A Flurry of Flies

The night before last, as I was getting ready for bed, I was surprised to see a fly circling the room. A common housefly, we rarely see them in the house even in summertime, ever since we had our new windows and super-tight screens installed. Oh well, I thought, maybe he got in through an open door. Moments later I saw another one. This guy was on my pillow, which really pissed me off/grossed me out. I killed him immediately, something I hate doing since it is, after all, a life.

The next morning, which was yesterday, we awoke to see several more around the house. One there, two there. What's going on, we wondered. Downstairs in the kitchen making coffee, three more were hanging out on the walls and one was on a lampshade. I became officially freaked out. I'd swat one and turn around to see another one right behind me.

Googling "flies in the house," I learned that they are attracted to open garbage. Well, we not only don't have open garbage, but when we have even the smallest amount of kitchen waste I take it to the outside trash bin. Obviously there could be only one explanation: We were cursed. But by who? Then I remembered that horrible woman online who had written hateful things about me in response to a recent blog post she found objectionable. I thought at the time she was a witch; it must have been her.

Last night a friend came for dinner (don't tell Dr. Fauci) and she agreed that we had a "situation" on our hands as we swatted away flies during our meal. They seemed to drop with just the lightest tap, so they were old and weak already. Possibly they had gotten the wrong address and thought this was the Fly Hospice?

I went to sleep gripping the fly swatter, telling myself that in light of the global pandemic this was nothing. Still, it really was something, and on top of a global pandemic! (Talk about adding insult to injury.) Happily, this morning has been fly-free. It's too soon to celebrate but I've put the swatter down to write this post, so perhaps it's over. What I want to know is where did they go and from whence did they come?

Karen and Sh'amiqa

As a white woman who was not born in a garbage dump, had plenty to eat as a child, had two functional parents and took out multiple school loans to go to college (which by the way took the next 20 years to pay off and no government, certainly not the president or the governor of New York, let me off the hook, rather they dogged my footsteps weekly with phone calls and threats if a payment was late), I deeply resent and am quite sick of the rise and use of the word "Karen" to describe white women "of privilege" who, through no fault of their own, had and have everything they need and through habit expect a level of comfort in life and are therefore considered to be racists.

This is considered acceptable by the masses. Nobody has spoken out against the Karen put-down or in defense of this type of woman, and in fact on Facebook there are several "Karen" pages full of snarky sarcasm and photos of blond white women related to the whole thing.

Now imagine if it became acceptable to use the name "Sh'amiqa" to describe a black woman who grew up in poverty, fatherless, was often hungry as a child, had four children with four different men by the age of 21, blames all whites for her predicament, and is considered to be a pathetic victim worthy of derision.

I said imagine.

Happy Thanksgiving?

I woke up this morning Covid-free. Or should I say Covid symptom-free, since I could have Covid and not know. Or I could die from it. Anyway, I am relieved since the media frenzy reached a fever pitch yesterday, with dire warnings about how gathering with friends and family to celebrate Thanksgiving was not all that different from shooting yourself in the foot, or maybe even the head.

Now that bad boy Donald Trump is slowly fading from the limelight, journalists are desperately seeking something to freak us out about since Joe Biden is such a snore. The virus is just the thing since it impacts every single person, thus the audience is huge for every little thing related to the CDC, NIH, WHO, FDA, hospital ICU beds, vaccines, masks, mandates, death counts, and anything uttered by Dr. Fauci.   

Yesterday, moments before my guests arrived, a friend from New York City called and read me the riot act about having people in my house, and at my age! "You must be kidding," he fairly shouted. Then he listed all the ways I might contract the virus, including being indoors, not staying socially distant, having all the windows closed, not wearing masks, sharing food, etc. By the time my son and his girlfriend arrived I was a blithering mass of nerves. Thankfully we stock plenty of alcohol which seemed to help, and by the time dinner was on the table I forgot to worry and didn't start again until this morning when it was too late.

The good news is that our newspaper was not delivered today, so I can remain blissfully ignorant of the latest horror stories if I'm careful.

How to Stay Healthy This Winter

I am not a dictator, hold no political office and consider myself about as important as a blade of grass, but I truly believe that the press is the enemy of the people, sentiments I share with the likes of Stalin and Mao. And more recently, Donald Trump. Perhaps in days past, the press had as its goal the education of the populace. That is no longer the case. For some time now, surely half my life, the goal has been to increase earnings via increased ratings, which morph into more advertising dollars. 

The Lords of Journalism have rightly discerned that sensationalism is the way to get more sheeple watching TV, reading the newspaper, logging on to the Internet and listening to the radio. They all share the same message:  Everything is a DISASTER! The world is in CHAOS! More people are DYING and the pandemic is SPREADING and you must stay IN YOUR HOME and talk to nobody but LOOK TO US for all you need to know!

Personally I find that staying connected to "the people who know things" quickly depletes my store of Lorazepam. It's not just me; according to reputable sources, "Prescriptions for antidepressants and anti-anxiety and anti-insomnia medications shot up 21% between February and March 2020 alone."

