Bracing Myself for Old Age

Later today I am getting Invisalign braces. To say I am not looking forward to it is an understatement of mammoth proportions. For the next year to year-and-a half I will wear plastic covers over my teeth requiring me to A, not eat while they are in place and B, brush and floss my teeth after eating anything while they are out. Also, they will likely be uncomfortable and I must wear them while I sleep. Lastly, they cost a small fortune. (Modesty prevents me from saying how much, but my husband and I could go on a six-week grand European tour instead.)

So I was dismayed when I confessed my apprehension earlier today to my son, who is 31 and unfamiliar with how to deal with the aged, having never had grandparents. He said, "Why are you getting braces? Aren't you like 70 or something? And you're already married, so why does it matter how you look?"

My answers are as follows:
1. My teeth are moving crazily, making flossing in certain areas nearly impossible.
2. I could live another 20 years, and the situation will only worsen over time.
3. My current husband could die and then it would matter how I look if I wanted to snag another one.
4. Regardless of how I am seen by the rest of the world, it's me in the mirror each morning.

Kids!

Duh!

Albert Einstein

Francis Scott Key started the rumor that America is the land of the free and the home of the brave back in 1914, and it was incorporated into our national anthem in 1930. Maybe it was true once, but not anymore. Now it's the land of the paranoid and home of the insane.

Since the very moment Donald Trump won the election and months before he took office, the Democrats have had one goal in mind: to kick him out. Rather than give him a chance, they assumed upfront that he would do horrendous deeds. That is paranoid.

Albert Einstein is widely credited with saying, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.” Yesterday many of the people we elect and pay to make our laws, keep the peace and get things running smoothly for the remaining 325 million of us spent the day stuck inside a room, asking questions of Michael Cohen, a man who has already been sentenced to prison for having lied to the same people in the same venue before. Only this time they decided to think he would tell the truth. That's insane.

Christine Blasey Ford Redux

Despite the fact that today I could walk down the streets of Freeport naked and get little attention (except that it's eighteen degrees outside so my stamina might impress a few people), in my younger days I got more than my share of attention from men. This included numerous boyfriends, another husband, and plenty of unsolicited and unwanted sexual advances in the workplace from every boss I ever had and a succession of nerds, dorks, dweebs, cads and the occasional hunk.

Included among all that unwanted attention were countless ass-grabs and impromptu hugs at office Christmas parties and more than a few surprise kisses in the Xerox room. Sometimes I was grossed out, other times merely pissed off, yet never was I traumatized. Nor did I ever relive the moment where the creepy guy's face came closer and closer. I also didn't cry about it, although I did warn other women to be wary of so-and-so.

Which brings me to the ridiculous "performance" I saw last night on the soap-opera channel MSNBC, wherein a former Trump campaign worker, a box of tissues at the ready, accused the then-candidate of "forcibly" kissing her on the side of the mouth. OY! She cried real tears as she remembered the horror -- three years old by now -- of realizing he was going to do it! OMG!

The woman's story is absurd, mostly because:
1. Who the hell remembers a half-kiss from some guy you worked for three years ago?
2. Why would Trump kiss her, a black woman, if he is such a racist and she is not at all attractive?
3. Why would someone take a low-paying campaign job that required traveling for six months with Trump, leaving her family and "babies" at home, for a candidate she never, ever thought had a chance of winning, her explanation for not coming out with her story at the time?
4. Why would she then apply for a job in the Trump White House after he had allegedly "violated" her?
5. What kind of publicity-whore hires a lawyer and goes on TV now because a famous guy she worked for three years ago almost kissed her, sort of?

The Lost Romance of the Ring

Long ago, a ringing telephone signified that something was about to change. Be it good or bad, there was always a surprise at the other end of the line. Just that one simple thing made everyday life more exciting. I can still recall, when I was finally old enough to be permitted to answer the phone at our house, feeling quite grown up and important. "I'll get it!" was just about my favorite thing to say.

Flash forward to now. An article in USA Today details cell phone etiquette in these dismal times. First of all, you must never call anyone without texting them first to see if they are in the right frame of mind to talk; if you do you are clearly an insensitive boor. As for landlines, which still exist in many homes, usually those inhabited by dinosaurs or rural folks who want the local emergency squad to be able to find them -- I fall into both categories --  the truly paranoid Caller ID function has removed all romance from the ring.

Now that you can see upfront who's calling, and it's likely to be someone or something you don't want to talk to, those unexpected chance encounters never happen. Like just now as I was writing this, a call came from my good buddy, MEDICAL SUPPLY. I did not answer. But what if  I had?

Reading and Writing

Being stuck inside with a severe head cold, I am finding little to do to amuse myself but write. Painting is out of the question as my near-constant sneezing and runny nose make it all but impossible, whereas a sneeze barely interrupts my writing but for a second. Writing is as close as I can get to having a conversation, but without all that down time waiting for the other person to finish talking. (Eating is also no problem, and I just finished off the ice cream my husband went out and got for me last night when I was feeling my worst.)

One of my friends is fond of keeping a diary, which these days is called "journaling." Journaling is so much more evolved than the "Dear Diary" of the old days. You don't write about what you did, but rather about the profundity of what you did. Since I do almost nothing I or anyone else would consider profound, I don't journal. (Actually, I consider nothing profound except giving birth, and that's the truth.)

