Feed Ukrainians, Not Your Ego

Wearing these earrings should help, right?

There's a war on in Europe. As you may have heard between binge-watching your favorite dramatic series and playing your favorite video game, the people of Ukraine are being attacked by Russia. Forced to flee their homes with little but the clothes on their backs, they cradle their babies and pets in their arms. Food,  water and safety are scarce. 

Many of us have been watching the televised war in horror from the comfort of our homes. Last night I saw hundreds of people sheltering in a subway station deep below the city of Kyiv to escape bombs exploding above, while I snuggled under a fleecy blanket enjoying a scoop of salted caramel ice cream and a glass of Chianti. (Believe it or not, they go well together.)

Afterwards I logged onto Facebook and learned that Americans want to help, God bless them! Here's some of the help I found:

* A woman on an art website I follow posted her 6 by 6 inch painting consisting of two blocks of the colors of the Ukrainian flag -- blue and yellow -- with a red heart in the middle. Her effort, which I'm guessing took her about fifteen minutes to make, had gotten 187 likes by that point.

* A friend of my husband wrote on her page, "I had to do something!" So she spent many hours putting tiny yellow and blue beads onto safety pins, then taking about five of those and hanging them from a larger safety pin, also covered with yellow and blue beads, to make a brooch of sorts. She vowed to "hand them out to everyone."

* Many, many people have added a border to their Facebook profile picture that says, "I STAND WITH UKRAINE." Others have added the blue and yellow flag to their photos.

Aren't those fun? They will help the Ukrainans not one bit, but somehow still make people feel better about themselves. I know it sounds nutty, but that's people for you.

If you sincerely want to "stand with" the Ukrainians, SEND MONEY! There are many charities listed online from which to choose. 

20 Things You Shouldn't Put in Your Oven

This post is a public service announcement in response to a story I saw online entitled "Five Things You Shouldn't Put in Your Oven." I did not click on the headline as I am confident that I already know which things would be bad. In fact, I can think of many more than five. So for those of you with only half your brain still functioning after years of reading similar stories online, I offer the list below. Remember, for God's sake do not put these in your oven!

A cat

A dog

A baby

Shoes

TNT

An umbrella

Curtains

Petunias

Carpeting

Gummy bears

Chewing gum

Balloons

Windex spray bottle

Snowballs (both kinds) 

A book

A cell phone

A computer

A clock

Shampoo

Candles

Film Review: DOG DAY AFTERNOON

John Cazale and Al Pacino realizing they are in way over their heads.

An oldie for sure, but one worth seeing again -- or for the first time if you never have -- Dog Day Afternoon offers indisputable evidence that Al Pacino is one of the greatest actors of all time. Directed by Sidney Lumet (Serpico, The Pawnbroker, 12 Angry Men, Network, The Verdict and many more), this 1975 fictionalized account of a true crime grabs you even before the opening credits roll and never lets go. It's suspenseful all the way through and never gives a hint as to how things will turn out. Amazingly much of it is still laugh-out-loud funny, despite the dire plot.

Pacino plays Sonny, a desperate and broken young man in need of cash. His plan to rob a bank in Brooklyn, New York on a blisteringly hot August day goes horribly awry. Setting out with his partner, a grim-faced, gun-toting John Cazale -- you know him as Fredo in The Godfather -- Sonny promises his wary group of hostages that if everyone cooperates, "we'll all be outta here in half an hour!" But as the afternoon drags into evening, things go from bad to really bad.

Charles Durning as the Chief of Police and Chris Sarandon as Sonny's love interest -- a before-her-time "woman trapped inside a man's body" -- give memorable performances in a couple of scenes you'll want to see twice. But it's Pacino's movie and his acting chops are front and center, his sad brown eyes expressing his inner turmoil more than words ever could.

A box-office hit, the film was nominated for six Academy Awards and seven Golden Globes, winning an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. One interesting thing to note is that there is absolutely no music after the opening credits, adding to the sense that you're watching something that's really happening. 

