Volunteering Is for Dummies

I have just embarked upon on a new volunteering adventure and I'm already disenchanted with it.  Can you blame me? Since I moved to Maine ten years ago, I have volunteered in the following positions at the following institutions. Sadly, none of it helped anyone, including me:

Maine Medical Barbara Bush Children's Center: Pushed a cart around the hospital floor, dispensing candy bars to doctors and nurses who were "hungry and tired from working so hard." (Four-hour shift, once a week. After completing two months of weekly training sessions and two TB tests to qualify, I did it for three weeks before almost completely losing my sanity.)

Maine Medical Orthopedic Center: Gave out paper garments for patients to wear during their X-ray examinations. (Three-hour shift, once a week. I lasted three months because it was so dumb I could hardly believe it.)

Mid-Coast Hospital: Knocked on the doors of rooms where sick people were recovering from surgery to ask their opinions on the hospital food and if they needed anything, like magazines. I had to use hand sanitizer when entering and again when leaving every room. (Four-hour shift, once a week. Lasted five weeks, no training required but the skin on my hands became raw and painful.)

Portland Museum of Art: Sat at an information desk and directed people to the bathrooms and cafe. Four-hour shift, twice a week. (Did it for three months until the snows came and my supervisor said it "didn't matter" if I came in at all, ever.)

Freeport Community Center Food Pantry: Handed out canned foods and day-old cakes, pastries and breads to people on welfare. Four-hour shift once a week. (Lasted for 18 months, hoping to make a difference in the way they did things, like putting the new frozen turkeys behind the old ones in the freezer. Didn't work.)

Portland Ronald McDonald House: Did laundry and changed bed sheets, washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen and swept the floors where the parents of sick kids stayed for free, sometimes for months at a time, and did nothing to keep the place clean. Four-hour shift, once a week. (Lasted three weeks until I realized that I had dirty laundry, dishes and floors at home and I didn't have to drive half an hour to get to them.)

Get Old If You're Smart

I finally figured out what I should call this blog. It came to me last night while I was watching a Netflix offering entitled "Jerry Before Seinfeld."  The title is self-evident, and the show was very funny, with lots of clips from Jerry's childhood and some of his early appearances. But mostly it was him as he is today, hearkening back to his start in show business. It was a good time.

Still, some things bothered me. One in particular was how much he mocked his aging parents who live in Florida. This is of course standard fare for any comic, especially the younger ones. They make fun of old people and get lots of laughs from their young audiences. Jerry, no spring chicken himself at 65, comes down pretty hard on his father and his golf cronies at the retirement village. There's the usual stuff about sagging bodies and failing memory, and how his mother can't see very well but she still drives so he installed a cataract lens windshield in her car. (Ha ha.)

These days comics -- or anyone -- can't say a whole lot of words, like squaw, fatso, moron, slut, bimbo, redskin, retard, cripple, midget and nigger (a.k.a. the N-word), but they can say geezer, codger, coot, granny and old fogey without even a slap on the wrist. It's odd, since anyone who is smart enough to live a healthy life and attentive enough to avoid debilitating accidents will eventually become old as well, so you'd think that the elderly would be deserving of a high-five from everyone else.

What's My Name?

Recently I heard about a rock group called The New Pornographers. They are successful legitimate musicians with hit songs and a huge fan base. Apparently their music has nothing at all to do with pornography. So I guess the sky's the limit, name-wise.

That got me thinking: Since things aren't so funny these days -- what with impeachment and coronavirus and all the rest-- I no longer write a daily post, making me think this blog should be called The Every Few Days Droid. Of course that's a mouthful and not very catchy, and the word "droid" seems played. Now I'm stumped as to what to call this thing.

I'll try this one out for awhile and see if it resonates.

Film Review: WE'RE THE MILLERS

The Millers with their two fake kids and pretend baby. (It's really a huge brick of pot.)

Besides being so much easier to watch a movie at home, there's now the threat of that new Chinese virus making me think that a crowded public venue is not where I want to be. So I dug deep into the vault of Movies I Missed and came up with We're the Millers. Not exactly an intellectual choice, but anything with Jason Sudeikis and Jennifer Aniston sounds like a good time to me. And this was: No matter how sophisticated you may be, you will laugh out loud repeatedly, and isn't that what comedies are for?

