Another Humdrum Halloween

It's raining where I live and the forecast is for it to continue all day and night and into tomorrow. Still, the robotic children of robotic parents will don unconvincing costumes and trek door to door, navigating the piles of slimy wet leaves and puddles which by this evening will have become sizable, in order to get free candy that is readily for sale year round in every supermarket, corner grocery, convenience store and bodega. One wonders why. 

When I was a kid, before a poisoned jar of Tylenol scared everyone out of their wits and brought about those annoying protective seals on everything that sometimes make you crazy trying to open, Halloween was a lot more fun. You never knew what you'd get. My own mother, who was far from a domestic goddess, went to great lengths to prepare individual bags of goodies, each one containing different treats and all tied up in a dinner napkin with a big orange bow.

The best treat, or worst depending on your sense of the absurd, came from a Spanish lady in our neighborhood who came to the door holding a frying pan and, using a spatula, dropped some sort of sweet, still steaming tortilla-like pancake right into your Halloween bag. Naturally this made a bit of a mess, melting whatever it hit as it landed with a plop on the already gathered-goodies. Many less adventurous kids who couldn't take a joke boycotted her house after their first time, but I actually found it fun and funny and so returned every year.

Now it's snack-size Snickers, Reese's, Milky Ways and those annoying Starbursts that lodge in your teeth. Nothing at all out of the ordinary. Why bother?

Omens

It's 4:44 in the afternoon and I find that thrilling. So much more thrilling than 4:45, which it has just now become.

Other thrilling times are 1:11, 2:22, 3:33 -- you get the idea. If you happen to glance at your phone or a digital clock at those times, it's a little jolt. It's special, unlike those plain times like 3:17 or 5:06. One of my life goals is to see every one of them in one day. That has never happened; the closest I've gotten is seeing three in a row.

Imagine it. You go to bed at 10:10 but can't sleep. You toss and turn and look at the clock and it's 11:11. Then it's 12:12. Finally at 2:22 you drift off, only to wake up at 5:55. You try to forget it, but then when you're on your mid-morning coffee break you see that it's 10:10.

What would you do? Would you tell someone or keep it to yourself? Does it mean something? If not, what does?

The Original Lemonhead

These days all you need to be is disadvantaged in some way to make it big. It could be anything: skin color, sexual orientation, body size, physical handicap, mental capacity -- if yours is in the minority you're halfway there. Talent is not required.

Take CNN's Don Lemon, for example. He's black and he's gay, two things that make him a hero in today's politically correct world. He's also a moron, which puts him over the top. Even dumber than Chris Cuomo, who is pathetically white and sadly heterosexual, Lemon's minority staus earns him an annual salary of $4 million.

The only thing right about Lemon is his surname. He is truly a lemon.

Stuff, Stuff & More Stuff

Jeff Bezos is the richest man in the world because everyone buys stuff from Amazon, which he owns. That means that Jeff gets a cut of every purchase. Let's say it's just a penny or two. There are so many people buying so much stuff, it adds up to billions and billions before you can say "nobody needs all this stuff."

Yesterday's New York Times reported on the growing problem of Amazon package deliveries in Manhattan. The UPS and FedEX trucks are clogging midtown streets and slowing traffic in some highly residential areas to a crawl, going slower even than an overweight jogger. Sidewalks are being used as loading docks making it difficult for pedestrians to get by. Packages are piled high outside of apartment buildings, tempting thieves and thus increasing the crime rate.

The article states that, "Amazon did not respond to a request for comment on the impact of its deliveries on growing congestion in New York." I guess all the low-level drones were too busy stuffing stuff into boxes, and the executives were too busy counting their money that they would eventually spend on more stuff.