What's Playing at My House

Last week it was the Beijing Olympics. I hated watching it, for so many reasons, but had a hard time shooting holes in my husband's argument that it was a once-in-four-years thing so why should he watch it on the teeny old TV in the bedroom instead of the new 65-inch TV in the den. So I sat through as many commercials as I could, and tried to stay awake during the snowboarding and the stories about Eileen Gu until I finally had to give in and go to bed, telling myself it was only for two weeks.

So the Olympics ended, finally and thank God, and for a day or two life was normal again. Then along comes Ukraine and now every night we're watching a war movie.

I like comedy; life is hard enough. This too shall pass, I tell myself, but what's next?

Whatever Pays the Bills

Jerry Lewis (1926 - 2017)

Do you remember those legendary Hollywood actresses, Karen Sharpe and Hope Holiday? Me either. Well, the two of them are still alive and have come forward to tell their sob stories in a new short documentary and expose published by Vanity Fair, that tawdry gossip sheet all dressed up in glossy paper to look like a respectable magazine. 

The last time I even thought about Vanity Fair was back when it splashed Beto O'Rourke on its cover, with a headline gushing that the Texan roller-blader/aspiring-politician was "made for the job" of President. Now they've dug up these two ladies who are spilling their guts about how Jerry Lewis, that one-of-a-kind comic genius who died in 2017, sexually harrassed both of them -- one in 1961 and the other in 1964. I guess both women have been suffering from lockjaw for the past 50 years and just now are able to talk again. Help me in wishing them both all the best on the road back to health.

At the time of his death, the very same Vanity Fair published an obituary calling Lewis, "A Comedic Force of Nature." Go figure.

FILM REVIEW: If You're Not in the Obit, Eat Breakfast

Last night I watched a documentary released in 2017 that may have changed the rest of my life. Streaming on HBOMax, Carl Reiner's If You're Not in the Obit, Eat Breakfast examines why some people live well into their nineties and even hit the 100 mark, and beyond. Many of those folks are Hollywood residents and even celebrities we all know, like Bette White, Kirk Douglas, Stan Lee, Mel Brooks, Norman Lear and Dick Van Dyke. Others are ordinary people who have made news and came to Reiner's attention simply because of their longevity.

One of those is a tiny woman who started running to combat depression when she was 67. At 100, when the film was made, she was still running races and exercising daily on a stationary bike and with weights at home. Others like her, all over the age of 90, fill their days with various passions, like playing the piano, painting portraits, working as a style consultant, teaching yoga, playing the harmonica and parachuting out of airplanes. Every one of them says that committing yourself to something you love is the key to staying alive and well.

Dick Van Dyke works out daily, and at 96 still sings and dances.

Another big component is staying active. Dick Van Dyke is the best example of that. Age 90 when the film when shot, he looks more like a man in his late 60's. As far as I could tell, the only cosmetic work he's had done was a full set of glorious dental implants. Otherwise he's as lithe at he was in his glory days and seems to never sit still. He married (for the third time) a woman less than half his age at 86, and the two of them make a great pair!

Sprinkled among interviews with all of these seniors are hilarious clips from Reiner's recordings and subsequent animated movie he made with Mel Brooks, The 2000 Year-old Man. There are also conversations with "youngsters" in their sixties, like comic Jerry Seinfeld and Dan Buettner, author of Blue Zones, a book that focuses on centenarians from around the world living with vim and vigor.

Since the film's release several of the people in it have died, including Reiner. But they all reached the age of 98 or 99, and apparently had a damn good time doing it. As Van Dyke put it, "Nobody knows what it's like to be old until you're old." Apparently, once you stop looking in the mirror searching for your lost youth, it's a hoot.

Frozen Penis; Vagina Privilege

This morning I had the misfortune of hearing the first episode of a podcast called "Gin and Juice with Fox and Goat." My husband once knew the Goat about five years ago, and he came across it on Facebook and played it for me. I'm sorry he did. But now he's sorry I'm writing about it, so we're even.