Made in 2013, the script is surprisingly current on street slang and popular culture. Sudeikis plays Dave, a small-time pot dealer who gets wrangled into a big-time Mexican drug smuggling operation by his evil boss (Ed Helms). To avoid suspicion crossing the border, Dave poses as a typical American hayseed from cow country, driving a giant RV -- the better to fill with tons of marijuana -- and complete with a wife and two kids. Since he has neither he must find some lost souls willing to pose as his family and risk their lives on a dangerous road trip.

His neighbor, Rose (Jennifer Aniston), is a down-on-her heels stripper just evicted from her apartment and out of work; posing as Dave's wife is the best offer she has. A daughter shows up in the form of a homeless teenage girl hanging around Dave's building, and the son is played by Dave's dorky next door neighbor who's been all but abandoned by his real mother. And off they go!

We're the Millers is hysterical from beginning to end. Bad things happen, Mexican drug lords chase and almost kill them, border agents almost find the hidden contraband, and one of the foursome gets a bad bite in a delicate area from a hideous tarantula, forcing an unplanned stop at a hospital ER. By the end, safely ensconced in witness protection, they love one another and bond as a real family. While not all the way to heart-warming it's definitely a feel-good couple of hours, although several raunchy situations make it inappropriate for young children and prudes.

Who's Your Favorite Scoundrel?

Suppose you are running for office, say mayor of your little town of Nowhere, Idaho, and you found out that the guy running against you, and who held the position before you, had been taking bribes the whole time, doing favors for various high-ranking people. Would you want that to come to light during your campaign? I would.

Trump may be a pussy-grabbing, boorish loudmouth, but he still did the right thing in exposing the seemingly obvious corrupt situation regarding the dubious activities involving the son of a past sitting Vice-President who might well become our next President. After all, Republicans are not the only scoundrels.

Cartoon Dogs Are Better

There's nothing more annoying than having someone tell you how to live your life, as if they know what's best for you, what will make you happiest, what will satisfy your innermost desires, none of which they have any idea about. I mean really, is there?

I have a friend who thinks I should get a dog. She says this because I love dogs and whenever I meet one I shower it with affection. This, to her, is proof that I should own a dog. I say no thanks, I've had enough dogs die on my watch, I cannot take the heartache. Plus it's hard enough to travel with just a cat at home, I'm not up for the pain of finding a dog-sitter, or dog walker, or whatever, in order to live my life outside my home.

Dogs are cute in cartoons. Snoopy regularly dispenses profound life lessons and Brian, the talking dog on TV's "Family Guy," goes drinking with family members who want company. But in real life they do no such things. Instead they get cancer, get run over, get lost and get ticks. They fight with other dogs. They bite the neighbor's kid (maybe, this has never occurred with any of my dogs but I've heard stories). They need to go to the vet all the time, and you need to take them there. You have to play with them constantly and walk them in blizzards, heat waves, thunderstorms, hurricanes and tsunamis, at all hours of day or night and in whatever condition you may be in -- drunk, stoned, exhausted, depressed or just plain lazy -- or else they will pee and poop in your home.

I say all this to my friend and she says, as if I am clueless when it comes to understanding myself, "A dog would make you so happy. They're good company. Blah, blah, blah....."

I hate that.

Us Against Them

Pick one from each row to find out who you are!

Good vs. Evil

Young vs. Old

Democrat vs. Republican

Black vs. White

Rich vs. Poor

Male vs. Female

Truthful vs. Dishonest

Diligent vs. Lazy

Loves Cats vs. Hates Cats

Carnivore vs. Vegetarian

Religion vs. Atheism

Jew vs. Christian

Gay vs. Straight

Single vs. Married

Fat vs. Thin

Handicapped vs. Able-bodied

Beauty vs. Ugliness

Dumb As a Rock vs. Smart As a Whip

Sick vs. Healthy

Loves Yoga vs. Hates Yoga

Couch Potato vs. Perfect Physical Specimen

Dead vs. Alive

I'm a good old rich white truthful Jewish Republican (more than Democrat) female. I'm diligent, love cats and eat meat but wish I were a vegetarian. I'm a straight, married, thinner than fat, able-bodied, smart-as-a-whip yoga-hater whose beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I'm sort of sick but also sort of healthy -- hardly a physical specimen but certainly no couch potato. And as of this minute, I am definitely alive. 

I far prefer Us to Them.