I buy a lot of stuff from Amazon. Stuff is anything that's not food, water, clothing or shelter. In the past six months I purchased the following stuff from Amazon:

Men's Briefs (too big but they'll shrink or he might put on weight)
Moist Heat Eye Compress (used three times, not helpful, discarded)
Bedroom Slippers (hole in toe within months, discarded)
Fancy Wax Candles (burned and now they are gone)
Five Books (gifts, who knows if they ever got read)
Coconut Shell Charcoal Water Filters for my coffee pot (Coffee tastes no different)
Pair of Sneakers (I already had a pair)
Pop-up Sponges (fun, but they sell them nearby)
Toilet Brush and Holder (forgot I had three of these already and so threw one away)
Therapeutic Water Pillow (defective, returned it)
Cheese Selection (gift, but they could have bought their own cheese)
Raised Cat Food Bowls (Cat refused to eat out of them, now junk in the garage)
Pepperidge Farm Cookies (sent to my sister at her request and now she is in intensive care due to an exploded colon which had to be removed in its entirety)
Hot Mustard (husband doesn't eat it, "not hot enough")
Oatmeal (sent to a sick friend who "can't digest it" because it contains flax seeds)
KitKat Candy Gift Box (sent to same sister and contributed to same exploded colon)

At least none of that stuff was delivered to New York City, so at least I don't have to feel guilty about all the traffic.

Five Self-Improvement Trends for 2020

Our good friends at Whole Foods, at the behest of Jeff Bezos, the world's richest man, have posted an article online about the "ten next big food trends for 2020." Apparently anyone who wants to be cool, stay informed, be socially responsible and avoid being a dork will run right out to their closest Whole Foods outlet and buy these products. Is Uncle Jeff being helpful or just self-serving? Gee, I dunno, what do you think?

Let me help. Anyone with half a brain, and I mean no disrespect to people who actually have only half a brain and my heart goes out to them (seriously), knows that the list is all about getting more money into the the cash registers at Whole Foods. It's quite a ploy, and one I might try here myself. Following is my list of the Five Self-Improvement Trends for 2020.

1. Invest in art. Oil paintings retain their value the most. Works by fabulous seasoned artists that are still affordable include mine. Check them out at: https://www.andrearoudapainter.com/

2. Sharpen your wits. Since the apocalypse is surely coming, it's time to sharpen your innate talents. Make shoes out of animal hide, start a fire without matches, cook without a stove, recognize which wild things are edible and which could kill you, make hunting weapons from twigs and fashion eating implements from forest growth. Take classes from my son today: https://www.rewildmaine.org/upcoming

3. Get a daily dose of humor. Scientific studies prove that laughter wards off disease, so it's best to stop reading the grim news of the day and start reading The Daily Droid, which offers a humorous look at the horrors of modern life. Since you are reading this, you already know the address.

4. Read a book. This one is a hoot, so it helps with that daily dose of humor:
https://www.amazon.com/Shrink-Rapt-Andrea-Rouda/dp/1595710213/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=shrink+rapt+andrea+rouda&qid=1572192992&sr=8-1

5. Tell your life story before you die. If you can't write, no worries -- just hire a ghost writer! You'll need an experienced scribe offering reasonable rates and quick turnaround, since you never know. Contact andreajrouda@aol.com

Do it, Hillary!

It's been floating around for weeks: Hillary Clinton may run for president in 2020. This is sad in the extreme, but only for her. For all of us it would be a fun few months of rubbernecking. Imagine the horror of watching her lose again; who knows what she would do this time. Of course she would lose, since nobody wanted her in 2016 and now she's four years older and more apt to collapse in public, while hubby Bill is looking longer in the tooth and very skinny. Who wants those old bones rattling around the White House?

Admit it: Our choices remain paltry, and that's being kind. I've gone from this one to that one and the other one, and still I can't really feel good about any of the declared candidates. We could do worse than Cory Booker, after all he's such a clean and articulate black man. (Hey, don't jump down my throat, that's exactly how Joe Biden described Barack Obama back when he was running for president, and today Biden leads the pack of Democratic hopefuls, although Pocahontas Warren may be a hair ahead of him.) Cory is always upbeat and never rags on his opponents, although being unmarried at age 50 hints at some deep personality flaw that has yet to surface.

Personally I can't imagine a better night of TV than sitting down with a bottle of red and some munchies and watching Trump beat Hillary in a landslide. Just the sight of a stunned Anderson Cooper and Rachel Maddow would be worth another four years of Trump. As for Nancy Pelosi, her dentures would surely fall out when her jaw dropped open. It's all good.

A Shaggy Cat Story

The photo of Lurch I sent to PP.