I have written many short stories and two novels, none of which have found a wide audience. Or any audience. Even my husband has not read my last novel, which is funny since it's all about him and his twin brother, and it's easily accessible online. But hey, that's his business; my writing style is not for everyone, that's for sure. I don't go for that high-blown descriptive stuff. I hate reading things like, "It was a pale, soft morning and the translucent clouds wafted across the sky like cotton balls." Or maybe they were dark storm clouds that marched across the sky in formation, like rookies at boot camp. Or whatever. I'd rather say, "It was a cloudy day." This is why I don't get published in the New Yorker.

Anyway, I am currently reading a novel by Shirley Jackson, one of my favorite no-nonsense authors, called "We Have Always Lived in the Castle." The last thing she wrote before her death at the young age of 49, and apparently her "masterpiece" according to all the critics, I am surprised that I never read it before, or even heard of it. I just stumbled across it in a bookstore the other day looking for something they didn't have. It's pretty good so I guess I'll get back to it now.

Poor Glenn Close

Quick, name a movie starring Glenn Close. Okay, there's The Big Chill, Fatal Attraction, Dangerous Liaisons and Jagged Edge. 101 Dalmations, The World According to Garp, Hook, Air Force One, Mars Attacks, Reversal of Fortune and The Natural. The Stepford Wives. There's a lot more, but my point is there's plenty.

Now quick, name a movie starring Halle Berry. Who? Halle Berry -- remember her? Very pretty black woman? Did a lot of Revlon commercials? Okay, well there was Catwoman. And X-Men. And lots of other crappy films nobody remembers. So how come Berry got an Oscar for Best Actress in 2002 at age 36 for Monster's Ball, a movie seen by nobody I ever met, and Glenn Close, twice her age, hasn't ever gotten one, including this year for The Wife?

The undeniable and sad truth is that nobody likes Glenn, despite her outstanding talent. I certainly don't and never have, even though Fatal Attraction is my go-to movie when I'm bored, feeling down or simply in the mood for a great yarn. I've seen it at least ten times and it never gets old, mostly because Glenn turned in a performance that never stops amazing. Still, I wouldn't want to meet her for lunch or anything. There's just something about her that's a turn-off, and I don't know what it is but it's why she lost the Best Actress Oscar for the seventh time!

You've got to wonder what it takes to get one of those things. Apparently wearing a 42-pound dress to the awards like Glenn did last night doesn't get you one, although I bet it does get you a major backache the next day. Anyway, I hope Glenn doesn't take the snub too hard and do something foolish, like OD on pills and liquor. In the silver lining department, if she did she would definitely get an Oscar next year -- one of those posthumous ones.

Hollywood's Finest

One of those Hollywood starlets who doesn't want to be thought of as a sex object wore this tasteful dress to last night's Academy Awards ceremony. (Too bad Harvey Weinstein wasn't there.)

What's That Smell?

Back when I was a teenager lacking self-confidence, I slathered on a cologne popular at the time so I would smell like all the popular girls. Eventually I realized that I would rather smell like myself and gave up the habit. Since then, nary a drop of perfume, cologne or scent of any kind, be it in lotions, deodorant, dish detergent or whatever, has touched my skin. In fact, I have often wondered who wears the stuff and how they have the nerve to enter a public elevator, go to a restaurant or get on an airplane. Today I got a clue.

In an interview in the Wall Street Journal, a master perfumer explains that his goal isn't to make things smell pretty, it's actually to "deliver an emotional and functional benefit to the consumer." He further states that a "clean laundry smell can deliver the impression of clean laundry and also the satisfaction of having done a good job."

Harrumph! The impression of clean laundry? I prefer actual clean laundry. As for the satisfaction of having done a good job, I have never resorted to a pile of laundry for that perk. Besides, I only buy detergents that are 100% free of perfumes and dyes. My current brand  claims to be the #1 choice of allergists, pediatricians and dermatologists for sensitive skin, and who doesn't have sensitive skin?

The annual salary for perfumers ranges from $90,000 to $283,000 depending on job location and experience. I'd say that's a pretty good gig for producing something nobody needs that does nothing.

Goodbye Cruel World

It's over. My love affair with the Internet is now officially dead. All that remains is the messy divorce.

I simply can't take another second seeing the mountains of bullshit that constitute the Internet. For example, this is from an article about living with chronic disease: "Living with chronic illness makes every day a little harder, but it also makes every day a little sweeter. Some days I marvel at just being alive." Bullshit! The truth is that living with a chronic disease makes every day a little harder, and that's that. Most days I marvel that I can stand being alive with my particular disease for one more second.

Then there are the stories about starlets I've never heard of posting nude selfies of their giant fake boobs, or instant cures for whatever ails you, or how they just found the world's largest bee on an island in the South Pacific, or how Kim Kardashian is getting a third butt because two cheeks simply aren't enough to satisfy her huge fan base, or some dumb quiz that will reveal your IQ if you tell them your name and address and bank account number.

Over. Done. Finished. The end. And don't get me started on Facebook.

A Jew in the White House? Oy, Finally!

How stereotypical can you get?

Being a child of the fifties and sixties, I can remember all the fuss about JFK becoming our first Catholic president. It was a very big deal! Since then, political candidates were described, subtly or otherwise, by their religion or ethnicity. Mitt Romney was a Mormon, a fact that likely sank his candidacy from the start. And when Obama became our first African American president, the whole country went wild in celebration of that broken barrier.