What it is is a tell-all about polyamory, which means screwing as many people as you feel like whenever you feel like it even if you are married, which Fox is. (Goat is unmarried.) Don't get too excited about the first episode: there's no sexy talk, just a whole lot -- and I mean a whole lot -- of loud cackling from Fox, the female of the duo, whose laugh is a dead ringer for Kamala Harris'. 

Ice sculpture, not a real frozen penis. 

A superwoman of sorts, Fox is married with three kids yet still finds time in her busy schedule to pleasure a husband and a boyfriend, plus answer the daily barrage of texts and emails from possible future partners hoping to satisfy her unabashed need for sex with multiple partners. ("It's just who I am," she explains.) She says it's easy to find them because of her "vagina privilege," a new term for me. Supposedly almost all women have it; I wonder if I do. (I'll have to ask my OB/GYN the next time I go.)

Okay, fine, be a slut if you want, I don't care. But here's what troubles me: Fox's compulsion to broadcast her shoddy values to the world, not only in a podcast but in her weekly blog, entitled "A Sexual Libra." Such a busy lady! I guess the last time those kids saw their mommy was when they were coming out of her vagina, about which her entire world now seemingly revolves.

On another front, a Finnish cross-country skier at the Beijing Olympics was forced to drop out of his race early because he was suffering from a frozen penis caused by extremely high winds and low temperatures. Apparently this was not the first time; the same thing happened to him once before in a different race. I have to assume he would not be an acceptable partner for Fox, whose vagina privilege surely demands a much higher quality of penis, at least one that's thawed out.

Too Old to Rock and Roll?

In 1964 I was a senior in high school and a recognized "Beatlemaniac." I  wore the moniker proudly. I knew every word of every song on every one of their albums, and in what order they would play. I knew the B-side to every mainstream hit. I knew each inhalation and exhalation of breath taken and expelled by Paul and John. (My George phase came much later as I matured.)

Somewhere around motherhood I got over the Beatles. After the band broke up I was not a Paul fan. He was okay, and his perky love songs still got me humming. But I moved on to Queen, which is where I have stayed. In fact, I would sooner pay to see Freddie Mercury dug up from the grave and put on a stage in a standing position holding a mike than watch a living 80-year-old Paul McCartney, croak out "another silly love song." (His words, not mine.) Yet he's planning a tour this summer, and the tickets will surely cost an arm and a leg and possibly an entire torso.

It's funny how people mock Joe Biden and Nancy Pelosi for being "too old" to govern but give aging rockers a pass. It must be the marijuana.

Losing Sleep Over Ukraine

I'm so upset that Russia is about to invade Ukraine, I can hardly sleep at night. NOT! 

But something about the whole thing does keep me awake: Are we supposed to be all hot and bothered about the situation over there so we can see Joe Biden as a tough guy (a.k.a. competent president) when he reads the speech written for him that says Putin better not set one foot in Poland because Poland is in NATO and so are we, and well, you know-- all for one and one for all? 

I only know that Poland thing because my husband told me. He likes this stuff. I do not. I am more interested in things that are happening in my life right here in America. Like when I fill my gas tank it now costs $45 instead of $28 like it did under Trump. And there are lots more homeless people in the streets of downtown Portland than ever before. That's disturbing, especially when the temps go down to below zero at night. And this winter our fuel bills are more than $1,000 a month when they were about $500 or less under the last regime. That kind of thing.

Hey, I do have a heart -- in fact I once had a heart attack, that's how much heart I have.  I hope all the people in Ukraine are safe and comfortable and Russia doesn't go crazy. But please don't ask me to lose sleep over them, I only get about four solid hours already.

Going for the Gold in Bird-Feeding

Early this morning I noticed the bird feeder outside the kitchen door was almost empty. With the thermometer reading six degrees and everything under a blanket of snow and ice, I knew the little chickadees that flock to it each day were counting on me.

Donning my wool hat, snow boots and heaviest down coat, I entered our frigid garage which is where I keep the extra feeders and the bird seed. As I was filling the feeder I inadvertently knocked over a small uncapped jar of turpentine in which I was soaking a few paintbrushes. It went everywhere, mostly on me, dousing my sweatpants and my coat. This was not good.