Earlier this week our cat Lurch disappeared. Well, not in the magical sense, but he was gone from our view for two days and two nights, behavior very uncommon for an animal that likes to come in for a snack about every half hour and never misses dinner or breakfast. So for him to be gone overnight, for two nights, was a clear warning bell that something was very wrong.

Since Lurch is one of a handful of beings I truly love, this was a huge upset in my world. I had to act, and act fast lest I become a sobbing mess, unable to eat or sleep or think about anything else. I remembered when a dear friend had this same thing happen to her years ago, and she called a pet psychic who successfully led her to the lost cat, huddled under a woodpile in the snow in a backyard just a few doors from her own home. I decided to give it a try, despite the derision of several people I respect who thought it was a nuts idea.

The Pet Psychic (PP) I called lives in Washington state, about as far as you can get from me and my missing kitty here in Maine. She and I spoke for about half an hour. She asked a few necessary questions, explaining that the information would aid in her contacting Lurch. I sent her a recent photo of him, showing his eyes quite clearly. Oh yeah, I also gave her my credit card so she could collect her fee of $125.00. Then I waited for about two hours for her to call me back.

PP's call was full of news, both good and bad. "Sometimes I have to tell people that their pet has crossed over to the other side. This is not the case with your cat." First she said that Lurch was alive, and located.  Phew! I was relieved. Then she said he was hiding out in a small space, "about one or two properties away, under a deck or shed," after an "altercation or fight with one, or maybe two raccoons." She said Lurch told her he could hear my voice calling him, but did not say whether or not he had been hurt in the fight. He would not return until he felt it was safe to do so. This could take as long as a week or even two. PP added that cats can go that long without food or water by slowing down their metabolisms. (Who knew?)

Next came my part. PP explained that raccoons urinate on the ground as they walk, marking the territory, and that Lurch would smell their urine and think they were still outside his hiding place. So to counteract that, she strongly advised that I fill a spray bottle with my own urine and go out and spray it about every 30 feet, around the neighborhood and near places he might be hiding. Lurch would recognize mine as the "alpha" urine, a sure sign that I was protecting him. I was to do this every day until he returned.

PP urged me not to tell any passers-by I was spraying urine on the ground as this would be upsetting, and instead to say it was "cat pheromones." (God knows where they sell those.) Also, I wasn't supposed to say I had spoken to a pet psychic as people would think I was batty. (At this point I was thinking that PP was the batty one.)

Anyway, I did what she said right away. That was the first day. The second day brought a rainstorm, complete with thunder and lightning, of biblical proportions. Still I walked the neighborhood, checking under every shed and porch and deck within a few properties of ours. No sign of Lurch.

Later on the weather brightened and my son, Lurch's first and true owner, came to aid in the search, although he drew the line at peeing on the ground which I thought would save us both a few steps.  Together Zack and I walked and called out, shaking the treat can as PP had instructed, to no avail. I started to think the cat was a goner. After Zack left I resumed my sobbing, yelling at God that Lurch was too young to die and I was not ready to let him go.

Around dinnertime Lurch showed up at the back door without a scratch on him. I'd say that was money well-spent, much smarter than my campaign donations to Tulsi Gabbard and Marianne Williamson.

Lost Cat

The Whim of the Weather Gods

It's been a while since I posted here because I was sent back to the Dark Ages for several days and only returned to modern times yesterday. A powerful storm came blowing through our area last week, taking away  our electricity, our hot water and finally our dignity. I learned a few important lessons:

1. Reading by candlelight is a drag. 
2. Cooking by candlelight is even worse.
3. Cold showers suck.
4. A widespread power outage is the best way to get chummy with your neighbors.
5. Three days with no TV and no Internet is good for the soul.
6. Lack of electricity causes an increase in candy consumption and a decrease in personal hygiene.
7. We might need to get a generator.

The last item on that list is fraught with indecision. On the one hand, if we had a back-up generator we could continue living our normal lives despite the harsh winds blowing down all the trees that land on the power lines in the area, exiling us to Siberia. We could stay current on the latest political claptrap, like Hawaii's congresswoman and presidential hopeful Tulsi Gabbard is a Russian spy because Hillary Clinton, who oughtta know, says so. On the other hand, we would lose all connection to our ancestors who toiled in the darkness for hundreds of years, cooking potato soup in big pots over a wood fire and having their teeth pulled without benefit of anesthesia.

