of any music that's playing within earshot, keeping you from going nuts wondering who's the artist or what's the title. Out in a restaurant, or anywhere there's music playing, you simply hold your phone up in the air and, with enough time, the answer appears. So if the song is, "Baby, It's Cold Outside," you can find out which sexist pig is singing it and then complain to the management to turn it off.

2. HQ Trivia  Daily at 3 and 9 pm, there's a fun game to play where you might even win money! Despite my mini-addiction I've never won a dime since there's only ten seconds to answer each of 12 increasingly difficult questions, which means not enough time to Google it. You're competing with roughly 500,000 others to split the $5,000 prize, although sometimes the pot is $25,000. The best part, besides learning esoteric stuff you never knew, is the game's emcee Scott Rogowski, a gifted comic who is beyond hysterical and definitely reason enough to log in.

3. Pandora  Basically this is free radio tailored to your personal tastes. You plug in a song or an artist you like and it creates a channel just for you. About a quarter of the selections will be the named artist or group, and the rest will be others with a similar sound.

4. Venmo  If you're short on cash, have lost your credit card, or for some reason find yourself penniless, you can still pay for your dinner. Just have your companion pay and Venmo your share! This app transfers money directly from your bank account into another in as little as ten minutes. (Yes, both parties need the app.)


5. Calm  Meditation is bigger than ever these days, but some poor souls remain unenlightened. It's hard to factor doing nothing at all into a busy schedule, thereby letting another day of mindlessness slip by. But Calm tells you exactly how, when and where to ascend to a higher level of consciousness.

6. Map My Fitness  How far did you run? Or walk, or bike? And where did you go? You might want to know, and just by turning on this app when you go out to exercise, you'll have the information, (shown on a map) at your fingertips when you get home. Then you can show your route to your friends and family, or if you're even more self-absorbed, post it on Facebook! (Another app of course, but you knew that.)


7. Open Table  Absolutely the easiest way to plan a dinner out, Open Table saves you the heartache of calling restaurant after restaurant and being told there's no room at the inn, or that there's room, but not when you want to go. Instead, you are presented with a list of eateries that can accommodate your party with the times that are open. Most restaurants in most big cities have registered with this app, but some haven't so you might still have to go it alone for someplace especially esoteric.

8. Waze  Offering a navigation system based on real-time information concerning traffic in your area at the moment, this is a must-have for getting to the airport in rush hour, or on road trips in unknown territory. But be brave: To escape the jams and reach your destination, Waze takes you down secret paths, back alleys and dirt roads. It can be scary sometimes, but you'll get there, and ahead of everyone stuck on the Interstate. 

9. The Weather Channel  You know what this one is, and you probably already have it. In case you don't, what are you waiting for? It's essential for anyone who is planning travel to another city, or even just going outdoors where they live.

10. The Moon  Great for vampires (for obvious reasons), this app is also just plain fun if you're into the moon. Is it waxing? Is it waning? When will it be a full moon? These are things some unusual people want to know. My husband is one of them, since even though he will die someday, he's very interested in the phases of the moon while he's still alive.

11. Tides Near Me Any boaters out there? If so, you need this one. Check to see when the tides will be are high or low and avoid getting trapped out on some low-lying island in the middle of the bay, or ocean, or whatever tidal waters you frequent.

12. Words With Friends  What -- you don't play Words With Friends? Surely you jest. What do you do when your plane is delayed? Or sitting at the orthodontist while junior is getting those braces adjusted? Or just about anytime and anywhere there's nothing else to do? You could turn on Calm (see # 5) and reach nirvana, or you could play WWF and avoid getting Alzheimer's, since studies like the one done by Cambridge University suggest that word games boost the memory and may reduce the risk of dementia.  It's your choice, along with the more than 57 million other folks playing at any moment, according Michelle David, the app's lead experience designer.

"Killing Eve" Is Killing Me

It's not news that we live in difficult times. Just a few months ago the New York Times wrote, "Long-term use of antidepressants is surging in the United States, according to a new analysis of federal data. Some 15.5 million Americans have been taking the medications for at least five years. The rate has almost doubled since 2010, and more than tripled since 2000."