I beg of you guard yourself against this onslaught of negativity. Bake, cook, paint, run, hike, put in a new basement floor, winterize your garden, pet the cat, play with the dog, watch a movie, rearrange all the furniture in your house, read a novel, write a book, learn a language, listen to music, in fact do anything you can think of but for God's sake (and your own), stop ingesting the news. 

Welcome, President Geezer

"I'm the president? Of what?"

Sad but true, our next president (he should live so long) is a geezer. No matter how you dress him up, Joe Biden is old. As in "old coot," "old codger" and "ready for the glue factory." I'm willing to bet he has tinnitus, annoyed if not downright irritable bowels, some level of arthritis, and that he gets up several times a night to pee. His teeth are not original. He may or may not have cataracts. He definitely has dementia. 

After all, the man is 78. Trust me, by the time you hit your 70s it's not a pretty picture. I speak from experience, and although I'm four years younger than Joe, I'm in the same the ballpark. It's not a good one.

Today I went to the office of my cardiologist to get outfitted with a heart monitor. This was to learn why I get dizzy spells and pass out, or almost pass out, for no apparent reason. During a telephone appointment with a staff nurse practitioner (God forbid a doctor should waste his time talking to patient), I was assured that it was "no big deal" and would simply involve wearing "a little sticker" on my chest for 30 days to check my heart's functions. 

As it turned out, it was a big deal. In fact, deals don't really come much bigger. The "little sticker" turned out to be a hard plastic unit which held a plastic, battery-operated monitor that would send live data to some computer somewhere, manned by someone who would evaluate the various beeps and bleeps my heart outputted. The plastic unit and the monitor were about the size of a large Butterfinger's bar -- the kind they hand out in rich neighborhoods on Halloween, not the skimpy fun size. The whole clumsy apparatus was attached with some sort of skin glue augmented with adhesive tapes. 

There was a separate, dedicated iPhone sending the data that I had to keep within 10 feet of me at all times. It would beep continually, telling me it was working, and needed to be recharged nightly. I would have to replace the monitor every week, and change the tape holding it on my skin every few days. I could shower, but only with my back to the spray. WTF? And if the little green light turned orange, that was bad. And I had to do this, and that, and blah, blah, blah. After two nurses worked up a sweat getting it all taped onto me, I realized I wanted no part of it and instructed them to, "Get this thing off me!" 

For all I know, Joe Biden has one of those things on him. Or he may have something even worse -- who knows what happens between the ages of 74 and 78? Anyway, let's all pray he lives because if not it's that bitch on wheels running things, and that can't be good. 

Survey Says

These days everything you do or say online, or even in person, sparks an immediate survey asking how satisfied you were with whatever it was you just did. It's nuts! Also annoying, like we have nothing else to do but give them free marketing data? I remember when you had to pay for that kind of thing and also were paid to participate in a survey. Now it's just assumed you will tell anyone all they need to know in order to improve their services and thus wring more money from the public.

I began wondering if that survey thing could somehow work to my benefit. So starting today I will be sending surveys out to any and all people who come by for a visit, stay for a meal, use the bathroom or whatever. That way I can improve and maybe even get to a better spot in Heaven than I ordinarily would. You know, closer to God or something. 

Following is the one I have prepared for this Thursday when my husband and I will host two family members and a guest for Thanksgiving. (Please don't tell the Governor of New Jersey.)

2020 Thanksgiving Survey

1. How easy was it for you to find parking at the venue?

A) Ridiculously easy  B) Very easy  C) Somewhat ridiculously easy  D) Not at all hard

2. How worried were you that would contract the coronavirus at the venue?

A) Not at all worried, I'm a moron   B) Somewhat worried   C) Very worried, I'm a moron

3. How would you rate the meal?

A) Fabulous  B) Excellent  C) Stupendous  D) Yummy  E) All the of the above

4. How likely are you to recommend this venue to others?

A) Extremely likely  B) Very likely  C) Pretty likely  D) Highly likely

5. Who was your favorite person at the dinner?

A) The hostess  B) The host  C) The funny one  D)  The pretty girl  E) The cat

6. Which stuffing did you like better?

A) Cooked inside the bird  B) Cooked in a pan in the oven

7. What might have improved your dining experience?

A) Being allowed to take off my mask to eat  B) Not having my temperature taken every 10 minutes

8. Overall, how did this year's holiday compare with past holidays at this venue?

A) It sucked   B) It was similar except for all the anxiety  C) No different

9. Which politician is the most heinous?

A) Maizie Herono  B) Maxine Waters  C) Nancy Pelosi  D) Chuck Schumer

10. How likely is it that this year's election was not exactly kosher?

A) Very likely  B) Oh please  C) Are you kidding me? D) All of the above

Bye Bye Joe and Kamala (I Wish)

My mother died 39 years ago today. That bit of information helps nobody, not even me. It's just stuck in my brain, along with many other useless memories that occupy brain space and keep me from remembering what I had for dinner last night. My point is, wouldn't it be nice if we could just eliminate those memories that serve us no damn good, and in some cases actually cause ongoing sadness? Here are some of mine I would like to eradicate:

 The DC Sniper: For three weeks in October 2002, the city of Washington and its surrounding suburbs were terrorized by two crazy individuals driving around and shooting (and killing) people at random, as if all of life were their private video game. High-schoolers at the time, my son and his friends enjoyed tempting fate by going out into the city to "hang out" or get a pizza. Naturally this caused me, huddled under my bed at home, much angst. Actually, as I recall it was friggin' nightmare. If I could erase that memory I might be less wary of everything, and possibly ten pounds lighter.