It's a tough choice. But the clearest benefit of remaining at the whim of the weather gods is the feeling you get when the power suddenly jolts back without warning, making the simple act of grinding coffee for a fresh pot a kind of joy rarely experienced outside of childbirth.

12 Takeaways from the Democratic Debate

A non-meat eating ticket of Booker & Gabbard would get the animal vote.

I just read several lengthy, self-important articles by journalists discussing their "takeaways" from last night's Democratic debate. One was entitled "Seven Takeaways from the Democratic Debate," while another was entitled "Six Takeaways from the Democratic Debate" and yet another was called "Five Takeaways from Last Night's Debate." Jeez, couldn't they come up with anything more imaginative? Anyway, they were all quite serious and echoed one another, but none pointed out the things that everyone watching was thinking. (So I will.)

 Joe Biden: Nice teeth, although they look so completely fake. Not sure if they are dentures or veneers, but they don't look like he's been using them for almost 80 years.

Kamala Harris: Possibly undergoing transition surgery, she looks more mannish every time I see her. Also, she needs more of a platform than "Trump sucks" and "I Heart Abortion," although she won't say the A-word,  instead calling it "women's reproductive health rights." (Really, what's so healthy about having an abortion?)

Amy Klobuchar: Annoying lisp. Could we listen to that for four years? Oh well, we won't have to.

Elizabeth Warren: The Schoolmarm. I do hope she gets elected, though, just to see what she wears to the Inauguration and the Inaugural Ball. That same uniform? Does she ever wash those black pants and that black shirt she wears every day?

Bernie Sanders: An angry old man sending soup back in a deli.

Julian Castro: Should go into modeling instead, where he can just look handsome and not speak.

Beto O'Rourke: He seems to have forgotten that he lost his last election bid for Texas congressman and is currently unemployed. Very tall, says nothing of value, looks like the love child of Bobby Kennedy and The Wicked Witch of the West.

Mayor Pete: That's what everyone calls him and that's what he will remain, mostly because so few people can pronounce his last name. Earnest but too young.

Andrew Yang: Such a round face!

Tulsi Gabbard: So smart, reasoned, and attractive, plus she's a vegetarian. She should be the candidate!

Cory Booker: A vegan Barack Obama, he was the only one who recognizes we are all in this together. No partisan jabs at Republicans and totally respectful to his competition. Seems like he could pull ahead of the others and maybe even beat Trump!

The Billionaire: Who?

Sweetening the Democratic Pot

The Democratic presidential hopefuls are ratcheting up their promises, and it's working. Businessman Andrew Yang is resonating with younger voters and has pulled ahead in recent polls after announcing his plan to give every American $1,000 a month to vote for him. (He doesn't come right out and say that, but that's what he means.) And Bernie Sanders has promised free health care and free college tuition if you vote for him, while Elizabeth Warren echoes that, plus will pay off your student loan and throw in an Indian headdress if you vote for her.

The problem is they're all so cookie-cutter. What I'm waiting for is someone who stands out from the crowd, someone who addresses the issues of special interest groups. What about free boxes of Depends for women of a certain age? How about unlimited Botox injections for anyone over 60? Or home-delivered (in a brown wrapper) Viagra for men with flagging libidos? Free dildos, condoms, wigs and duct tape for the LGBT crowd?  Now that would be a candidate I could get behind.

Bill Gates Is Innocent

The truth is so elusive. In fact, these days it is seen or heard so little we should all just forget about it. The word should be dropped from dictionaries. The very concept itself is outdated, like reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, uttering the words "Merry Christmas" and dressing for the theater. I say this because of an article on the front page of today's New York Times about how Bill Gates, the second wealthiest person in the world, doesn't want anything to do with Jeffrey Epstein (and never did). Luckily for Bill, Jeffrey is dead so that won't be an issue.