The Human Comedy Isn't Funny

Everyone I know is busy yapping about impeachment and Bernie vs. Warren, but I'm in my own private hell. Trump in or Trump out, I still have to paint my bedroom. We've narrowed it down to Rami, Birdseye Maple or Shiitake, but honestly I'm not wild about any of them. Don't laugh -- the color of my bedroom walls is much more of a problem to me than what happens on Capitol Hill. (Those walls will definitely be around a lot longer than the current political uproar.)

I also care more about the spreading Chinese Wuhan virus morphing into a menace that may threaten the globe if left unchecked. And about people everywhere going crazy: A guy in Southern California admitted to purposely ramming his car into a Prius carrying six teenage boys. It hit a tree and three of the boys died. (A climate-change denier after the Prius?) Another guy in Kansas City, Missouri shot up a line of people waiting to get inside a bar. Final tally: One dead, 15 injured.

There's so much more. Somewhere a child has just been diagnosed with cancer. Thousands are hungry. Barefoot orphans wander the streets of war-ravaged cities, in search of love and nurturing. Animals are being burned alive in Australia's fires. And still Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer and that hideous comedy team of Nadler & Schiff think if they could just kick Trump out of office, everything would be great.

I guess if you look at it in a certain light, that is funny.

Hillary Clinton, the Biggest Loser

Hillary Clinton, who is either "the smartest woman in the world" or "the biggest loser" depending on who's talking, has just released the following statement for all of us little people, a.k.a. The Deplorables:

“This is an election that will have such profound impact, so take your vote seriously,” Clinton said. “And for Democratic voters, try to vote for the person you think is most likely to win. Because at the end of the day, that is what will matter — and not just in the popular vote, but the electoral college.”

Thanks for the tip, Hil -- we were planning to vote for the person we think is least likely to to win. But now, because of your sage advice, we will try to vote for a winner.

Dr. Who?

To allay my fears about any new ailment that crops up, our family physician always tells me to relax, adding that whatever it happens to be is, "As common as a penny!" That usually works. But today I went for my annual checkup with my cardiologist, who reminded me that another thing that's as common as a penny is having a heart attack. Neither of us addressed the elephant in the room, which is that the thing that's even more common than a penny is death. Some things are best left unsaid, and besides, we're not that close. Actually, I might have trouble picking him out of a lineup.

I met my cardiologist a little over two years ago, after my first and only heart attack. I was lying in my hospital bed when he walked in the room and asked, "Do you have a cardiologist?"  Of course I did not, so he said, "Well, I can be your cardiologist." Post-surgery and happy to be alive, I said sure. I have seen him three times since then, counting today. During the same period I have seen my orthodontist six times, my dental hygienist nine times and the fish guy at Bow Street Market 140 times.

My Inner Virginia Woolf

It's hard to fathom just how miserable the average American is but based on my own life it must be damn miserable, and I've got it good! I'm only ten pounds overweight and can hardly stand my own body, and so many people are so much fatter they must really hate looking in the mirror or getting naked or simply zipping up a pair of jeans and seeing that muffin top, I shudder to think about it. Plus I'm not homeless or a drug addict or an alcoholic or the parent of a child with cancer or the parent of a homeless child or one who shot up a school and is in prison for life and I have to go visit every week and how depressing would that be? I am not suffering from any horrific chronic illness, just all the ones that everyone has at my age, which is a boatload but nothing I can't handle, although the constipation-causing hemorrhoids can get quite annoying.

Still, I am often very sad and angry at events outside my own sphere of influence, silly as that is. This is surely true for all of us over a certain age, since young people are out having a ball, not yet suffering from all those conditions that will get them one day. They are still getting high, staying up late, eating Chinese food at 10 pm without fear of debilitating heartburn waking them up at two in the morning, especially since they're partying til dawn anyway. And most of them don't have pets which are a huge source of aggravation, let's be honest: Dogs with cancer, cats with fleas. A 12-year-old cat, while fluffy and silky and at times adorable, is a real pain in the ass, what with the ticks and the flea medication and the steady arrival of murdered little animals at your back door and the never-ending cleaning of the litter box. Ultimately they die, like everything, and then you feel like crap for weeks or even months or even years if you are really nuts like my friend Mary who stayed in bed for an entire summer when Kitter died.

Amy's drawn-on eyebrows will not win her any votes.