John Travolta, once upon a time.

My date with John Travolta. I was in my 30's and single and he was my idol at the time. Through connections, I was designated his escort for an entire weekend of festivities surrounding The Kennedy Center Honors, for which he was one of the presenters. But he turned out to be a boring and insecure narcissist. (How many times did he ask me if his hair looked alright? About a billion.)

The time I left my date in Madison Square Garden after the Janis Joplin concert ended. It was 1969. I was a hippies. I told my date I was going to the ladies' room and would meet him out front but instead I just got on the subway and went home. I couldn't stand the guy and only went out with him because he had tickets to the concert, which by the way was a million miles beyond fabulous, so I would keep that part of the memory.  (Wrote one critic: "Late in the show, Janis performs "Bo Diddley" with her fellow Texan and guest star, guitar whiz Johnny Winter. The song becomes an extended jam when Paul Butterfield joins them onstage. The response of the audience is ecstatic.")

The time I coaxed my adorable dog Rufus to, "C'mon, get in the car, we're going for a ride!" Then we went to the vet, who put him down.

My father's dying of colon cancer. It took three months, coincidentally the exact dates of the first trimester of my pregnancy. 

Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. Somehow that tiresome twosome finagled their way into power. Not sure how they did it since neither one ever was a crowd-pleaser, with Kamala dropping out of the primary race early because she couldn't raise any money and Joe losing any time he tried running for president in the past when he wasn't even 78 and demented. 

2020. Obviously.

All that freed-up brain space might allow me to learn the rules of football, understand how to do my taxes and stop paying my accountant an arm and a leg to do them, and read maps. 

God Only Knows

I have never looked to any politician for guidance on how to live my life. Why would I? So many of them are broken, sexually addicted, egotistical, embezzling, amoral, lying and cheating fools, you'd have to be sorely lacking in so many areas to make decisions based on their examples.

So I find it truly shocking how many adult Democrats believe that the coronavirus has surged because of a "lack of leadership" on the part of Donald Trump. Who knew so many people cannot make their own health decisions? Interestingly they are almost always Democrats. God only knows -- and He's the only one that does -- what they will do when Joe Biden is their New Daddy, since he often doesn't even know where he is or who is standing right next to him, like when he introduced his young granddaughter as his dead son at a recent appearance. 

If you need someone else to tell you whether or not it's wise to wear a face mask during a raging pandemic, then you deserve to catch it.

My New Job

In 2020, every TV ad features either a black family or a mixed race couple. Every cabinet pick for the incoming president (who I shall not name) is either a woman of color -- any color but white -- or a black man. This means I don't stand a chance: I am white and actually burn easily when I try to tan, so darkening my skin is out of the question. Also, I am old, which is never good unless you are running for president.

Also quite popular these days, especially on new TV shows and in the wedding announcement pages of The New York Times are gays, lesbians, queers and all the rest of those letters in LBGTQAN, and anyone who is not cisnormative, which I am. I was born with a vagina and I still have it. Ditto two breasts. 

I am so over. In a way that's a relief, since nothing is expected or asked of me except to not get the coronavirus, which my son has begged of me. That's all I have to do. It's a full-time job, with no time off, but I can handle it.

Skirting the Censors

This morning, after reading an article on AOL about Michelle Obama criticizing President Trump for not conceding the election, I posted the comment, "Who gives a crap what that cow thinks?" I wrote that for several reasons: A, she is a cow and B, she's nobody now and C, it is within Trump's rights to not concede until he is satisfied all the votes are counted and D, that's the level of comments on AOL so I figured I'd fit right in. But no -- my comment was censored! I was given the option of changing it or else it would not appear.

I decided that "cow" had to stay, so I substituted "hoot" for "crap" and waddya know, they took it, which I thought was odd. If I had that job I would have disallowed the word "cow" which was the truly offensive part. Who gives a hoot if it says who gives a crap? But I guess they saw the word "cow" and figured, hey, cows are nice. They give us milk, are gentle and non-aggressive, etc.

Those censors have a lot to learn about reading between the lines, even though my husband says they are all computers and know nothing of our people. Still, you've got to get by them somehow if you want your opinions known. (Someone should offer a course in Skirting Online Censorship.)

When Comfort Food Isn't Comforting

Earlier today, after working out for an hour with my personal trainer at the CrossFit gym, I stopped off to pick up lunch at a local deli. After placing my order for a turkey-on-spinach-wrap with shredded lettuce and a few tomatoes, I waited and watched the other patrons. One of them was a big fat girl of about 25 years and 200 pounds who grabbed the following items for her lunch: a large chocolate milk, a large Coke, a large bag of potato chips and two slices of pepperoni pizza. I surprised myself by not being appalled but by being jealous: I wanted her lunch, yet there was no way I could ever order such things.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to eat with abandon, anything I wanted. I couldn't even imagine it; that's how screwed up I am. Even during this pandemic, when people are throwing caution to the wind, I'm still counting calories. (Thanks, Mom.) Arriving home in a sour mood, I determined to do some caution-throwing myself. The best I came up with was a bowl of All-Bran with 1% milk, a handful of raspberries and a lorazepam chaser. Still hungry (or sad), I sucked down a dropper-full of CBD tincture.