I don't take antidepressants, but it's not because I don't need them -- it's because I already take daily medications for other health problems and the thought of adding another makes me anxious, which is why I take all the other meds in the first place. (Control of blood pressure and heart issues.) Instead, I rely on reruns of old sitcoms (Friends, Everybody Loves Raymond, The King of Queens) to lift my spirits, calm me down and make me laugh.

Now more than ever the entertainment industry dominates our culture, offering distraction from a harsh reality: climate change, political infighting, homelessness, destitute refugees, foreign wars. Binge-watching TV shows is common, and I've done my share. Comedies like Grace & Frankie, Curb Your Enthusiasm, VEEP, the soapy Grey's Anatomy, and even the violent but mostly funny and stylistically beautiful The Sopranos have prevented me from dwelling on the terrifying state of affairs we all face. But there's a whole other category of "entertainment" out there that I just don't understand, even though lots of other people do.

I passed up the critically acclaimed Breaking Bad for years, because who the heck finds pleasure watching a man with terminal cancer who turns to making and selling crystal meth as a way to stockpile cash for his family after he's dead? Finally I decided that 58 Emmy Award nominations (and 16 wins) couldn't be wrong, so I caved. I lasted for five episodes of the first season, until the horrifically bloody deaths of so many people in the unsavory drug world made me feel so much worse than ordinary life without that show in it. I quit watching it and felt better immediately.

Recently, on the recommendation of a close friend and because I love Sandra Oh, the star of the series (pictured above), I decided to check out the BBC hit Killing Eve. I managed to sit through two of the 43-minute episodes in the show's first season. This involved watching people die in the following ways: a hair pin stuck in an eyeball, four slit throats, a stomach pumped full of bullets, and two poisonings by asphyxiation. Each murder was performed by a young female sociopath assassin who had a ball doing it, basically laughing all the way to the bank. In fact, I found her cold-hearted reaction to murdering strangers for reasons completely unknown to her even more disturbing than the very acts themselves.

I did not have any fun watching this scripted mayhem, yet all the reviews of the show promised I would. One critic called it "delicious fun," while another said it was "an intelligent spy-thriller and captivating good time." The fans love it, so now it's on to Season 2. None for me thanks-- I'm hoping to sleep through the night sometime soon.

I am left wondering why so many people find this sort of entertainment entertaining. As a society, we've come a long way from Mr. Ed (talking horse) Car 54, Where Are You? (dumb cops) I Dream of Jeannie (astronaut marries a genie who lives in a bottle), Leave It to Beaver (average American family solves typical problems), Father Knows Best (the title says it all), and all the other shows of the 1950s and 60s that were not about drug addiction, prison life, sex crimes and murder, murder, murder, murder. I see Killing Eve as a further descent into Hell rather than as an escape from the one we live in called Real Life, and no fun at all.

A Merry Christmas After All

How did I get this old without ever seeing any of these?

Last night, momentarily insane, I agreed to travel during the Christmas holidays. My lapse in judgement may have stemmed from a "Cool Whip shot" I ingested at a Christmas party two nights ago.  I'm not sure what was in it; one person said rum and another said Kahlua. Anyway, hoping to shed my "Bah, humbug!" reputation and get in the spirit of things, I went for it. This was right after a fellow reveler had approached me with a plastic bag full of individual cups of jello, holding it out for me to take one. I asked what it was and she found my query so hysterical she had to tell several  people standing nearby about it. Anyway, turns out they were "Jello shots," which was news to me. Despite my past consumption of pot, LSD, mescaline, cocaine, magic mushrooms, hashish and a wide variety of frozen alcoholic beverages with little umbrellas sticking out of them, I had never come across one of those. (Live and learn.)

As for the insanity mentioned earlier, my husband and I will fly almost all the way across the country to be with friends in Phoenix on Christmas Day. Naturally my mixed emotions are being whipped into a lather by the TV meteorologists who aim to make every weather event The Storm of the Century. This morning, during a local report on the friendly snowfall we are experiencing as I write this, one of them said, "I promise this holiday weekend, travel will be a mess!" (Really? You promise?)