It snowed overnight, much more than was predicted by the weather people who seem to be getting it wrong more often lately so I neglected to park my car in the garage and will have to clean it off to go to the store to get, guess what, cat food. I didn't notice the snow because I was trying to watch last night's Democratic debate but I just couldn't do it. Life is too damn short. So I switched to "Everybody Loves Raymond" for a few laughs before sleep and ended up having a fun bunch of dreams. God knows what I would have dreamt about had I stayed with Bernie and Joe and the rest of that dreary bunch. Amy Klobuchar's makeup job alone -- how about those eyebrows?-- would have given me nightmares for sure.

Oscar the Grouch

Some days I wake up with an overwhelming urge to write something uplifting. Something that might inspire others to do good, to feel better, to be nicer to one another. Like an animal trapped inside a black box, my ego scurries around the darkest recesses of my brain seeking the exact words that might heal. I feel this urge not only so that others might benefit, but so my own dark moods might improve; after all, one does not suffer a heart attack because one feels fabulously happy.

Alas, today is not that day. Not with Australia's fires burning up adorable koala bears, and a volcano in the Philippines spewing hot lava for 50 miles, and our civil war waging on Capitol Hill, the troops led by Generals McConnell and Pelosi.

Besides all that, I am really pissed off that Adam Sandler was not nominated for an Oscar for his recent stellar performance, acclaimed by all the film critics, in Uncut Gems. I haven't seen it yet but I have seen Adam Sandler -- many times. I've seen him be outrageously funny (Happy Gilmore, Billy Madison) and also extremely moving (Punch Drunk Love, The Meyerowitz Stories). Still, he gets no respect. Not like the popular kids -- say Brad Pitt, who simply has to sneeze convincingly to be nominated for an Oscar, or Scarlett Johansson, nominated for TWO this year because she's so pretty.

So, maybe tomorrow.

Thinking Is Still Legal

"Hey! You can't think that and get away with it!"

It's still legal to think whatever you want. It surely will not be at some time in the future, especially if the Democrats get hold of the reins again. But for now, the worst that happens if you let slip some less popular thoughts is being shunned on Facebook. Being a semi-recluse with a mere handful of Facebook friends, that doesn't scare me. So I continue to think my thoughts and sometimes write them here, where those few readers who have stuck by me mostly share my point of view.

Most recently a scuffle arose over my obvious disapproval of transgender surgery, in fact of the whole gender fluidity "thing." I issued an apology to anyone I may have offended, and that stands, but I still find the whole he/she/they, what bathroom should I use, boy-with-a-vagina, girl-with-a-penis concept to be idiotic. Doubtless I will always feel that way, even if my own son, currently a perfect representation of strong masculinity in touch with his feminine side, were to tell me there's a girly-girl trapped inside him. "Do what you want," I'd say, "and I'll always love you, but I think you need a shrink more than a surgeon."

Following are a few other politically-correct notions that stick in my craw:

Saying "people of color" even though it's damn close to "colored people." I say neither and continue to refer to minorities as whatever they actually are.

Having fat fashion models on the runway. Or in commercials. Or anywhere except an ad for Little Caesar's Pizza. Yes I know -- most American are fat and getting fatter, but perhaps seeing the ease of movement enjoyed by those with better bodies might incentivize everyone to get in shape.

Allowing so-called "service dogs" on airplanes. This is a joke. I personally know people who simply paid a fee down at City Hall and slapped a vest on Fido that says "SERVICE DOG" when really they just couldn't find a pet sitter or refused to travel alone.

Hating Donald Trump just because he beat Hillary. Conversely, finding Trump amusing and effective is just not done, even if you plan to vote for someone else. You simply must hate the man -- and his wife and his children -- or you are the scum of the Earth, just like him.

Thinking Mayor Pete would make a good president. Democrats are quick to extol his virtues, even though he is a still-wet-behind-the-ears Boy Scout in charge of a small town (pop.101,860) with big problems. This is because most people seek brownie points for backing the gay candidate, as if being gay makes one a good and pious and special person, even though they would never vote for Little Petey come Election Day.

It's only 2020 and I am free to have these thoughts. But for how long?

Who's Reading This?