It's a wonder I'm not thinner. Or happier.

Film Review: JUDY

Renee does Judy. 

A complete nobody named Monica Castillo who has blue hair and is Hispanic (not that there's anything wrong with that), writing under the auspices of deceased film critic Roger Ebert, hated the film Judy. In her pouty review she trashes the directing by Britain's Rupert Goold and the acting by Renee Zellwegger, who won the Best Actress Oscar for her star performance as Judy Garland, as well as a Golden Globe and Screen Actors Guild Award for the same, among others.

According to Castillo, a.k.a. Señorita Blue Hair, "Goold manhandles these scenes with poor directing, barely masking Zellweger’s noticeable lip syncing. Some of the shots during the performances are unforgivably atrocious, cutting Judy’s face out of frame so that she holds less than a third of the screen and the empty air hogs the rest. It feels like an artless attempt to seem deep." (By the way, I never saw any such scenes, so WTF?)

Regarding the star, the Señorita says,"Try as she might, Zellweger’s Judy never goes beyond an impression of the multi-talented artist; her all-caps version of acting fails to allow the role to feel natural." All I can say about that is, "Hogwash!"  You heard me, hogwash. Judy is a brilliant movie, superlative in every aspect of filmmaking. The sets, the photography, the costumes -- it's all dazzling.

But the superlatives must be saved for Zellwegger who literally becomes Judy Garland without any distracting makeup devices intruding into the story, like Nicole Kidman's fake nose in The Hours or Gwyneth Paltrow's fat suit in Shallow Hal. It's just Judy Garland, alive again! Zellwegger does the singing herself, so give her extra kudos for that. And while her voice is certainly not equal to the haunting, angelic Garland's, it's certainly melodic and dramatic enough to remind you of the powerhouse that was Garland.

The busy script flips between Garland's earliest Hollywood years when she played Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and her 47th and final year on earth in London, after her worldwide star had faded owing to her outbursts cursing at the audience and collapsing onstage, drunk and stoned. Garland's alcoholism and lifelong reliance on uppers and downers, fostered at the age of 12 by studio moguls bent on wringing every last bit of talent out of her while staying on shooting schedule, eventually took their toll in the form of fewer job offers and eventual poverty.

It's an emotional film that's difficult to watch at several points. But I held it together, repeating to myself, "It's only a movie," until Judy's -- or rather Renee's -- final rendition of Somewhere Over the Rainbow, sung in front of a huge audience, proved too much for me. I finally burst out crying bitter tears for a beautiful life lived so wrong at the hands of others: mean studio bosses who drove her like a dog, a series of husbands who mismanaged her money and left her destitute, and the harsh critics who called her "too fat" when she was a little girl and "too thin" when she was an anorexic adult on drugs.

And now along comes Señorita Blue Hair who didn't like the movie or the star's portrayal, the same one that Rolling Stone's Peter Travers, a critic we have all actually heard of, called "the best performance of the year."  I wonder, what have you done lately that we might remember, Miss Castillo?

 

.

Joe Biden Ain't Funny

Joe Biden smelling some lady.

The New York Times and CNN will have to close up shop once Donald Trump leaves office, since all they ever write about or talk about is him. Or should I say Him. Anderson Cooper has trashed Donald Trump nightly for the past four years, never talking about anything else. What will he do -- start saying how great Joe Biden is? Or how interesting? Nobody would believe that, not even Jill Biden. With any luck Joe will start smelling women's heads again, that might get the ratings up.

To see what I mean, check out today's edition of the Times.  Once again it's brimming with articles and editorials about how terrible a person Trump is, many with huge illustrations to go with them. What the heck are they gonna do after January? And what about Alec Baldwin, whose flagging career was resurrected by his Trump impersonation? It's, "Bye bye, Alec," unless of course the SNL writers can't think of anything and still mock Trump even after he's no longer the president. Cause Joe Biden sure ain't funny, no matter how you dress him up. (Well, maybe if you dress him up.)

We Love Our Abortions

Actress Melissa McCarthy recently took to Instagram to apologize to her fans for "accidentally" supporting a group that condemns abortion. Horror of horrors, how could she? It seems Melissa donated to an umbrella charitable organization she assumed held all the politically correct beliefs, but then learned that among the groups included, one had a founder who in the past had "condemned abortion." Naturally Melissa worried that any potential movie-goer who might add to her considerable coffers would punish her for such outdated thinking.

Which makes me wonder: How did killing unborn babies get to be "the right thing" to do? It is, after all, ending a burgeoning life. And hey, I've done it myself, multiple times in fact, back during the Sexual Revolution in which I eagerly participated. Without divulging how many babies I've killed, let's just say that if I hadn't I'd need a much bigger turkey at Thanksgiving. And I never once felt remorse about it since each time the helpful counselors at Planned Parenthood assured me it was the same as getting a tooth pulled. Just hop up on the table and you can get on with your life.