Normally, being Jewish we usually do nothing besides watch a movie and order Chinese take-out, like we learned in Hebrew school. There's no frantic last-minute shopping or late night gift-wrapping sessions, and Christmas is just a regular day, only without mail and the newspaper. But this year we will celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus with dear old friends who are Italian Catholics, complete with a tree, holiday lights, presents and a lasagna dinner attended by 14 people. I better start shopping.

Marriage 101

A young newlywed friend of mine asked me if marriage is more than having someone to listen to your complaints all the time. I told him yes, of course there's more to it. Marriage is a wonderful convenience for people who are looking for a scapegoat, which is just about everyone. Around my house I get blamed for everything. If anything is lost, I obviously threw it out. If the door is locked, I obviously locked it, even if I was asleep in my bed when my spouse went out to get the mail at the post office.

On the other hand, when you need a driver to take you home after your colonoscopy, you've got one at the ready. Last time I asked if I could simply call a cab and they said no, explaining that the hospital will not permit you to leave with a stranger after you have been anesthetized. (Thanks a lot, #MeToo movement.)

The Fake Authenticity of Lil Miquela

"Keep Obama in president!"

Surely you remember the "Obamaphone lady," pictured at right, a somewhat endearing idiot who was voting for Obama because he was giving all the people on welfare free cell phones, as opposed to his opponent Romney, about whom she succinctly said, "He sucks."  At the time I was appalled that such a large portion of our population believed such rot and acted upon it. But by today's standards that Obamaphone lady was a Rhodes scholar.

An article in today's Wall Street Journal describes the rise of an Instagram superstar who has 1.5 million followers watching her every move. Her name is Miquela Sousa, a.k.a. Lil Miquela, and she's about to become an even bigger "influencer" than the Kardashians, if such a thing is possible what with Kim's ginormous butt. But here's the rub: Miquela is a fake. As in not a real person, but a so-called "CGI-based social media influencer" represented by a Los Angeles startup called Brud. CGI stands for computer-generated imagery, and Miquela came to be in 2016 as part of a digital art project with an Instagram account.

Her agents have Miquela inserted into photographs of actual high-end restaurants or wearing expensive fashion brands. Billboards in London and Japan currently feature her touting Ugg products, testing the power of a social media celebrity. "I think the success of digital talent is in their engagement and their authenticity," said Adam Westcott, partner at a talent management firm for social media influencers. (Yes, he said that.)

While Kim Kardashian has a fake butt, at least she's got a beating heart. Suddenly she doesn't seem quite so bad.

Film Review: DUMPLIN'

Given the state of the nation it was only a matter of time, but finally, being fat is in. And not only is it in, but it's better than being thin. Apparently fat people are nicer, more generous and have a better outlook on life than mere superficialities. Or so the story goes. (Truth be told, they do judge people on looks, and anyone audacious enough to be thin and in shape sucks.)

The Netflix movie Dumplin' brings this point home in spades. Despite the fact that it's not a "real movie" but one made for TV, it's gotten a lot of reviews, all positive, including one calling it a "feel-good hit" and a clear thumbs-up from a New York Times critic who is usually hard as nails to please.

It turns out that I am even harder to please since I found it cloying, simplistic and impossible to watch in one sitting without tossing my cookies. So I watched it two nights in a row, since I wanted to get it under my belt after reading about it in so many places. I am always interested in the portrayal of fat people in films, having grown up in the enormous shadow of my obese older sister and seeing the devastation involved firsthand. Also, I've been a fan of Jennifer Aniston since her days on Friends and wanted to see what she's up to these days. (She was one of the film's producers.)

The movie, based on a young-adult novel of the same name, turns a blind eye to the girth of the main character, an obese teen named Willowdean Dickson (Danielle Macdonald) who goes by the name of Will (she's so strong!). But her skinny mom Rosie (Aniston) still calls her by the childhood nickname Dumplin' -- an obvious reference to her doughy, pudgy body. Rosie also leaves prepared salads for Will in the fridge, which is supposed to indicate how unfeeling and downright malicious she is in wanting her only daughter to lose weight and get healthy. (I thought it was nice.)