Today identity politics is bigger than ever. With declared candidates Kamala Harris and Cory Booker running around being black, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez getting elected on the strength of her Hispanic heritage, and Senator Elizabeth Warren touting her minuscule drop of Native American blood, it's clear that being something other than a plain old white WASP can help a candidate rise above the competition. Yet virtually no mention has been made of the fact that Bernie Sanders, Vermont's popular senator who has already outpaced his rivals in campaign donations, is a Jew.

His Jewishness can either be a big help or a big hindrance, but nobody could argue that it's not a big deal. Still it's oddly hush-hush. Come on Bernie, we all know you were bar-mitzvahed! How about a shout-out to your fellow Jews? With the alarming rise of anti-Semitic gestures occurring here and around the globe, it couldn't hurt.

The Death of Humor

Things used to be a lot funnier. Including me. In fact, in my younger days I was always "the funny one." No more. Now I'm "the depressed one" or maybe just "sourpuss." I'm not sure if this is because I'm older and aging is nothing to laugh at, or because the world has gotten so much worse over the years, what's to laugh about? Thanks to the  overwhelming burden of political correctness, you can't even mock anyone except Donald Trump, but even that has been done to death on Saturday Night Live and is now just uncomfortably embarrassing to watch Alec Baldwin's career dying.

What's left to joke about? Nothing. If it were permissible I would make a joke about how Senator Cory Booker and CNN's Don Lemon are the same person, but I would be called a racist. Or how ever since Oprah Winfrey bought Weight Watchers, their TV commercials show hefty people eating pizza and chocolate cake and yukking it up instead of dieting, but I'd be called fat-shaming. Or how Bernie Sanders is old enough to be everyone's Grampa and surely we want a president with more gas in the tank, but I'd be accused of age discrimination.

The sad truth is that humor died with Joan Rivers. Even comedian Dave Chappelle's hands are tied, making him only smile-worthy these days. The only remaining gut-buster is Louis C.K., but we aren't allowed to laugh at his jokes because of the #MeToo people. It's a shame, because laughing used to be so much fun.

Robots With Chutzpah

Chutzpah, a Yiddish word that has no equal in another language, infers the ultimate in arrogance. Leo Rosten explained it this way in his classic 1968 book, "The Joys of Yiddish": "Chutzpah is that quality enshrined in a man who, having killed his mother and father, throws himself on the mercy of the court because he is an orphan." That's a good one, but now I have one that's even better.

Just about every morning around the same time, for what seems like forever, our home phone rings and PRESCOALIT flashes on the caller ID. I never answer but today I did, hoping to give someone a piece of my mind. But instead of a real person to yell at,  a recording informed me: "This is the Presidential Coalition. Please hold on for the next available agent."

Now that's chutzpah.

Volunteering for A Spot in Heaven

After seeing a compelling short documentary film about people in the end stages of life and how they cope, I was flooded with the desire to start volunteering at a hospice. End Game, nominated for an Oscar this year, focuses on three dying people. It's a bit of a tearjerker, but also eye-opening about how so few of us are prepared to meet our inevitable fate. The underlying message is that facing death before it's our turn can help us accept it with grace when it is.

So I searched local hospice volunteer opportunities and came away with the deep understanding that I simply couldn't handle it. I know I will die someday, as will all my loved ones and everyone currently alive, but that doesn't mean I want to spend my remaining healthy moments dwelling on it. I guess I'm just not that strong.

So I set about trying to find a different kind of volunteer opportunity, since I have the luxury of free time: All I do is paint pretty pictures and keep my own home and family going. That's simply not fair, and certainly won't get me into the Kingdom of Heaven, if there is such a place.

But every volunteer position seemed so depressing: Cook meals for homeless drug addicts! Visit shut-ins! Deliver meals to dying people! Talk to suicidal people on a hotline! Drive cancer patients to their chemo appointments! Or I could teach reading to little kids whose parents are either strung out or in jail. It seems that no cheery volunteer positions exist.

I settled on working at the Ronald McDonald House in downtown Portland, right next door to Maine Medical Center. Yes, the guests are the parents of hospitalized sick children, but you hardly ever meet them since they are with their kids all day. All I would have to do is clean the house, make some meals and greet the new people checking in. It's like running a B&B, but with some benefit to the greater good. It might not get me into Heaven, but it could keep me out of Hell.

News You Can Use

Flooded as we are with news from all directions, it makes sense to be selective. For example, I just saw the headline, "Jogger Recounts Killing Mountain Lion With His Bare Hands." It was supposed to entice me to click on it and read the story, at the same time opening me up to lots of paid advertising, which is after all what the Internet is all about. But why would I want to read such a gruesome story?

One reason might be that I could someday find myself in that very situation and thus would know what to do. It's highly unlikely, unless a traveling zoo passing through my little town had some sort of mechanical breakdown and a mountain lion broke free from its cage and made its way to my home, and I was outside doing yard work and -- well.

If that happened I would just lay down and die, thinking, "Huh, so this is how I go," because there is no way, with any amount of training, that I could kill a mountain lion, or any sort of lion, with my bare hands. Or even with gloved hands. Maybe if I had a gun (something I have never held in my life) I might fire off a shot, but chances are I'd miss and he'd just get madder. It's too horrible to consider.