I immediately went back inside and took off the coat and then the boots so that I could take off the pants and threw them into the washing machine (not the boots), hoping if I acted soon enough I could get rid of that strong turpentine odor that tends to linger for seemingly years.

Once again dressed in clean clothes and a warm jacket, I ventured outside and faced a new peril: Sharp, slick sheets of ice piled in odd angles led to the feeder hanging about four yards away. I took a few steps and slid crazily, grabbing onto a nearby tree branch to steady myself. Channeling the Italian downhill skier who just won the Silver in Beijing despite her torn ACL and fractured tibia, I told myself, "You can do this!" My cat, who had snuck out through the door left ajar, obviously disagreed. Smirking, he retreated into the house to avoid witnessing my inevitable fall. I considered giving up.

But the birds -- they might starve! So I kept at it, pretending I was crossing the Khumbu Icefall on Mt. Everest without oxygen. That helped a lot. I made it, and with only a few crazy, out-of-control slips and slides. I may have screwed up my neck a little bit, and my left shoulder feels funny, but hey, I didn't break any bones and at least the birds won't go hungry. (Good thing I have a physical therapy appointment this afternoon.)

The Value of A Pretty Face

The Olympics always spawns new celebrities who spin their athletic prowess into gold by endorsing a variety of products. I can remember back to 1984 when winning gymnast Mary Lou Retton's image appeared on a box of Wheaties, then dubbed "the breakfast of champions." The subliminal message made sense: eat this cereal and grow up healthy and strong and you too can be an Olympic superstar! 

An après-ski moment?

Those innocent days are gone. Today's athletes hawk anything and everything, and  often the products have nothing to do with their particular skills. Swimmer Michael Phelps, winner of 28 Olympic medals, began by hawking Speedo bathing suits. Okay, I got that. But then he went on to appear in ads for Subway, Visa and AT&T, none of which have anything to do with swimming, or even getting wet.

This morning I read about one that really takes the cake. (Yes it's a cliche and you're not supposed to use those but really, this one does.) Eileen Gu, the 18-year-old American-born, half-Chinese skier who is competing for China in the games, to much consternation among those people who care about such things, is suddenly awash in endorsement offers. In China her image is ubiquitous, plastered on enormous billboards and in subways, elevators, airports and supermarkets. Her New York agent has declined to divulge the dollar amount she is making from all of it, saying only that she is "an absolute superstar." 

Is she in demand because she's such a great skier? Hardly. It's because she happens to be beautiful, and a pretty face always makes money if the person possessing it opts to do so. Fine, Eileen -- rake in the big bucks while you can. But how can a teenager be  a "brand ambassador" for house paint, home appliances, Tiffany jewelry, cars, mobile apps, insurance, banking and perhaps the weirdest of all, Kohler faucets and bathroom fixtures? At the age of 18, has she renovated many homes? What does she know about kitchen faucets? The company says they chose her because of her "bold spirit." She says she's careful who she works with and chose Kohler because the company "is on the same moral level" as her. Huh?

Coming soon  to a cereal box near you?

Meanwhile, 29-year-old speed-skater Erin Jackson, the first black woman to win gold in an individual sport at the Winter games in any country, has not gotten the same treatment. Strong and athletic, she's no Helen of Troy if you get my meaning. But it's early, I suppose she could still end up on a cereal box.

It's Official: I'm a Racist

Oh, so this is what racism feels like. Who knew? According to all the reviews this morning, the only people who didn't enjoy last night's Super Bowl halftime show were racists. Or else very old Republican white men, which is the same thing. Since I am not the latter, I must be the former.

Admittedly no football fan -- the last time I watched a game was last year's Super Bowl  -- still I desperately worked to understand what all the fuss is over a crowd of men in latex outfits running around with a little ball piling on top of each other to the point of injury. Last night several players went down grabbing a knee and grimacing in pain, then were helped off the field to sit on the sidelines. 