There's no dad in sight and we wonder who pays the bills, since Rosie spends most of her time running teen beauty pageants in a small towns somewhere in Texas. She's done it for years since she won the local crown herself twenty years ago. Daughter Will decides to enter the pageant despite her obvious physical flaw, and gets two other friends -- a macho lesbian and an even fatter girl -- to join her as a protest to all those horrid people who value looks and thin bodies and girly girls. (How dare they?)

Blah, blah, blah. The handsomest boy in high school (Luke Benward) falls for Will even though the thin, sexy girl who ultimately wins the pageant asks him to the dance, but he doesn't like her "that way." Instead he wants only Will because she's so beautiful on the inside. (This movie is a fantasy, after all.) The entire soundtrack is comprised of Dolly Parton songs -- she wrote six new ones for this film -- so if that's your thing you'll be entertained. Also amusing are a group of drag queens who help Will and her cohorts transform themselves for the pageant, doing their hair and makeup and teaching them how to strut their stuff.

In the end Rosie sees the error of her ways and the fat friend is named First Runner Up, but Will is disqualified for breaking some pageant rule -- she's such a rebel! -- even though she gave a fabulous performance and the crowd loved her. Buoyed by the applause, she strides out on her wobbly, red high heels and goes straight to the diner where the hot high school boy works and they kiss, out in the parking lot next to the dumpster, because now she knows she's worth a guy like him.

All I can say is poor Jennifer Aniston. She deserves better.

Seize the Day

 

 

Ten Thousand Flowers in Spring, the Moon in Autumn

  By Wu Men Hui-k'ai

   
Ten thousand flowers in spring, 
the moon in autumn,
a cool breeze in summer, 
snow in winter.
 
If your mind isn't clouded by unnecessary things,
this is the best season of your life.

Let's NOT Do Lunch

I just learned about a poet named Rumi who lived in Persia about 800 years ago, give or take a century. Supposedly he is the most-read, best-selling poet in America today, which I find hard to believe since you never hear a word about him. Instead it's Trump, Trump, Trump all the time, and occasionally Maya Angelou. Anyway, I listened to one of Rumi's poems on a meditation podcast and decided to order "The Essential Rumi," and I'm glad I did. Reading his words late last night rescued me from a Darkening Mood that threatened to morph into a Pit of Despair where I might have lain until God knows when, seeing as my husband is out of town and I have no friends in the immediate area checking in on me.

Even if I had any, that's simply not the Maine way -- I could lay in that Despair Pit for a week without anyone noticing. I've accepted that fact after almost ten years here, until today when an article in the Wall Street Journal on the dangers of loneliness among aging baby boomers gave me a start. The claim was made that loneliness "is as closely linked to early mortality as smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day or consuming more than six alcoholic drinks a day. It is even worse for longevity than obesity or inactivity."

So starting today I vow to reach out more. For example, yesterday I never interacted with anyone except with my husband on the phone. On the other hand, I spent hours painting in my studio, which is more rewarding to me than chit-chatting at a cafe with a friend. (Maybe the loneliness thing doesn't apply to artists.)

As for Rumi, he suggested fasting as a way to increase creativity and self-realization: "There's hidden sweetness in the stomach's emptiness. If the brain and belly are burning clean with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire." So there's another reason to skip lunch with a friend. Or even lunch alone.

We Are All Addicts

Certainly there are better and worse things one might become addicted to, but I have never met anyone who is not addicted to something. (Have you?) I recently heard an expert on the subject, some sort of psychologist, assert that these days children as young as two show signs of addiction to their toys and games. He added that the average child acquires a cell phone at age ten, after which he or she abandons the felt world and enters a virtual reality where they will reside until their death or the loss of their phone, whichever comes first.

Over the years my personal addictions have changed. The earliest one was dieting. This was the result of having a mother who was a former dancer who ate like a bird and weighed about as much as one, coupled with an older sister who got fat as a form of rebellion and stayed that way, giving me a front row seat at the eternal passion play, The Misery of Obesity. I dieted from the age of 12, in between compulsive and binge eating. I did Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, oh who cares -- you get the idea.