I also did not click on any of these headlines, for obvious reasons having to do with falling asleep at night:
"Teen Texts for Help, Then Cops Arrive to A Chilling Scene"
"Man Gives Stranger $200, Then Meets Truly Grim Fate" 
"Reason Plane Cabin Lights Are Dimmed Should Terrify You"
"Rare Instances of Kate Middleton Not Being Camera Ready"

However, I did click on this one: "Man Allegedly Shuts Hot Tub Lid On Wife, Drowning Her." Since I have both a hot tub and a husband, it seemed like information I might actually use should my marriage suddenly go downhill or if my husband and I become alcoholics, either of which could potentially happen considering the sorry state of the world today. (As my grandfather always said, "You never know.")

Love

A Wall Street Journal article about the ongoing pain experienced by the parents of Nico Edwards, a teen who survived last year's Parkland, Florida shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, included the following admission from his mother: Before he gets out of the car when she drops Nico off at school each morning, "I make sure I say, 'I love you.'"

This brings to mind two questions: First, didn't she say it each time before the shooting occurred? Next, does saying that make her feel there will be no shooter at the school that day, or if there is and her son is shot, that her words will protect him? I said it to my own son all the time, and he still got into a ton of trouble growing up, so it's certainly no insurance policy.

More interesting is how saying "I love you" has become the #1 expression of affection in our society, applied to anything and everything with equal fervor. Just like certain bad words cannot be spoken, the L-word is uttered about a million times a day by just about everyone who can talk and in most TV commercials. I am guilty of this for sure; following is a list of just a few of the things and people I absolutely love:

Blueberries
My son
My husband
My cousin Brian
Tommy Lee Jones
Ethan Frome
Spring peepers
Thriller
Michael Jackson
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
Bread
Living in Maine
The Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle
Helen Mirren in The Queen
Landing safely and getting the hell off an airplane
Watching a live performance of Our Town
Losing weight
Finding typos in the newspaper or (even better) a book
Chianti
My true friends
Venice, Italy
My art
Bonfire of the Vanities
White Noise
Queen
Freddie Mercury
My hot tub
Blogging
Sleeping
Coffee
Anchovy pizza 
The ocean
Playing Words With Friends
Nathan's French fries
Ringo's drum solo on Carry That Weight
Oldies on the radio
Taking showers
Reruns of old sitcoms
Karen and Jack on Will & Grace
Autumn
My cat
The Lottery by Shirley Jackson
Oatmeal
Lorazepam
Larry David
 

Dumb Computers

Computers think they are so great. They think they'll take over the world someday and make all of us work for them. Guess what: Not gonna happen.

I know this because mine, one of those pricey Apple laptops, is really stupid. For example, yesterday afternoon I searched online for a black scarf to replace the one I lost a few weeks ago. I looked at maybe five or six different websites until I found a scarf that seemed acceptable. Then I ordered it. It should arrive within a week. Problem solved.

So today my computer is sending me tons of ads for black scarves. That's all I see, no matter where I go online. Ads for black scarves. It has no idea that I don't need one anymore. That I'm all set. I had a problem and I took care of it. I did not need to make an appointment at the Genius Bar. That's where being human beats being a machine.

Dumb computers. They will never take over. Then again, nobody thought Trump would win.

Cultural Appropriation, Yiddish Style

In today's Wall Street Journal crossword puzzle, the answer to 25-Down, "Disgusted utterance," is F-E-H. This blew my mind. First of all -- and any Jew knows this -- one can never write the word "Feh!" without using an exclamation point. Certainly one can never say it without one. (Puzzle editor Mike Shenk, himself a Jew, should know this.)

Secondly, while a little white girl in braids drives the lunatic left crazy about how we are stealing traditions from Native Americans, many Christians who have never even met a Jew say "Feh!" with abandon and nobody seems to mind. We have not staged any protests. (We are a forgiving, dare I say frightened, people.) But if a non-Jew saying "Feh!" is not an example of cultural appropriation, I don't know what is.

Not the real thing.

Then there are the bagels. Listen: Bagels are ours! The first known mention of the bagel was in 1610, in Jewish community ordinances in Krakow, Poland. Today they are as common and popular as pizza. (And by the way, I wonder how the Italians feel about that.) Insensitive to our feelings, white folks order their fluffy cinnamon-blueberry-cranberry-raisin bagels with a schmear, which implies cream cheese, but who told them about a shmeer anyway? They must have heard it somewhere, which is why they spell it wrong. 

And don't get me started on matzoh ball soup, which is today sold everywhere in jars and cans, instead of being made in a huge pot by a boobeh* sweating over a hot stove and then ladled directly into your bowl. (Whole Foods sells it and calls it Mom's, but it should of course be Grandma's.)

Too many Yiddish words creeping into our everyday lexicon are being misused, misspelled and mispronounced by all the goyim. (That's you guys.) Some examples are putz, cockamamy, oy vey and schmuck. Admit it: you'd be lost without those. And then there's "Who knew?" and "Go figure?" These expressions require a certain Yiddish inflection that's missing when used by WASP-y Anderson Cooper, who has said those things often on his TV show. I plotzed** when I first heard him, since both of those expressions were definitely invented by my grandmother and grandfather, Sarah and Izzy Keller, in their one-bedroom apartment in Queens in the 1950s.