The article recounts how the two billionaires first met, which was after Epstein had been convicted of child molestation and forced to register as a sex offender. Apparently none of that troubled Gates, who over the following years visited Epstein in his lavish Manhattan penthouse several times, dined with him publicly in other locales and flew on his private plane more than once. (His spokeswoman refused to say how many times.) And despite an email Gates wrote to a colleague citing Epstein's lifestyle as "intriguing," that same spokeswoman said that did not mean Gates found him interesting, but rather was referring to Epstein's apartment's decor.  (Oy.)

Gates claims the relationship with Epstein, which he now "regrets," was neither a friendship nor a business association. You're left to wonder just what it was. Or you could just guess, or make it up, or draw your own conclusion, since the truth is surely nowhere to be found, certainly not in that article and maybe not even in Bill Gates' own head.

Everyone Gets Old

I don't get it. For some reason, pictures of celebrities who have done the unspeakable and gotten old are all the rage on the Internet, usually accompanied by nasty headlines like, "You'll Never Believe How Such and Such Looks Today!" or, "These Shocking Photos of Such and Such Will Make Your Jaw Drop!"

On the other hand, when Such and Such has plastic surgery to avoid looking her rightful age, the headlines scream about the hideous damage the former beauty inflicted upon herself.

Doesn't everyone, even stupid writers at Internet websites, know that we all will get old and then die? That nobody can escape this fate? That aging is as natural as breathing? What's the big deal?

You Can't Teach An Old Dog New Tricks

Modern Life, a.k.a. The End Days

As I sat down to lunch at a Thai restaurant with a friend the other day, she told me about her son's recent wedding, adding that the newlyweds had already bought a house together. I said that any minute she might be a grandma. Scanning the menu, she responded with, "If it happens that's fine, if not, even better. I don't think it's fair to bring a child into the world now." She expanded, citing her concerns over climate change, political turmoil, terrorism and growing violence around the globe which could erupt into nuclear war at any time. "It's basically over for the human race," she declared. Then we ordered.

Surely we would all agree that things are bad in just about every area of modern life. War, mass shootings, rioting in the streets, social injustice and melting polar ice caps all suck. But that's all "out there." What also sucks is closer to home: The complete and total lack of customer service.

I experienced this most recently when I opened the door to my nearly-new $6,000 refrigerator and was met with a loud beeping and a flashing digital sign that spelled out "Over Temp" in angry red letters. That could not be good, I thought, and hastily searched for the booklet our Kitchen Aid appliance had come with. No luck, I called the appliance store where we purchased it and a recording directed me to describe my problem, with a promise that someone would get back to me "soon."

The old-fashioned way.

Not soon enough, as the beeping continued. So I logged on to KitchenAid.com and found "Troubleshooting." By entering my credit card information I could text my problem to a "live agent." An initial fee of five dollars would enroll me in a club that would cost $28 per month after a month's free trial, but I could cancel at any time. I proceeded.

Pearl, the so-called live agent, turned out to be an idiot. She asked for my problem and I described it in detail. Then she asked for my problem again, and I described it again. Then she asked for my problem again, and I realized she was a robot with a few screws loose. So then I looked around and found something that said I could talk on the phone with a real person, perhaps that would suit me better. I said yes! Oh, but that would cost another $25 on top of the initial five dollars. WTF?

I decided to cancel my membership immediately and write off the five dollars to my being stupid. But first I had to figure out how. The "Cancel my subscription" button was hidden deep within the website. I finally found it and clicked it, which triggered a series of messages begging me to stay, promising they would solve my problem, and then audaciously asking me what they could do to convince me not to leave. "Cancel at any time" my eye!

Next I got an email from the company manager asking me to reconsider my cancellation. Enraged, I responded with a string of curse words in all caps. Fortunately my husband came home before I could fire up my AK-47 and hunt the man down. Mitch started punching random buttons on the fridge and eventually the beeping and flashing stopped. (He is a mechanical genius.)

Anyway, that's what I call bad customer service. Not as bad as war, agreed, but still a major pain in the ass, and certainly nothing I'd want my grandchildren to suffer through. So I guess my luncheon companion was right.

We Love Our Abortions

Roughly one million induced abortions are performed each year in the United States alone. Although deemed safe, "therapeutic abortions, as well as spontaneous miscarriages, can lead to a variety of complications."