My next addiction was running; that was a fun one. I did it six days a week in all sorts of weather. The best part was that I could eat anything I wanted and never gain weight! I didn't stop until one of my hips all but disintegrated, requiring a fake one to be installed. These days I am addicted to writing this blog, and then reading it and re-reading it. And then editing it. But hey, it's not damaging to my health, unless you count the health of my marriage since I require my husband to read it every day and when he doesn't I'm annoyed, or worse.

Other popular addictions I happily do not have include alcohol, heroin, opioids, prescription drugs (although I do love my lorazepam, possibly too much), nicotine, cocaine, crystal meth, gambling, sex, food, shopping, playing video games, mindlessly checking cell phones, scrolling Facebook, watching YouTube, watching reality TV, having plastic surgery and shoplifting. For reasons not yet understood, nobody is addicted to cleaning public bathrooms, helping strangers in need, preparing healthy home-cooked meals, picking up litter from the streets, stopping to talk to the homeless or reflecting on our inevitable death. Those would be some pretty good ones to have.

You Are What You Eat

I recently had the misfortune of spending several hours inside an airport, and then, adding insult to injury, inside an airplane. Both experiences were unpleasant, adding no joy whatsoever to this supposedly joyful period called "the Christmas season."

To wait out the long hours until our flight, having arrived at the airport very early in order to escape an oncoming blizzard where we were, my husband and I opted for a leisurely lunch at a restaurant called Wolfgang Puck's Kitchen, or something like that. The famous chef had lent his name and culinary expertise to the establishment, so we assumed the food would be reasonably tasty and at the same time not send us to the ER, which is about all I was hoping for, what with toxic romaine lettuce blanketing the country.

Besides the ridiculously high prices aimed at a captive audience of travelers already through the security line so nobody's leaving no matter how bad things are, the next insult was the arrival of the wrong entree. I had ordered the Asian Chicken Salad, specifically because it was made with non-poisonous lettuce, my favorite kind. Instead I was presented with a Caesar Salad, easily recognized as a bowl of romaine with croutons, Parmesan and E. Coli sprinkled on top. I ask you: do those two salads sound alike? Go ahead--say them out loud: ASIAN CHICKEN SALAD. CAESAR SALAD. No they do not, but they must have to our waitress. (I should have known something was amiss when she served our food and left immediately without saying "Enjoy!")

While some may say romaine has gotten the all-clear, as recently as yesterday the CDC warned the public "to remain cautious about eating romaine lettuce," which in my book means don't go near the stuff. Thus I rejected the platter of poison. After some time, while my considerate husband picked at his own lunch so as not to finish his before I even started mine, the desired salad that would not kill me arrived.

I know this is all petty stuff and "first-world problems" and an example of White Privilege and blah, blah, blah, but since I consider any meal I eat before boarding a flight to possibly be my last meal, I'd like it to at least be something I want. Is that too much to ask?

A Novel Vacation

Sometimes you just need to get away. Real life can be so unpleasant, especially these days with the commenting hordes on the Internet ruining everything. For example, on Facebook this morning a news story reported details of yesterday's  stately funeral service for president George H. W. Bush, held at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. It was a sober and somber affair, lightened by a few funny stories from his friends and family. One eulogist was his son, former president George W. Bush, who delivered a terrific tribute to his dad. But the trolls on Facebook tore into him, bringing out the hackneyed slings and arrows used on him years ago. So it's come to this: A grieving (Republican) son is a target for some ignorant (Democrat) citizen's decades-old ire.

Average people -- and I do mean average-- have become cruel to the max, plain and simple. Thus, the aforementioned escape. The following novels have transported me to another world, saving me much despair over this one, no matter how many times I have read them. Pick one up and go for it; it's so much more relaxing than scrolling through the Internet.