In conclusion, if blacks can freak out over a white guy in dreadlocks, I can plotz over a goy eating lox with a shmeer. And by the way, lox is singular, not plural. It's not "Where are the lox?" or "How many lox do you have?" Oy vay is mere, Gottenyu!

* Grandmother 
** To split, to burst, to explode, i.e. freak out 

The 2019 Droidy Awards

I did not watch the Grammy Awards show on TV last night because A, I never heard of most of the people competing and B, I don't care who won what or wore what. Instead I watched Titanic for like the fifth time. This tells me my time has passed, culturally speaking. But then, I have never understood the whole awards show "thing." Why would I care who, among people I will never meet, wins praise from other people I will never meet, often for performances I have never seen? It's nutty.

Instead, each of us should hand out awards that make sense to us and our friends and family members. To that end, following are the recipients of The 2019 Droidy Awards:

Best Friend, Out of State: Debra Sandack
Best Friend, Local: Jay Reighley
Best Sense of Humor: Brian Keller
Best Living Relative: Valerie Palmer
Best Deceased Relative: Melvin L. Keller, M.D.
Best Pet (Alive): Big Lurch
Best Dead Pet: Rufus Rouda
Best Dentist: Alex Hutcheon (Bayview Dental)
Best Periodontist: Peter Then (Corey and Then)
Best Dental Hygienist: Stella (Corey and Then)
Best Dead Friend (Female): Noreen Welle
Best Dead Friend (Male): Rick Whiting
Best New Friends: Teresa and Jim Radford
Best Old Friend: Gloria Peragine (99)
Best Facebook Friend: Melva Lambert
Best Actor: Zack Rouda
Best Art Patron: Patricia Dane Rogers
Best Photographer: Heidi Ayala
Best Personal Trainer: Ginny Machon (Crossfit)
Best Psychiatrist (Dead or Alive): Norman R. Tamarkin 
Best Veterinarian: Louise LeBoeuf (Yarmouth Veterinary Clinic)
Best Song Lyric: "Nothing really matters to me." (Bohemian Rhapsody)

Bad Art Movies

If it's true that "art imitates life," then life is in big trouble. I say this after a grueling two hours squirming through the five Oscar Nominated Live Action Short Films up for an award this year. Always a favorite activity of ours, my husband and I make a point of seeing these each year on a big screen somewhere. The current crop was shown today at the Portland Museum of Art, which houses one of the prettiest and most comfortable movie theaters I have ever had the pleasure to attend. But today it was more like a House of Horrors, and one that I had to finally escape before the final credits rolled. (I was not alone; many others in attendance also made a run for it.)

These particular five art films, chosen from around the world, were oddly similar. Each had a one-word title, and each was incredibly dark, depressing and almost impossible to watch. Four out of five involved little boys. None were what could be called "entertaining" or "enjoyable," which is what I always thought movies were supposed to be. To give you an idea, here's a bit about each:

Madre (Spain)
A young mother in Spain gets a call from her 6-year-old son who has been left alone on a beach in France by his father, for reasons unknown. She tries to keep the boy, who is frightened and crying, talking while soliciting help from the authorities. Her son says a bad man is coming towards him, and his phone battery dies. We only see the mother on her phone, never the boy on the beach. (That's it.)

Fauve (Canada)
Two pre-teen boys are playing in an abandoned quarry. They come upon a vast field of quicksand. One of them gets stuck and gets sucked in and dies, to his friend's horror. And ours. (The end.)

Detainment (Ireland)
Two 10-year-old boys abduct, torture and murder an adorable 2-year-old boy for no reason or for kicks, take your choice. They are caught by the police, and the whole movie consists of the two of them describing what they did to the little boy. Based on a true crime. (Google "Jon Venable.")

Marguerite (Canada)
A very old, dying woman is visited daily by a young caretaker who she learns is a lesbian. The old woman admits that she too once loved a woman, but in those days it was forbidden. She asks how it feels to be with a woman. The caretaker kisses her on the lips and climbs into bed with her, just so she can have a little taste. (Total yuk.)

Skin (US)
A group of white supremacist skinheads beat the shit out of a perfectly nice black man for no reason. The following day a group of black men seeking revenge kidnap him and tattoo his entire body so he is black all over, then return him to his home. His young skinhead son, believing it is some random black guy at the door, shoots him -- killing his own father. (I walked out during the brutal assault on the black man.)

Sounds like fun, huh? I hope you had a better afternoon than I did.

Black History Month of Guilt

To the Editor:

I read with compassion your article bemoaning the fact that Black History Month is in February, the shortest month. (Times Sunday Review, Feb. 10, "A Normal Way to Celebrate Black History Month") The author is right: It's just not fair! Imagine what could be accomplished in three more days if only it were in January.

Living in Maine, which is tied with Vermont for being the whitest state, I deal with white guilt all the time. (Of course I'm Jewish, so what else is new?) Thus I go the extra mile to do what I can.

Since I always take my coffee black, I quietly celebrate the color all year long. And believe me, I give my husband a hard time for putting cream in his, imploring him to forego it during this special month. I also wear my black bathing suit all of February, pushing aside the one with the red floral print that fits better and the other one with yellow dots that I far prefer. I figure it's the least I can do. That, and re-read "Black Like Me."