A random reader recently took umbrage at my post of January 2 wherein I discussed the transgender practice of surgical breast removal to further an innate desire to live as a male rather than a female.  Just the mention of this now-common procedure was, to her, beyond the pale, making me "a piece of work." Unsure of just what that made me, I looked it up and found this:

"The literal meaning of the term a piece of work is the product produced through someone’s efforts. However, a piece of work is also used as an idiom to describe someone who is unpleasant, dishonest, hard to deal with, of low character. When used in this fashion, a piece of work is a derogatory phrase. "

Now it's my time to take umbrage. Simply because I am not on board with the finality of altering one's God-given body parts to suit a possibly passing whim does not mean I am any of those things.  (I may well be one of the first three but certainly not the fourth). And just what defines "low character" anyway? Would someone who drinks too much and sleeps around qualify? How about someone repeatedly arrested for drunk driving? Is that person " a piece of work" or, more sympathetically, a lost soul?

Anyway, to any perfectly nice transgenders out there offended by my words, I apologize. As for their mothers, it's a good thing they aren't reading this blog ever again.

Bernie Sanders for Liar-in-Chief?

Being the President is surely not a stress-free job!

“So could it be true? I guess it could be. Is it likely to be true? Probably not.” 

So said Bernie Sanders on an NBC News morning TV show about President Trump's claim that the Iranian leader Soleimani was planning an attack on the US. prompting Sanders to call out Trump as a "pathological liar." He added, "When you lie all the time, the problem is sometimes maybe you’re telling the truth and people are not going to believe you.” 

Which brings me to this: About two weeks ago Sanders released his latest physical report from his doctors stating that the 78-year-old was in perfect health despite last October's heart attack, after which two stents were implanted in his blocked artery. In fact, he is so healthy that he no longer requires a beta-blocker (statin drug) or blood thinners at all!

I read that with interest since I had the same kind of heart attack almost three years ago at the age of 70. I was on blood thinners for one full year, as are all heart attack victims who have stents implanted. And my cardiologist insists I take a beta-blocker for the rest of my life, as should all heart attack victims since they greatly reduce the likelihood of a second heart attack.

So is Bernie lying about the recent report on his health status, or is it true? Is it likely to be true? Probably not.

Our Prompts Have Changed

This morning, like a fool, I tried to call my doctor. As usual. that's not happening. Instead I got the recording which, like every other recording of its type in every other office of any kind, said, "We are currently assisting other customers. Please listen closely as our menu prompts have recently changed."

That is such bullshit! Are we really supposed to believe that all over the entire country, workers are busy in offices changing the menu prompts on answering machines? Why would that be? What was wrong with the old prompts? And how come the prompts are never any different anyway?  They've been the same for years! Instead, here's what those recordings should say to be truthful:

"Thank you for calling Yarmouth Family Practice. If you believe that Jeffrey Epstein committed suicide, Press #1 and someone will be with you shortly. You are the next caller in the queue."

"Thank you for calling Yarmouth Family Practice. Please listen carefully because even though our prompts have not changed at all since the day we installed this answering system five years ago, it takes a really long time for you to hear them all, giving us extra time on the phone with our mother, boyfriend, husband, child's teacher, pet sitter, manicurist, airline reservation clerk and/or bookie, to name just a few."

"Thank you for calling Yarmouth Family Practice. Hang up now as you have a far greater chance of winning the Publisher's Clearinghouse Prize than speaking to your doctor, or even a nurse, anytime soon. Better go to the ER."

"Thank you for calling Yarmouth Family Practice. All of our representatives are either hanging around the break room drinking coffee, out buying lunch, stuck on the daily Sudoku or online looking for a new job."

"Thank you for calling Yarmouth Family Practice. Currently our lone receptionist is having a texting argument with her teenage son and since there are 15 callers on hold ahead of you, just log on to WebMD and figure it out for yourself."

Film Review: MARRIAGE STORY

Sucked in by the outsized proclamations of Oscar greatness in the Arts section of last Sunday's New York Times, I fired up Netflix and suffered through -- I mean watched -- Marriage Story. To be honest, I turned it off after ten minutes, not being in the mood for one of those self-conscious, "aren't-we-deep-and-profound" products showcasing the talents of its director, writer and stars basking in their 15 minutes of fame. But feeling as if I owed it to my readers, since this will surely be nominated for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Actor, Best Actress and Best God Knows What Else, I went back and settled in. (So now you all damn well better read this review.)

Adam Driver spilling his guts and possibly winning an Oscar.

The eponymous marriage belongs to a young, successful couple in the entertainment industry: Charlie (Adam Driver) is a hot Broadway director and his wife Nicole (Scarlett Johansson) is an actress whose star is rising. We meet them in arbitration so never get to see them as a happy couple, although we hear about it in Nicole's teary-eyed (and Oscar-winning?) monologues. Instead we see the coming apart, the fighting, the vitriol, the bitterness, and the downright hatred that has festered within their relationship, despite sharing an 8-year-old son they both adore. So far, yawn.