So say a couple of experts in the field you never heard of (Karima R. Sajadi-Ernazarova, Christopher L. Martinez) I found on the Internet. They go on: "If uterine perforation, bladder or bowel injury are suspected, patients need hemodynamic resuscitation and expedited transfer to the operating room. If a septic abortion is suspected, sepsis treatment must be instituted according to institutional guidelines, broad-spectrum antibiotics must be initiated as early as the diagnosis is considered, and arrangements need to be made to transfer the patient to the operating room."

So if you ask me, it's best to have an abortion done in a hospital setting, or at least near a hospital, or at least by a doctor who can get you into a hospital, right? Apparently not all women give a hoot about this and will have the procedure done anywhere they can. A case currently being considered by the Supreme Court (Gee vs. June Medical Services) is about this very thing. At issue is a law on the books in Louisiana saying an abortion can only be performed by a doctor who has privileges at a nearby hospital, and there are hardly any of those around there, making many women unable to get an abortion, at least not within the law. The plaintiff in the case (June Medical Services) is seeking to have that overturned.

Naturally, abortion rights activists in their pink pussy hats are enraged and fighting this change. I guess lots of women would rather be dead than have a baby.

Krazy Kat Lady

I might be losing my mind. Not sure, but it's a distinct possibility. The main symptom is not knowing whether my cat is inside or outside. That might sound like no big deal in terms of mental illnesses, but believe me it's a bummer.

For example, when I am 100% certain he is inside, I look everywhere: under beds, inside all closets, in the basement, behind the dryer, and anyplace he might have gotten stuck. This procedure takes a long time, and naturally I worry that he's suffocating somewhere all the while. Eventually I start to panic, and may or may not take an anti-anxiety pill or a few drops of CBD tincture. It's about then that he saunters into view, strolling across the lawn on his way back from the woods behind our house, and presses his nose up to the glass back door, meowing for entry. Offering no apologies or explanation whatsoever, he finds a cozy spot and promptly falls asleep.

It's almost worse when I'm sure he's outside, especially when it starts to rain or snow. Then I go from the front door to the side door to the back door and then the front door again, and of course the back door, frantic that he must have been hit by a car or caught in an animal trap somewhere since he doesn't like getting wet and usually comes home right away when the weather turns bad. So I call his name and walk the property and shake the treat can, having stopped whatever I was doing that might actually need to be done in a timely fashion in order to look for him. Out of ideas and fighting back tears, I finally head home and find him in the middle of the living room, sitting and staring at me like I've lost my mind. Which is why I think I might be losing my mind, like I said at the start.

I thought of all this because earlier today I asked a neighbor to make a small adjustment on my propane stove, something I knew he could do, while I was at his house visiting with his wife and he was running out to do an errand. Giving him my house key, I assured him that the cat was outside and nobody was home, so he would be undisturbed. About an hour later he returned and said the job was done, although he was surprised by the cat who hissed angrily at him. "But Lurch was outside when I left," I said. "Well, maybe you've got another cat you don't know about," he replied.

That might explain all of this. Yes, it would be weird, but at least I wouldn't be nuts.

Everyone's Crazy Sometimes

Facebook has allowed me to reconnect with several old friends from my youth, and for the most part it's been a positive experience. That's the good news.  The bad news is that a few of those old friends are completely bonkers today, destroying treasured memories of our fun times together as kids with our whole lives ahead of us. This has led me to believe that some stones are better left un-turned. 

I also wonder if people might consider me to be one of those stones since depending on when you checked in on my life, I may or may not have been considered to be off my rocker. Like in my early 30s, there was that trip I took across Canada with a virtual stranger, based on knowing him for a few weeks and finding him handsome and dashing. Off we went in the dead of winter with many feet of snow on the ground and blizzards in the forecast, barely passing another vehicle for weeks, just the two of us and his dog. It was true love, I thought, until we reached our final destination and I met his fiancee. 

Then there was the time in my early 40s when, my husband out of town and me feeling lonely, I impulsively bought an adorable German shepherd puppy at a street fair. But once I got him home,  and especially after seeing the size of his poop at only ten weeks old, I remembered that I despised German shepherds and hated the dog after only a few hours. Fortunately when my husband got back he quickly tired of my incessant sobbing and agreed to return the pup. Explaining that his wife, that was me, was completely insane and had been released from a mental institution just a day before she bought the dog, he was able to secure a full refund.