I didn't really get any of it, although the party we attended had great food: ribs and wings and twice-baked potatoes! One of the other guests in attendance told me she read that the average person watching the Super Bowl ingests 8,000 calories during the game. I didn't do that, but let's just say that this morning I'm still full.

I hope she was wearing Depends.

Anyway, the game itself was confusing enough but the halftime show mystified me even more. Born in Brooklyn, raised on Long Island and living in Manhattan for my college years, I have never been to Compton, which it turns out was the map on the floor during the 12-minute, all-black (except for that lone white boy Eminem) show. I had no idea what that was! Also, I couldn't understand what any of the rappers were saying, and why all of them, including the dancers on the floor below them, kept grabbing their crotches while singing. It looked to me like they all had to pee, or were about to. (See photo.)

I also didn't understand the meaning of the stage set-up, and the parked cars, and why Mary J. Blige would cover all of herself except her thunder thighs, which were downright scary. (And while we're on Mary, someone should tell her that try as she did to channel her she is no Tina Turner, who I worshipped for years so am I still a racist anyway?) 

See what I mean? I was confused about all of it until this morning when I learned that it was the greatest halftime show in history and may have changed the course of all mankind going forward, and if I hated it all and played Words With Friends on my phone during most of it it's because I'm an old white racist and not for any other reason. Forget that I may have different tastes in music and expectations about showmanship; that only underscores my racism.

It sucks to be me. But not as much as a guy in Texas who tweeted,  "What would have been appropriate and accurate is a stolen car on the field at the end of the performance doing an actual drive by and mowing down half of them."

Now that's funny.

Keep Your Hands Off My Wordle

While I'm not all the way to addicted, still every morning, before I brush my teeth but after a few sips of coffee, I grab my cell phone and play Wordle. It's a nice start to the day, and since I've never missed once in 33 days, it starts me off with a win. 

Now those days are numbered thanks to the greedy bums at the New York Times who recently bought the game from its inventor, Josh Wardle, for a million bucks. I can't blame Josh; after all, who doesn't want a million dollars? But let's be honest -- the Times didn't pay big money just to reward a nice guy with a good idea. 

No, they likely will cash in on the craze, and who knows how. So far the owners are mum on the subject, saying only that "initially" the game will remain free. But surely they plan to stick it behind their paywall, requiring a subscription to the paper in order to play. 

That's just plain mean. Everyone knows the best things in life are free.

Sailing Through Life

If life is a river, then I've been drifting in a really slow part of it for awhile. I heard about some pretty rough white water up ahead, with dangerous rocks that are treacherous to maneuver, but so far I haven't hit it. Still, it makes me nervous so I pretty much wear my life preserver all the time.

Sailing through Maine for the past 12 years has been relatively easy, in fact almost boring. But hey, boring is way better than when I was moored in Washington, D.C. for 30 years and had to carry a baseball bat when I walked my dog at night. Oh right, I'm in a boat. Well, the boat is just a metaphor.

Early days on the river are a distant memory, and since my parents were at the helm it barely mattered what I did. I was just a member of the crew. I did what I was told and they fed me. If there were crocodiles in the water, I never knew about them.

As the Captain of my own ship for quite some time, I've  successfully avoided trouble spots without capsizing. But you never know when you'll enter a falling rock zone, or when bad people lurking on the river banks with bows and arrows aimed right at you are ready to strike. (I never got over seeing Deliverance.)

Today looks like another easy sail, but you never know. An iceberg could be just around the next bend. (Also Titanic.) Or a sea monster, or just a rowdy party boat full of Deadheads on LSD. Despite calm waters, attention must be paid.

Who Dat?

I don't understand all the bellyaching about face masks. What's the big deal? No matter what the rules are in the future, I intend to wear one in public for the rest of my life. I actually like it. Add a pair of sunglasses and a hat and I'm some sort of superhero.