 The Sweet Hereafter (Russell Banks)

Mildred Pierce (James M. Cain)

Mrs. Bridge (Evan S. Connell)

Mr. Bridge (Evan S. Connell)

The Hours (Michael Cunningham)

White Noise (Don DeLillo)

An American Tragedy (Theodore Dreiser)

Being There (Jerzy Kosinski)

Into Thin Air (Jon Krakauer)

Martin Dressler: The Tale of an American Dreamer (Steven Millhauser)

Too Late the Phalarope (Alan Paton)

Maus (Art Spiegelmann)

Ethan Frome (Edith Wharton)

The Bonfire of the Vanities (Tom Wolfe)

Job-Hunting in Maine

In an ongoing effort to "give back" to the community, not to mention get out of the house once in awhile lest I forget how to conduct myself in the presence of others, I have once again scheduled a meeting with an organization that is looking for volunteers.  This one seems right up my alley, as they want people who can teach youngsters ages 6 to 18 how to write. Let's face it, I can write, and I do have years of teaching experience. SO WHAT COULD GO WRONG?  Just a few possibilities follow, based on my past experiences as an interviewee in the great state of Maine. (Parenthesis indicate the actual organization where the thing really happened.)

1. I will get to the appointment on time but nobody will be there and the place will be locked up tight. (Portland Magazine)

2. I will get to the appointment on time, be kept waiting for half an hour, get pissed off and leave before I ever see anyone. (Estabrook's Garden Center)

3. I will arrive on time and find that the interviewer is not ready for me and asks me to wait. I will then be ushered into a hallway where there is no chair for me to sit on. The interviewer's 6-year-old granddaughter will remain for the duration of the interview and complain that she is bored. (Wilbur's Chocolates)

4. I will be interviewed with a group of seven other people by two women simultaneously and asked to "role play" a variety of scenarios, like being trapped on a desert island with the other people, causing me to sigh audibly, roll my eyes and not get the job. (L.L. Bean Retail Store) 

5. I will be asked to do something demeaning and unnecessary, as when I was ordered to push a candy cart around and around the pediatric wing of a hospital, stopping to offer a variety of fun-sized candies to the doctors and nurses, for three hours. (Barbara Bush Children's Hospital, Maine Medical Center)

6. I will be asked to do something annoying and stupid, like when I walked around a hospital knocking on the doors of sick people and asking if they liked the food. (Mid-Coast Hospital, Brunswick) 

7. The interviewer will take one look at me and decide I am just too old to be of any use. (Brunswick Food Pantry) 

8. The interviewer will take one look at me and decide I am just too Jewish to have around. (Casco Bay YMCA, Freeport)

Finger's crossed that today will work out better!

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Today I had a frank discussion with a friend about something rarely talked about in polite, or even impolite, society: The total and complete lack of libido in women past a certain age. For those who don't speak Latin, that means they don't want to have sex -- anytime, anywhere, and with anyone. I was delighted to learn that I'm not the only one suffering from this humiliating affliction that our culture considers a deal-killer when it comes to being an attractive or desirable person. The only possible fix is to take estrogen in tablets, cream or injections, but since that can give you breast and/or cervical cancer, it's not very popular. Quick, what would you choose: Orgasms and cancer or no orgasms and no cancer?

Still, a lack of libido is not something women like to broadcast. Nobody is going to make a GoFundMe page to raise money for their estrogen-related chemotherapy treatments. Admitting to a lack of sex drive is as unpopular as being a brown-skinned leper in a sea of white missionaries. (Worldwide prevalence of leprosy is reported to be around 5.5 million, with 80% of these cases in India, Indonesia, Myanmar, Brazil and Nigeria.) It might be worse, since married lepers are surely not told by their spouses, "It's all in your mind." 

I assumed my problem was due to my husband being eleven years my junior, but my friend's significant other is a dozen years older than she is, making him exactly my age, so there goes that theory. Here's the solution she shared with me, something tested and re-tested in her home: The Fleshlight, a 100% polyester lifelike vagina discreetly packaged inside what looks like an ordinary household flashlight. I won't describe it further since most of the men and all of the women reading this are probably already Googling it, and a picture is worth a thousand words. Bear in mind, The Fleshlight needs a thorough cleaning after each use and must be replaced annually, or more often depending on how vigorous your man is. 