Yes, I know, it's "a woman's right to choose." My body, my health, etc. Just sign here and here, and here. And by the way, I don't give a damn which charities Melissa supports, I still think she's a hoot and a damn good actress besides. And doesn't she look great since she lost all that weight?

Jill Biden, Multi-tasker

I will miss Melania the most. Her class, her beauty, her grace, her calm demeanor, and most of all her clothes. As beautiful as any movie star, she presented herself with a regal bearing and unflappable dignity under all circumstances. Yeah, yeah, I know -- her detractors love pointing out that she posed nude back in her modeling days. So what? She's a perfect specimen, show it off I say. Yet not once in five years did Vogue magazine, that monthly catalog of products aimed at women and gay men with too much money and time on their hands, photograph her. Even though ugly Michelle Obama was on their cover three times, with huge photo spreads inside. How petty can you get? I guess Vogue Editor-in-Chief Anna Wintour can get damn petty.

Now here comes Miss Frump. She will surely get a makeover before the Inauguration. (God knows she needs it.) Below are some of her least memorable outfits, showing she is ready for a variety of jobs, none of which are First Lady:

School Crossing Guard

Beautician

ICU Nurse

Hospital Administrator

High-school Prom Chaperone

IRS Auditor

Munchkin in "The Wizard of Oz"

Kotex Sales Rep

Circus Clown

Death and Taxes, Not Necessarily in That Order

When I attended college from 1965 to 69, the tuition at my chosen school was one of the most expensive at that time: about $25,000 per year. My parents, while not penniless, certainly did not have the funds to cover that, so I took out student loans for all four years. I finished paying them back in 1986. I was 40. Nobody helped me, nobody "forgave" the loans. I worked, starting my first job three days after graduation and not stopping until I ran out of steam as a new mother, which happened a year after my loans were paid off. 

Now Joe Biden, he of the muddled thinking, is shouting that he will forgive student loans. I say he is shouting because that's the way he talks; have you noticed? It's quite annoying. Anyway, that really pisses me off. I certainly hope none of my taxes will go towards that giant pillow under the tantrum-throwing millennial's heads.

It's funny -- Joe has been shooting his mouth off a lot lately, unlike during the campaign when we barely heard a peep out of him. Months away from taking office,  he's busy making all his plans. I guess who could blame him, what with the Grim Reapermobile parked just a few blocks from the White House. So hurry up, Joe! Cause you just never know.

Sappy Movies Work Wonders

Hallmark Christmas-movie-watching t-shirt.

Believe it or not, there is something you can do to escape the anxiety triggered by the coronavirus, the bickering of politicians, the accusations of a dirty election and the frenzy of journalists fanning the flames of it all. It's called The Hallmark Channel and it's on your TV. The best part is that with Christmas coming, you can watch sappy chick flicks with a holiday twist all day and every night from now until year's end.

Like many self-designated intellectuals, I never sat through one of those movies before now. Featuring no-name, grade-B actors and amateurish scripts, who had time for that? But suddenly those movies are a godsend, saving me from the nightly horror of Tucker Carlson spewing fear on FOX, Anderson Cooper spewing rumors on CNN and Rachel Maddow spewing hate on MSNBC, night after dismal night.

The plots of Hallmark Channel movies are identical, so you don't even have to think. You can tune in late, leave the room to go to the bathroom or fix a snack, talk on the phone or check Facebook and still know exactly what's happening when you return. Here's the story: Due to forces beyond their control, a young man or woman (on the Hallmark Channel there are only two sexes) is forced to move to a small town in an idyllic setting. It's often in Alaska but it could be Montana, Maine, Vermont or even a suburb of Paris or Vienna. They move there because of a new job, or a rich relative they never met left them a big house on a beautiful lake, or a sibling died -- usually in a car crash -- and they have to take care of their kids. 

Naturally they don't know anybody in town, but on the first day there, often in the hardware store on Main Street, they run into a local who offers to show them around. This person might be the town's vet, doctor,  carpenter, school principal or real estate agent, and is always extremely good-looking. At first the two protagonists butt heads over a burning issue that impacts the town. Or else the local is about to be married. Whatever the cause, circumstances prevent them from being together. But eventually, through some scheming on the part of the town's Santa Claus and his helpful elves, they are repeatedly thrown together and end up in love. The final scene has them opening presents around a Christmas tree in a ski lodge type of cabin with a cozy fire crackling in the background, or else canoodling under a blanket on a sleigh ride through the falling snow, pulled by Rudolph with his nose so bright.

I have several friends who share this addiction with me. In fact, I sent one of them a special gift (see photo) to snuggle in while sipping her hot chocolate. (I hope it arrives before this blog post spoils the surprise.)