In fact, yawn all the way through. There are lawyers on both sides who are fairly interesting to watch. Laura Dern plays one of them, but unconvincingly. Who would ever hire her, with her slinky, tight dresses and 6-inch stilettos, long stringy hair and tons of makeup almost but not quite concealing her wrinkles? Nicole did, and tells her plenty of inside stuff to help grab most of Charlie's hard-earned cash, plus child custody.

In response, Charlie interviews several lawyers, one of whom is an oily bottom-feeder (Ray Liotta) who announces his fee as, "$950 an hour, so for any dumb questions call my assistant who only costs $400." Hating him, and too poor anyway, Charlie moves on to an older, gentler, but obviously ineffective loser (Alan Alda) who Charlie likes but ultimately feels will get him nowhere in this epic battle. In the end, the bottom-feeder wins out. The rest is all typical divorce stuff, but two moments stand out -- the first for being really dumb and the second for being really great.

The dumb one is when a court-appointed social worker visits Charlie's house to observe him with his son. Charlie spends days getting ready, buying furniture and rugs, renting indoor plants, and even framing his son's art to hang on the walls of his newly purchased apartment in LA (all to please the court since he really lives in NY but Nicole has filed for divorce in California where she was born and has family). Surely he would use one of those framed art pieces to cover the hole in the wall he punched during an argument with Nicole, it's visible the minute you walk in. But no. So the social worker sees it, understands it and probably makes a mental note that "this guy is violent." Oh please.

The second standout -- the great one -- is in the film's final act and makes the whole thing worth watching. Moved by recent events, Charlie spontaneously grabs the mike in a New York night club and, surrounded by his theater friends, sings "Being Alive." It is quite beautiful and the most gut-wrenching moment in the film. But save yourself all the rest and see it on YouTube. (Google "Adam Driver Sings" and it comes right up.)

Film Review: BOMBSHELL

If you like seeing hot blondes in tight dresses, this movie is for you.

With Oscar season upon us, Bombshell is sure to be nominated for something, although I've got no predictions beyond that. With a cast of big names and a spicy topic -- sex always sells -- what's not to like? Taking a close look at the scandalous behavior and eventual firing of FOX News head Roger Ailes, that now-deceased giant of broadcasting, Bombshell fans the already considerable flames of mistrust of that organization, despite the events described taking place years ago.

The centerpiece of the film is the $20 million lawsuit brought against Ailes (John Lithgow) by former Fox News anchor-babe Gretchen Carlson (Nicole Kidman), who claimed that Ailes fired her for refusing his sexual advances. While she plods along in meetings with her lawyers we are treated to an inside look at the workings of the huge media corporation, and to be honest it's pretty nauseating. Other victims of sexual harassment are news anchor Megyn Kelly (Charlize Theron) and a young fictional newsroom aide (Margot Robbie) who squirms under his pressure to "raise your skirt a little higher" during a job interview with a sweating, panting, blubbery, disgusting Ailes. (John Lithgow never looked so bad.)

The film's singular flaw is the constant flashing of the names of all the famous people as they appear onscreen. Ooh look: there's Chris Wallace and Kimberley Guilfoyle and Neil Cavuto and Bret Baier and Greta Van Susteren and Sean Hannity and Geraldo Rivera and Rudy Guiliani and Judge Jeanine Pirro and, OMG -- Bill O'Reilly! It wouldn't be so bad if they mattered to the story, but they didn't. Meanwhile, you're so distracted by judging how closely the actors resemble their real counterparts that you miss a lot of the dialog. It felt like seeing Madame Tussaud's wax figures come to life. It was, to put it bluntly, dumb. But fun anyway.

Old and Proud

It's pretty common; even cartoon characters die.

You know all those stories on the Internet with headlines like, "You Won't Believe How So-and-So Looks Today!", followed by hideous photos of a formerly beautiful Hollywood star now in his or her dotage? Well I'd like to know: what's the point?

Despite the fact that EVERYONE AGES AND EVENTUALLY DIES, somehow getting old is considered an inherent weakness to be pitied rather than a strength to be admired. Similarly, looking youthful through repeated surgeries and injections of chemical substances is applauded. This denial of a basic truth is, at its core, a major problem within our sickeningly superficial society.