Lastly, your author would be cheered to know that I work out in black Nike sneakers all year long! In fact, I don't even own a pair of white sneakers.  Now if I could just find some black people to invite over for dinner I'd be all set.

Fake Everything

What I look like -- on Mars.

I recently read an article about the growing practice of "fauxtography" in everyday life. No doubt compelled by social websites like Tinder and Facebook, ordinary people now alter their own photos like the pros have done for years, which is what made them pros. Sophisticated apps certainly up the ante, but even the most basic smart phone lets you smooth away wrinkles on your mug shot.  And who hasn't heightened the glory of a sunset over the ocean on their Florida vacation, making their friends wonder if they had gone to another planet?

It's peculiar that while most people decry "fake news" as criminal behavior, nobody seems to mind faked photos of international tourist sites like the Taj Mahal, the Grand Canyon, Macu Picchu and China's Great Wall. This is a sorry state of affairs since the only way to see the real thing is go there yourself, and I hate flying.  Besides, I have done so on many occasions and have almost always been disappointed, since the "postcard" pictures make everything look so much better. (This was especially true in Barcelona, where I spent most of my time trying to find something as pretty as advertised.)

Ask Your Doctor About AOC Anxiety

.

That new Congressgirl, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, called AOC like some rock star by her fans, is all the rage with the Democrats. This is in part because she is ethnic, which is quite in these days. Anyone considered to be a minority gets extra points. (Just ask Sen. Elizabeth Warren.) The fact that Alexandria was a bartender in Queens just before she became the darling of the progressives seems to trouble nobody, a clear sign of the coming apocalypse. You may worry about climate change all you want; I'm worried about the invading army of inexperienced, pie-in-the-sky lawmakers infiltrating the hallowed halls of Congress.

Alex-- let's call her that for simplicity -- advocates the end of air travel, replacing it with "high-speed trains crisscrossing the country." (So much for getting anywhere in a hurry.) No word on what she thinks makes trains run -- possibly wind power since she proposes about a million-billion wind turbines be built to end that nasty pollution caused by cars, buses, trucks, etc. She seems not to know that every windmill causes death to a multitude of birds, bats and fish. And that they have to be shut down during winter because ice forming on the blades can fly off and do severe damage. And the noise they generate drives the people living nearby crazy with a new mental disturbance called Wind Turbine Anxiety. While not as bad as AOC Anxiety which causes creeping paranoia, sleepless nights and unexplained itching, still it impacts lives. Expect to see a drug commercial for it on TV soon.

Alex also suggests that we "upgrade or replace every building in the US." When asked where the money for this enormous undertaking will come from, she said pertly,  "We can just print more money. We do it all the time." She also wants to institute "meatless Mondays" so cows will fart less, since cow farts hurt the atmosphere. And during a TV interview I heard her say that she is very focused on empowering women, working on "everything from equality in pay to paycheck fairness."  Aren't those two the same?

Uh-oh -- I feel itchy.

Beware the Swamp Critters

Senator Cory Booker, the African-American, vegan, single (making one question whether he is gay, which in today's climate would assure him a win) Obama clone running for president in 2020, had a virtual cow during the Kavanaugh hearings/witch hunt last fall. He became ballistic over the need to listen to any and every woman who comes forward with a claim of sexual harassment, calling Kavanaugh's accuser a true hero for bravely speaking out and shining a light on this heinous, often ignored and under-reported crime.

Yet just yesterday Booker shrugged off a reporter's questions about sexual misconduct by one of Virginia's top lawmakers, Lt. Governor Justin Fairfax. Accused by a woman who claims he forced her to engage in oral sex in 2004 -- a mere 15 years ago, not 35 like Kavanaugh's half-remembered drunken teenage groping that threw the Democrats, and America, into a tizzy for months -- Fairfax says it was consensual, and that seems to be that. What gives? Could it be that when a Democrat is accused of a misdeed it's no big deal, but when it's a Republican it's the end of the world? It sure looks that way.

Meanwhile, Senator Elizabeth Warren, who two days ago finally admitted to entering her ethnicity as "American Indian" on her Texas Bar application (which she has denied in the past), continues to get a paycheck from the taxpayers and spout off about how to fix our broken country. Go figure.

My Plans for Semi-Suicide

Having been born under the astrological sign of Gemini, I have always battled with two conflicting and wholly different personalities. This explains how I could became fast friends with someone, travel to a foreign country on an extended trip with her, and decide a few months later that the two of us have nothing whatsoever in common and end all communication. Makes perfect sense: One of us (Bad Me) liked her goofy flair, until the other one (Good Me) finally noticed her utter superficiality.

Many people have this battle, even if they aren't Geminis. The struggle between Good and Evil lives within us all, wreaking havoc on our best-laid plans like a flash flood ruins a picnic. Well I am tired of it and have decided to take drastic action: I am planning to kill Bad Me. Today is the perfect day to do it since she kept both of us awake all night, having weird dreams and waking up and looking at the clock every hour, and coughing. (I'm positive she's the one who coughs.)