So that's my yuletide tip for today. At least someone on your gift list will have a Merry Christmas!

Stop Yelling, and Learn to Swim

It's odd that people don't get along better when we're all in the same boat, the boat being Life and certain Death, unrelenting Anxiety that muddles our thinking, and constant Aggression that causes us to lash out at one another even though we're all we've got. Few of us understand, or if we do still we don't try to help, that stress and turmoil in any part of the boat is likely to shake up the whole damn vessel, ultimately dumping everyone overboard.

Right now the SS Humanity is taking on water at an alarming rate and several of the engine rooms are flooded. This is not at all surprising when you consider the people at the helm. I am not one of them; generally I stay off the bridge and hang out below deck. I admit this is cowardly but I simply don't have the  stamina to take responsibility for too many of the other passengers; I pretty much limit my care-taking to my immediate family and a few close friends. And myself, naturally.

The alarming fact is that there is no other boat! This realization causes me great anxiety and is the reason I begin each day by swallowing a mouthful of pills that the ship's doctors hand out freely to anyone with a problem. Most days the pills help, or else it's the oatmeal with walnuts and turmeric -- I always feel better right after that. But so many others onboard are eating badly, sickened from consuming too much sugar, salt and dead animals, it's little wonder there's so much conflict.

But never fear! In case you do fall overboard, remember the popular Buddhist saying: "If you know you're the ocean, you're not afraid of the waves." Still, a few swimming lessons couldn't hurt.

Bad Jokes for A Rainy Day

This particular day is more than half over and I have done nothing that qualifies as special, memorable or fun, unless you count doing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle which my husband and I do every weekend and today's was a drag. Boring and stupid, with of course the usual clue about Supreme Court justice Kagan (Answer: ELENA).  Some days are like that. But then you read these books about how you are supposed to make every minute count, and that just makes you feel worse.

My husband says perhaps I could make every minute count by enjoying things that are not traditionally enjoyable, like today's cold, driving winter rain falling on piles of dirty snow with not a hint of sunshine. I find his suggestion sick and twisted. Come on, admit it: It's hard to stay upbeat all the time.

One remedy is to pull out the bad jokes. The ones below come from "A Prairie Home Companion Pretty Good Joke Book," with an introduction by Garrison Keillor written before he was accused of being a sexual predator. It says right on the cover, "Delight your friends and become the envy of your social circle," and who doesn't want that? So go for it.

Why was Cinderella so lousy at baseball?
She ran away from the ball and she had a pumpkin for a coach.

What do you say to a hitchhiker with one leg?
Hop in.

What do you call cheese that doesn't belong to you?
Nacho cheese.

Why are you scratching yourself?
I'm the only one who knows where it itches.

Patient: Doc, I'm suicidal, what should I do?
Doctor: Pay in advance. 

What's the best thing about having a woman for president?
We wouldn't have to pay her as much. 

What do you use to fix a broken tomato?
Tomato paste.

Wife: Honey, pack your bags-- I just won the lottery! 
Husband: Wow! That's great! Should I pack for the ocean, the mountains, or where?
Wife: It doesn't matter -- just get the hell out.

My company put me up in a low-class hotel. I called the concierge and said, "I've got a leak in my sink."
She said, "Go ahead."

Film Review: THREE IDENTICAL STRANGERS

The brothers, happily reunited.

A mind-blowing documentary that will have you questioning everything you think you know about yourself, Three Identical Strangers opens a door into the unwittingly nefarious nature of scientific advancement, complete with evil villains and innocent lambs. It's a true story which makes it even better and, at the same time worse, about identical triplets who were separated not at birth but at six months, and how they accidentally meet one another at the age of 19.

As New York Times critic Manohla Dargis wisely wrote in her review, this is a film that is "best watched knowing as little as possible about its specifics." I agree so will say no more. But I urge you to find it and watch it; it will entertain you and make you smarter. Besides, the film is shot beautifully in truly living color and includes historic footage of New York City in the 1980s, an exciting era before AIDS and terrorists ruined all the fun.