Sooner Than You Think

Yesterday I went out for a walk in the late afternoon and forgot to put on my face mask. Oh well, no big deal, I thought, since I was walking in the woods and would likely never even see another soul. But I was wrong. As dusk approached, the Mask Patrol drone spotted me from above on its evening sweep. By the time I got home two armed guards were waiting; of course they knew where I lived from the chip in my wrist. Anyway, no amount of pleading could keep them from taking me downtown and throwing me into a cage for a few hours, the very same cages The Party complained about when they were used to house immigrants at the Southern U.S. border not so long ago.

Commandant Harris has gotten much stricter since President Biden died. And such a mysterious death, in his sleep and no autopsy afterward. Anyway it was certainly to be expected and nobody dared to question what had happened. Not even FOX News, which is now just like all the rest of them.

Finally, around midnight, I was taken to court. Apparently my writings online against The Party had been discovered and found to be anti-American, anti-Black Lives Matter and 100% against the regime. Since I had no record I got off easy: I would have to do six months of "community service" and pay a stiff fine to The Party. The Commandant assigned me to building roads, something she did with prisoners back when she was in California. Fortunately I could work in my own town, so it wasn't too bad; I could still sleep in my own bed every night. But I was stripped of my cell phone and forbidden to post anything online for as long as she is in power. They'll be coming to get this computer any minute.

I miss Trump.

2 pix worth 1,000 words

Joe Biden Breaks His First Promise

Joe Biden and the Pope have nothing to do with this post.

Since waking up this morning, I have learned so much. None of it is stuff I needed to know but now do, thanks to the Internet. No wonder I can't remember why I went upstairs or what I wanted in the kitchen or what day it is -- there's too much trash in my brain. I blame myself, since I didn't have to log on to my computer over breakfast. But like almost every American who lives near an electrical outlet, I am addicted. I need help. Until I get it I am powerless (ha ha) to do anything about it. So now I know:

A 36-year-old rock climber proposed to his girlfriend at the top of a mountain in California. She said yes. he said it was the happiest day of his life. Then he left her to ascend further on a training climb, and fell to his death. Ouch! After reading this I learned it happened in 2014, but for the purposes of selling advertising it was pushed in my face today, in 2020.

"Five restaurants In Bar Harbor, Maine are closing temporarily due to coronavirus." So said the headline of a story on a local news station website. It listed which ones they are and there were six of them. WTF? The second paragraph of the story said, "The seven restaurants plan to re-open soon." And we are supposed to trust the news?

You (or I, or anyone) could get a blood clot in our leg that could cause a stroke or heart attack if we don't start taking a certain drug, I forget which one. The ad also suggested we call our doctor.

President-elect Joe Biden is "putting together a task force to look into the coronavirus." Huh? The virus has been here since last January, by now everyone knows what to do about it, and Joe is going to put together a team to examine it starting next January? During the campaign I'm pretty sure he said that he was going to "get rid of coronavirus." He's not even in office yet and already he's breaking promises.

Tom Brady recently suffered "the biggest setback of his career." (I didn't click.)

That's it. My breakfast was quite small and so I closed my laptop and played with my cat for awhile. That's all I know for now.

Joe Biden: Empty Calories

Looking for nourishment where there is none.

Shown above is a scene from The Pianist that is etched into my brain. The film recounts the fatal unraveling of an upscale Jewish family living in Poland during the Holocaust. Eventually, as they are being marched off to the death camps through the streets of Warsaw, hungry and stripped of their dignity and all belongings, they stop to rest. Pulling from his coat pocket some money that will soon be worthless, the father buys a small caramel candy from a street urchin. Cutting it into six pieces, he hands one to each of his four children and his wife and keeps one for himself. The pieces are tiny but each of them savors their share as if it were a steak dinner. 

This is how the Democrats are behaving regarding Joe Biden, their newly elected, slightly demented, underperforming, plagiaristic, Botoxed, gaffe-prone and dishonest future president. Based on the all the hoopla you'd think he actually has something going for him. But no, he's just one-sixth of a caramel, devoid of nutrition and gone in seconds.

The New Wicked Witch

It's shocking to me how many friends have posted online, either on Facebook or Instagram, or sent me an email, celebrating the fact that our next president is a doddering old fool who can't tell his right hand from a toilet seat but at least he isn't Donald Trump, assuming I share their joy. They assume this since I have remained somewhat under the radar about my political leanings, although I have consistently shared how much I despise my husband's radical loony left family who are pretty much all assholes, and extremely fat ones at that, and I hate fat people, who doesn't. 

The people who are happy that Trump lost don't seem to understand so many things. First, that fully half the country, their fellow Americans, love the man and are sad that he will be gone. Next, that this election was far from clean, albeit the crafty Dems -- the same ones who concocted the Russian collusion story,  rammed through baseless impeachment proceedings and criticized him mercilessly about everything from his hair to his skin color to his family to his wife, and by the way there has never been a more beautiful or gracious woman to hold the title of First Lady -- covered their tracks well and will likely get away with their chicanery. And last, that had the despicable propagandizing media not dogged him from day one, his administration, which accomplished much good despite the yapping at his heels every minute, could have done so much more.

That's not to say I don't find Trump boorish, narcissistic and overly self-indulgent. These are qualities everyone has to some degree, but not all of us are in the public eye so we can get away with being obnoxious offstage, in fact backstage, in a dark corner of the theater where only the mice can see us misbehaving.  