How will I do it, you may wonder? Obviously it will be a delicate operation as I don't want even a scratch on Good Me. So that eliminates razor blades, drug OD's, car crashes and falling from a great height. Instead it will have to be by starvation: I will deny her the unhealthy (but fun!) food she craves and all the petty (but fun!) pleasures she wastes time on, and she will simply die of boredom (and lack of fun). At least that's my hope. Then maybe Good Me can get some serious work done around here, like washing the kitchen floor, getting a new toilet seat and making a website for her art. And who knows, even get back into those size 8 jeans one of them bought. (They fit then.)

You Better Watch Your Thighs

These days people are just getting stupider and stupider. Fortunately I am already quite old so won't be around to witness the culmination of this stupidity, which will surely bring about the end of the human race. All I can do is watch in disbelief.

What troubles me is that my son, 31, is in the thick of it. First off, let me assure you that he is the least racist person you will ever meet, possibly the least racist person on Earth, and totally color blind. As a naturalist -- teaching classes in such things as matchless firestarting, urban foraging, drum and basket making, outdoor shelter building and cooking of wild edibles -- he has many fans. But of course, as does anyone, he also has many who don't dig his act. For want of any other offense, he has recently come under fire for the sin of "cultural appropriation," the latest bit of nonsense to come from the under-35 set.

What we see as cultural appreciation, those who see racism around every corner perceive as stealing. Hence, a white person with braided hair has stolen that style from Native Americans and is a bad person. Who knew? (Photo at right shows actress Patty McCormack in the 1956 horror movie, The Bad Seed. Not only did she murder people, but she wore braids!)

One vocal critic of the movement who is considered an "influencer" on Instagram (the latest non-job popular among millennials) has said that "braided hair, dark skin from tanning or make-up, full lips, and large thighs take attention and opportunities from black influencers by appropriating their aesthetic." She likens them to wearing blackface.

So all you fatties out there, or even just toned muscular gym rats, you better watch your thighs. Big ones are apparently for blacks only.

We Were All Rats Sometime

Quick --- think back 35 years. What were you doing? Or better yet, go back to your college days: What were you doing then? Was there something you did that you have never done since, that you wish you hadn't or that you now feel was wrong? Have you lived an exemplary life since then, working hard, serving your community or better yet, your country, all while raising a family or maybe treating sick kids, some with neurological problems?

Painting by Manon Cleary (1942-2011)

Personally, 35 years ago I was smoking lots of pot, eating the occasional funny mushroom and once in a while sniffing cocaine, all while having an affair with a married man if you must know. I was childless and had not yet met the man I would marry who would become the father of my only child.

Certainly I don't do any of those things today, and have not done them (except for a puff of pot which makes me dizzy because it interacts negatively with my blood pressure meds) since then. But if I chose to run for office, those things would surface and I would be thrown onto the Chris Matthews-Dana Bash-Gloria Borger-Anderson Cooper-Rachel Maddow-CNN-MSNBC-New York Times-Vanity Fair-New Yorker magazine trash heap to slowly rot, which is what's happening to Virginia's Governor Ralph Northam for the sin of having worn "blackface" in a college dance contest so many years ago, wherein he performed Michael Jackson's famous moonwalk. (Who knew that putting black shoe polish on your face means you are a racist? Live and learn.)

This is why we get and will continue to get woefully poor leaders. Nobody in their right mind would put themselves out there, only to have their entire life dissected under a microscope like a lab rat. And I do mean rat.

Another One Bites the Dust

Earlier today I quit a dubious freelance position as a monthly columnist for a little-or-never-read local newspaper published by a bizarre, eccentric little man who finally became too much for me to bear. Add to that the fact that the pay was paltry and the guy never even posted it online, so I was denied even that credit. Throw in his insistence on British spellings (favour, colour, cheque) because he "loves England" even though he was born and raised in Tennessee, and I had simply had enough.

I always treated him kindly and never missed a deadline in two years, however once before I had said I was leaving and he talked me into staying. But today, with the glow of the New Year and New Beginnings still washing over me, I wrote him a short note saying that my next column, already submitted, would be my last and I would be moving on.

I immediately received back an incredibly nasty diatribe with the subject line, "YOU'RE FIRED!" He said in the body of his email that even though he had always received many compliments on my writing from his readers and advertisers and thus would miss me, he was "tired of my bitching and moaning" and that I couldn't possibly quit because he was firing me.

I wonder: Can you be fired after you quit? (Maybe that's a British thing.)

Questions to Ponder

Following are some of the questions that keep me up at night whenever I am not frantically repeating my mantra, "Let nothing upset you, let nothing frighten you, everything is changing, God alone is changeless, patience attains the goal, who has God lacks nothing, God alone fills every need."

Is a woman with a penis a freak of nature or a sign of human evolution? 

Is everything as good as everything else? 

Is physical beauty a thing of the past?

How did Don Lemon ever get hired by CNN, or anyone?

Human Twix Candy Bar

 Did Andrew Cuomo eat better than his brother Chris growing up,

 and is that why the latter is so much dumber today? 

Is my cousin Alan Freeman still alive and will I learn of his death 

since his daughter ended our relationship? 

If we lost contact with an old friend years ago, why are we sad when we hear they died?

Does Nancy Pelosi know how many face lifts can be had before the skin gives out?

Is having a mud facial racist? 

Is it true that only the good die young? If so, how young?

If Trump is considered by so many to be an inept idiot, 

why does it matter if he delivers the State of the Union address?