Bottom line: Everyone dies. Get over it.

It Takes All Kinds

The current temperature where I live, in Maine, is 31 degrees. It is also quite windy, adding to the bitter sting of the air hitting your skin. So to drag two heavy trash bins down our longish, ice- and snow-covered driveway for tomorrow morning's pickup, and even though I would be outside for a brief time, I pulled out all the stops: down coat, fleece-lined gloves, woolen cap and heavy boots with good traction.

Once finished with the job, I stopped to enjoy the lovely winter scene when off in the distance I spied a runner coming towards me. This was surprising considering the icy condition of our neighborhood streets, a fact I had learned firsthand from driving home just an hour earlier.

As the runner got closer I could see that he was a male about 35 years old, dressed in athletic shorts and a tank top. Stunned at his lack of protective clothing, I almost missed the fact that he was running barefooted. This got me wondering if humans are really one species after all. I think not, which would certainly explain our political differences.

Enough Guilt Already

A dear friend of mine called earlier today in the midst of a "moral dilemma," she being white and living in a decidedly southern state of the union. She said felt guilty for this, especially after just reading a book that deals with the subject. Until then, she never knew just how responsible she was for the plight of minorities simply by being alive.

I checked out the book on Amazon and found it was but one of at least a dozen on the subject of white guilt, or rather White Guilt. I was poised to purchase the one my friend recommended, but thought better of it since I don't feel guilty about all that now and don't want to. I mean really, what can I do about it?My first thought was to walk around wearing blackface, but realized I would be tarred (ha) as a racist if I did.

Plain and simple, there is no solution. White people will continue being white, at least for the next couple of hundred years. Everyone should just get used to it. I know, we did a lot of bad things in the past, yada yada. But I personally never hurt anyone with a different skin color from mine, and in fact have enjoyed friendships with many members of minority groups over the course of my lifetime. So please, don't ask me to feel guilty. I'm Jewish, so trust me, I've got enough guilt already. 

Poor Donald

Yes, you heard me: poor Donald. (Trump, of course.)

No matter what he does, the mainstream press spins it to be terrible. Yesterday he ordered an airstrike that resulted in the death of a top Iranian terrorist leader who was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of Americans and the recent storming of the American Embassy in Baghdad. If any other president had orchestrated this attack, it would have been lauded by the media. Instead, the likes of Anderson Cooper and the rest of the CNN, MSNBC and New York Times crowd are rushing to criticize the action.

As one Facebook commenter put it: "Trump can do no good in the eyes of the left. If he walked on water, they'd say it was because he couldn't swim."

Boys Will Be Girls

Just last night I was petting my cat Lurch. All was sweetness and light until he turned around and bit my finger. I threw him off and vowed to never pet him again -- an empty threat since he demands being petted 24/7. Nevertheless I was pissed, shouting that Daisy, my one true love and now-deceased pet of 20 years would never, and in fact had never, done such a thing. The nerve!

My husband sprang to Lurch's defense, saying he couldn't help it, being male. "He's a tomcat, after all -- it's his nature to play rough," Mitch explained. "Boys will be boys." That got me wondering what happens in the case of transgenders: Will boys always be boys, or will they be girls if they alter enough body parts and take enough hormones?

The lesbian daughter of a friend of mine started dating a woman a few years ago who today has a beard and a hairy chest where her surgically removed breasts once were. I wonder, does her now boyfriend also leave a mess in the bathroom? Does he stomp around the house noisily and track mud in from the street? And how about the other way around? Does Caitlyn "Bruce" Jenner, female in so many ways but one, put the toilet seat down after she pees? Exactly how deep a cut does transgender surgery make?

Donald Trump in 2020

Since nobody reads my blog anymore I am free to say that I actually like Donald Trump! I think he is funny, insightful and very smart. He says what he thinks, a good and rare quality in a politician. And Rosie O'Donnell actually is a fat pig, or at least was when he called her that. Not sure he will get my vote, but unless someone shows up on the other side who is not yet running he will. So there!

2020 Vision

Today is Wednesday, just one day after yesterday which was Tuesday. But according to many people it's a whole new decade: It's now 2020. So when you write a check be sure to write 2020 on it. 

But the most important thing is that everyone's vision will be a lot better this year, for obvious reasons. So toss out your eyeglasses, or at least store them until next year when it will be 2021.