But now lots of people are misbehaving out in public, right there in the glow of the footlights. Honking horns, waving flags, clanging pots and pans, shouting "Ding dong the witch is dead!" I'd be careful, though, because there's a new witch in town, and pretty soon she'll be more in your face than she is now, mark my words.

Film Review, Take Two: ARGO

Ben Affleck, head and shoulders above the rest on a Tehran street.

Last night I convinced my husband to refrain from watching the chorus of bloviating idiots who spew their copycat opinions on TV, passing them off as "news." Instead we settled in to ARGO, a movie we first saw eight years ago and only half-remembered. The second viewing was even better than the first.

Ben Affleck directed this tense, often funny film based on the true story of the hostages taken by Iranian militants who stormed our embassy in Tehran in 1979, seeking revenge for President Jimmy Carter giving asylum to their hated leader, the Shah. While 66 people were taken during the melee, six Americans were able to escape and hide out at the Canadian Embassy. To get them out of Iran before they are discovered, specialist and former CIA agent Tony Mendez (Ben Affleck) was called in to do the job.

Based on a book about the ordeal written by the real-life Tony Mendez, this is movie-making at its best. Authentic footage of the crazed mobs overtaking the streets of Tehran are interwoven with the make-believe mobs of extras created on a Hollywood set. It's almost impossible to tell the difference. Meanwhile, the movie industry as reflected by an ex-CIA officer-turned-makeup artist (John Goodman) and a has-been film producer (Alan Arkin), both hired to make a fake movie supposedly set in Iran in order to rescue the six hostages, stands in sharp comedic contrast to the horror of the Iranian chaos.

It's a scary, edgy thriller with equal amounts of pathos and laugh-out-loud moments. Best of all, there's no Donald Trump, no Joe Biden and no Nancy Pelosi, or any of the other backstabbing, cheating, lying, lowdown politicians currently jockeying for position to rule our world. What a welcome relief from reality.

That'll Be the Day

My husband has a particularly gross, morbidly obese cousin whose personality is even uglier than her copious rolls fat and hideous face. When she had a baby a few years ago she posted revolting pictures on Facebook of her breastfeeding, and it looked like the baby was sucking on a giant watermelon. Get the picture? 

I am describing her in such a nasty way for two reasons: A, it's the truth and B, she is scathing when it comes to Trump, his followers, his family, and the entire Republican Party.  Her most recent Facebook post regarding the election was this: "I am sick that so many Haters voted for this Monster. It's fucking heartbreaking. This fucking turd has exposed racists and homophobes all around us, even here in Vermont. It's horrifying and sickening."

So Trump is a monster, and with a capital M. And anyone who voted for him is a hater, with a capital H. And who even knew they had such people in bucolic Vermont? Luckily, if he wins and doesn't mysteriously die in his sleep in a few weeks making Clown Face our president, Joe Biden vows to unify the country! He will bring us all together! 

That'll be the day.

Voting: Bah, Humbug

Yesterday was the 100th anniversary of women getting the right to vote, or something like that. A very serious lady, the Secretary of the State of Pennsylvania who spent all day counting ballots from yesterday's vote, appeared on this evening's TV news saying the "holiday is cause for celebration." What she doesn't know is that today is my son's birthday, reminding me that 33 years ago I pushed the equivalent of a 7 lb. butternut squash (see photo) out through my vagina without benefit of painkillers. Now that's worth celebrating!

Anyway, now I feel pressured about the Suffragette thing but I'm not sure what I should do about it. I voted yesterday and of course my vote was meaningless because this is a blue state and I am a red woman, so big whoop. And the voting process has been weird this year, tainted in several ways with hardly anyone voting on the actual Election Day, making me less inclined to ever vote again for the rest of my life, however long that might be.

Another thing that has turned me off of voting is the realization that everyone can vote no matter how clueless or evil they may be, and that's some social distancing I embrace wholeheartedly

Thoughts on A Biden Win

Our next president?

The winner of the presidency has not yet been decided, but I'm hoping it's Joe Biden. I like thinking of Donald Trump getting back to living a great life, playing golf, hanging out in one of his luxurious homes, spending time with his grandchildren and starting up new business deals without the constant berating of leeches like Jake Tapper, Dana Bash, Anderson Cooper and the rest of the talking heads who survive by sucking the blood of people who actually contribute to our society in a tangible way. And watching Biden try to make sense and stay awake during press conferences seems like a good time. 

Then there will be the immediate and stunning makeover of frumpy Jill Biden, who will likely grace the cover of Vogue ASAP, unlike the drop-dead gorgeous, former model Melania Trump who never did, not once in five years!

Another perk of a Biden victory will be the fact that my son, who turns 33 today, will start to feel better after years of his internal rage at Trump poisoning his soul. As a mother I would make any sacrifice for him, so this one is easy since it's out of my hands but I'll still reap the benefits. What better birthday gift could I ever give him?

Of course the worst part is Clown Face, a.k.a. Kamala Harris who, horror of horrors, would become the president if Joe kicks the bucket. (Please Joe, take care of yourself.)