The Sunday Funnies

At least Dennis the Menace is supposed to be funny.

The first section aside, today's New York Times is, as always, a laugh riot full of silliness with which to while away your Sunday.

A feature story with a large color photo of Lorena Bobbitt discusses how nice a lady she is now, small and demure, despite the fact that years ago she rose to fame for cutting off her sleeping husband's penis, then ran out and tossed the bloody member into a nearby abandoned lot full of rocks and dirt. She did some jail time, but now must be forgiven because, after all, #MeToo. Her husband, John Bobbitt, raped her -- no wonder she went all Grey's Anatomy on him. (Just kidding. I could no sooner cut off someone's body part than murder my only child. It's this damn respect for human life that ties my hands.)

Another article dissects the rise and fall of an "Instagram influencer" who, at age 27 declared herself an expert on creativity. She advertised seminars in several cities costing $165.00 that promised to divulge the secrets of finding "true creative fulfillment," but ultimately she was a no-show, leaving her 830,000 followers out of luck, short on cash and left to their own devices. All I can say about that is, "Hahahahahahahaha!" Anyone who thinks anyone else, especially at age 27, knows how to unlock another person's creativity deserves to be fleeced.

I stopped reading after the one about how our wealthiest citizens should fix the dwindling ski business because global warming is making less snow and rich people like to ski. Honestly, those editors crack me up.

Welcome to Nazi Germany

Joe Biden, last Halloween?

In case you think we live in a free country, think again. Or better yet, just to be safe don't think at all, since whatever freedoms we still have, thinking is not among them. Nor are childish pranks, or any pranks, or anything resembling something that can be seen under a harsh light as disrespectful to any protected group, which includes just about everyone except Caucasians who these days have no protection at all and are in fact deemed "deplorable" by many of our leading politicians.

This time it's not a MAGA-hat-wearing cracker from down in the holler who's in trouble, it's a sophisticated and learned (white) Democrat: Ralph Northam, the Governor of Virginia. It seems that someone with an axe to grind and time on their hands unearthed a yearbook photo from 34 years ago of Northam, who is now 59, a pediatric neurologist, Army veteran and graduate of Norfolk Medical School, that can be construed as racist.

Despite the man's sterling accomplishments since then, many of the bozos running for president in 2020, with Kamala Harris, Cory Booker and Elizabeth Warren leading the chorus, are calling for him to resign. And Joe Biden, a former plagiarist who has since found religion, said the Governor has "lost the moral high ground." This is from someone who called it ''a mistake in his youth" when he plagiarized a law review article for a paper he wrote in his first year at law school. Mr. Biden insisted that he had done nothing ''malevolent,'' that he had simply misunderstood the need to cite sources carefully.

I wonder when the Dems will start rounding people up for thinking differently or having behaved badly -- decades ago! Who knows, they might even start shooting us in the streets. As the Police Captain on Hill Street Blues used to say to his men before each work day, "You be careful out there."

Film Review: PRIVATE LIFE

Today begins a new month. Four perfect weeks ahead. Or at least they might be perfect if I let them. I have suddenly realized that, like all of us, most of my troubles are homemade. Except for climate change, about which I can do little. (Still I dutifully rinse out the cat food cans and toss them in the recycling bin, as if that will stop the polar ice caps from melting, the seas from rising or the Red Tide from putting a major dent in Florida's tourist trade. It will do none of those things but it makes me feel like a good citizen, so I do it.)

Sometimes it takes three to make a baby.

Anyway, in the count your blessing department, my eyes have been opened to at least one health problem I never had, which is good since I always feel riddled with so many of them, and unfairly. This realization came to light while watching a Netflix movie called Private Life, which offers important messages along with two hours of merciful escape from the dreadful news of the day.

It's about a middle-aged couple who desperately want a baby and can't conceive, in part because Richard (Paul Giamatti) has only one testicle and Rachel (Kathryn Hahn) has old eggs. Additionally, both busy with their careers they waited too long, so now, besides blaming one another for the delay, they've got to pay the Piper. Well, not so much the Piper as the IVF docs who require thousands of dollars each month to implant his sperm into her uterus in hopes of creating a new life. No dice.

Simultaneously the adoption route is fraught with heartache leading nowhere, so that Richard and Rachel are willing to try anything. Along comes their niece Sadie (newcomer Kayli Carter), a 25-year-old college dropout with fresh eggs looking for a place to crash. She moves in and it's a heartwarming love-fest from the get-go. Eventually Richard and Rachel hem and haw, then ask Sadie to "donate" to their cause. She agrees. Great? Not so great, it turns out, as Sadie's mom (Molly Shannon) freaks out about the whole deal right in the middle of a family Thanksgiving, attacking the turkey with an electric knife while doing so. Things go downhill from there.

Billed as a comedy, Private Life has lots of sad moments along with plenty of outright laughs if you're paying attention. On the whole it's fun to watch, as it's set in New York City with plenty of street scenes that delight the eye, especially if you've ever lived there. (I have.) Interesting music makes the soundtrack another plus.

Directed by the quirky Tamara Jenkins (The Savages, Slums of Beverly Hills), it's an absorbing story told through a great script and flawless acting, and a pointed reminder that while some women endure actual torture trying to get pregnant, for others -- like me -- it's a cinch. So there's something I can feel good about already, and it's only the first day of February, this perfect new month.