There was that car I bought and didn't want by the time I drove it home from the dealership. (Thankfully I was dating a lawyer at the time.) And the poor guy I left at Madison Square Garden after the Janis Joplin concert, telling him I was going to the bathroom but really I got on the subway and went home. In fact, there were so many times when my behavior was certifiable, I'm shocked I'm still at large. 

In my own defense I'll say at least I never posted any of that stuff on Facebook. Until now. Uh oh....

Some Helpful Spam

I received this comment on my last few blog posts and decided to share it with all of you before deleting it, just to keep you current in the world of spam. I have changed nothing, so please excuse the typos and grammatical errors.
  
''Hello everyone i Am williams pater and i am from USA i am here to give my testimony about an herbal doctor called Dr,olu I was heartbroken because i had very small penis,not nice to satisfy a woman, i have been in so many relationship, but cut off because of my situation, i have used so many product which doctors prescribe for me, but could not offer me the help i searched for. i saw some few comments on the internet about this specialist called Dr,OLU and decided to email him on his email i saw on the internet,(drolusolutionhome@gmail.com ) so I decided to give his herbal product a try. i emailed him and he got back to me, he gave me some comforting words with his herbal product for Penis Enlargement, Within three weeks of me use it, i began to feel the enlargement, " and now it just 4 weeks of using his products my penis is about 8 inches longer, and i had to settle thing out with my ex girlfriend , i was surprised when she said that she is satisfied with my performance in bed and i on.''

So for all of my male readers and females in transition, you might want to email this dr,OLU. Just send him an email on your email and one momth your penis can be 8 inches longer too1

The Pelosi Mask

Stores across the country are already reporting heavy sales of what promises to be this year's top Halloween costume. Shown above is a child wearing the popular Nancy Pelosi mask, notable for its crazy eyebrows and lifelike appearance. Earrings not included.

Kicking Off October

In my book, any day that doesn't include time spent in a hospital Emergency Room is a good day. Today is such a day for me, despite the bleak rain and my lingering malady which may or may not have been exacerbated by yesterday's dawn visit to the ER at Maine Medical Center.  I might have gotten worse anyway, but I did leave there sneezing and coughing more than before I entered that facility. Still, the team of professionals I saw clearly ruled out a heart attack as the cause of the alarming symptoms that had sent me there, and for that I was grateful.

Either these signs were ignored or I was an IV cart.

If you  think America's health care system rocks, a visit to the ER may change that view. My time there, while ultimately positive, was fraught with stressors. I won't bore you by listing them all, but instead focus on the biggest one: The orange-jumpsuit-clad prisoner bleeding profusely from his bald head who occupied the adjacent cot. When they wheeled him in I wondered about the sudden appearance of two armed guards, thinking maybe he was somebody important. Then I overheard him tell the attending physician that the injury happened while he was "sitting on a bench right outside my cell." Aha! It was then that I realized the orange suit was not simply a seasonal fashion choice.

Not that I'm against prisoners getting medical treatment, but really -- did I need to be close enough to hear (and see) all the gory details?  Apparently the ER was full up and this busy hallway, although dotted with taped-up signs clearly stating it should remain empty, was the best they could do to accommodate us. Still, a divider of some sort between patients would have been nice. Jeesh -- hang up a sheet or something; even in the morgue you get your own private drawer.

A technician performed an EKG. Then my blood was drawn by a nurse who had trouble finding the vein -- not sure why as it was in the usual place -- and thus today I have a big purple bruise marking the spot on my arm where she eventually hit pay dirt. Finally I was seen by three doctors, all females under the age of thirty, two with nose rings. They were nice enough and inspired confidence, although none was all the way to a Cristina Yang. They concurred that I was still alive and would continue to be so for the foreseeable future, but that if I felt that way again I should come back immediately.

So far, today has been much nicer. I haven't seen the hospital bill yet but I'm sure it was hundreds and hundreds of dollars. Happily it won't show up for awhile since it has to first be submitted and rejected by my insurance carrier.