It's Showtime!

Finally the big day is here. Soon enough we'll find out if our next leader will be a doddering old fool who doesn't know his own son has been dead for several years -- today Joe Biden introduced his granddaughter as his son Beau -- or a narcissist who's addicted to ranting about his enemies on Twitter. Personally I hope the latter stays in office, only because I will miss seeing the beautiful, semi-reclusive First Lady. (Mrs. Biden is a frumpy housewife type I can see anytime I want by looking in the mirror.)

By far the best part of this election will take place tonight on TV as the silly talking heads compete for airtime, each station wanting to be the one presenting the most exciting breaking news, the first to call a winning state, and the possessor of the most colorful and confusing digital maps of the country. 

Honestly, I have no horse in this race. I'm hoping Biden wins because my son will be depressed if he doesn't, and I'm hoping Trump wins so I can relish Rachel Maddow's bitter on-air tears. No matter who comes out on top, my life will remain exactly the same, as it has through every president since I was born. And that's a lot of presidents. 

Guess My Gender

You may have noticed that people are sharing their pronouns in introductions, on nametags, and whenever a group of idiots get together.  This is happening to make spaces more inclusive of transgender, gender nonconforming, and gender non-binary people. 

Including pronouns is a first step toward respecting people’s gender identity, working against the bias of cisnormativity which runs rampant in our society, and creating a more welcoming space for people of all genders, as well as non-genders, partial genders, other species, extra-terrestrials and people who were out that day.

Naturally this keeps me very busy, what with being antiracist and fighting my innate inclination towards cisnormativity. And of course being white there is the added burden of suppressing my obvious and revolting privilege, not to mention my hideous supremacy, both of which lie dormant within me. But the biggest job I have is trying to hide my gender, since it's not anyone's business but my own. Thus, my chosen pronouns are I, me and mine. As in "I want that, give it to me, that's mine."

I Feel Trump's Pain

By the time you get to my age which is the same age as Donald Trump and three years younger than Joe Biden (who looks ten years older than I), there are many things going awry in the container we live in, which we call "the body." My issues are so numerous I won't bore you with a list, but one of the least visible and worst things I deal with is called "hyper-empathy." In a nutshell, it means that I experience other people’s feelings so much that I actually live it, making me susceptible to feelings of depression or hopelessness that have little to do with my own life.

For example, this morning I read an article online about three teenagers who were on a family holiday in Rhodes, Greece. Two brothers ages 13 and 15 and their 15-year-old cousin, a beautiful girl, went parasailing together. Through some mishap (now under investigation) the rope attaching their parachute to the boat towing them over the sea snapped and all three fell to the rocks below. The girl and her younger cousin died instantly while the older boy remains in critical condition in a hospital.

Reading this story over a delicious breakfast in my beautiful home in idyllic Maine, my adorable cat sleeping peacefully nearby and a lovely fire in the cast-iron stove warming the room, I burst into tears and felt sick. I imagined how the parents felt upon hearing the news, and it was simply too hard to bear. It reminded me of when my own son, about 12 at the time, went parasailing with my husband on a trip to Florida years ago. At the time I was so upset about it I had to leave the area and return to my hotel room; I simply couldn't watch them, fearing the worst. Also, my son was not happy about it and the look on his face as he was being lifted into the sky is still burned in my memory.

So in a way this news story happened to me, back then. Only it didn't. Yes, I'm sick in the head. My dear friend with cancer who is going through chemo right now, another friend whose daughter is hospitalized for bipolar disorder, my sister who lives in a nursing home and can't remember which is her bad ear so talking on the phone is a pain in the ass until she figures it out: all of these people become me, or I become them. No wonder I am always bummed out!

So the arrows constantly being shot at Donald Trump hit me. The morbidly obese people with rolls of fat seen stuffing themselves with unhealthy foods make me sad out of proportion. The pleas for help for abused animals flooding my mailbox, and the starving children in Africa, and the kids on the Smile Train with no upper lips..... it's a crap shoot every time I pick up the newspaper, turn on the TV, look at my phone or leave my home. So please, if you see me sometime, tell me something happy.

Crime and Punishment, Democratic Style

These days, your God-given brains are not necessary for much. They are certainly not needed for making decisions on anything important. All you have to do is check out Facebook or CNN to see what is acceptable behavior, what words are currently banned and which politicians you should support. They'll  even tell you where to shop.

For example, today a nationwide boycott of Home Depot stores was called for online because the founder of that commercial giant declared he was supporting Donald Trump, our sitting president. Oh my God, imagine that -- the man used his own judgement, followed his heart and opted to vote Republican, and for that he must be shunned.

It's no news that the Democrats are an unreasonable lot, to say the least. Today, on his Facebook page, one of my husband's rabid lefty relatives outlined his plan for who should be allowed to vote and how many votes each person should get: Citizen, 1 vote; High-school graduate, 2; Associate's degree, 3; Bachelor's degree, 4; Master's degree, 5; PhD, 6. His plan would minimize Trump voters since they are all idiots. The scary thing is that even though he later said he was just kidding, in his heart I know he wasn't.