Face masks make interacting with the world so much easier. There's no unnecessary chit-chatting with strangers and shopkeepers about the weather. (Yes it is very hot, or very cold, or a beautiful day, I agree, thanks for pointing that out.) No makeup is required -- I can can just go out "as is" and not fear running into anyone who matters. And who knows -- maybe, although it's unlikely, no coronavirus germs can enter my respiratory system. 

What's not to like?

The Need to Be Normal

I've recently begun posting some of my art on a Facebook page called Maine Artists. It's fun seeing the work of thousands of other artists posting their work on the same page. Naturally, any member of the group is able to "like" any image and also post comments.

It's there that I found with absolute certainty that my art is not "normal." While my images may get 17 likes, others might get 625 or 875. Those are usually very realistic depictions of the typical Maine landscape: Crashing surf, rocks, clouds. Lighthouses. Or boats -- for some reason rowboats -- in a harbor, nestled against a dock. Or pine trees and lobster shacks. 

While I have painted quite a few water scenes myself, most of my subject matter arises from inside my head instead of from outside in nature. This lack of what is generally expected and appreciated in a Maine painting causes me to be not very successful at selling my art. Still, I have a good time making it. And when someone does buy a piece, I'm happy to have found a kindred spirit.

Undeniably, being normal pays better. And not just in art, but in almost every endeavor outside of the entertainment industry. So all day we toe the line, dress appropriately, speak in low tones and never make waves, then come home at night and turn on the TV to watch all those daring celebrities who get paid to color outside the lines. 

Whoopi's Famous Chicken Recipes

Whoopi sure has come a long way since she wrote her Jewish American Princess Fried Chicken recipe (shown above) that appeared in the 1993 charity cookbook, Cooking in the Litchfield Hills. She's finally gotten in touch with her black roots and made the recipe much simpler. The new streamlined recipe appears below:

Ghetto Fried Chicken

Several large cardboard boxes

With a few friends, storm into a Colonel Sanders Fried Chicken restaurant. Fill boxes with as much fried chicken as y'all can carry. Leave quickly, run home and enjoy!

Alexa, Lock the Doors

America, land of the free and home of the brave, is a thing of the past. Now people are getting cancelled for saying that other people shouldn't be cancelled. Like Andrew Yang, a loser candidate for president in the last election, saying that Joe Rogan, the podcaster who is the latest winner of the the stone-throwing lottery, is not a racist. Uh-oh Andrew, watch out -- they're coming for you!

Is today the day the Gestapo comes to my house? After all, I've said some pretty rough stuff in the privacy of my own home. But is it really private? Could there be cameras hidden somewhere? Oh well, at least I don't have one of those Alexa machines.  

Looking for Racism in All the Wrong Places

Reading the New York Times is almost sickening. Thus I do it only once a week, on Sundays when we get the paper to do the crossword puzzle in the magazine. But sometimes, usually during breakfast the next day, I glance at the hysterically liberal attempts at news reporting that fill its pages and I'm always sorry.

Today I read an article about how the sport of skiing is "too white." The mountains must diversify! How to get more "people of color" to the slopes is now a big deal among lefty lunatics taking a break from trashing Trump. 

To entice more low-income and non-skiers, especially "brown and black people," many resorts are lowering their prices for their day and yearlong passes. They worry about looking "racist." Could it be that the cost of buying skis and all the rest of the gear --the boots, the poles, the goggles, the snow pants -- and then getting to the mountains, especially if you don't have a car and have to fly -- is prohibitive to many people regardless of color? 

It's funny that 78% of NBA players are black but nobody seems to mind, including the editors at the Times who rarely, if ever, report on that phenomenon staring us all in the face. The team owners, and even most of the fans, insist that blacks are simply better basketball players. 

The Chinese Food Olympics

Watching the Olympics on TV, which my fair-minded husband insists on doing, is like eating Chinese food. It tastes great but is loaded with bad things. Cornstarch seems to be the leading ingredient in most of the sauces, and in my favorite hot and sour soup. The next day the refrigerated leftovers are like prehistoric fossils preserved in amber. There's also enough salt and MSG to trigger a heart attack or at least a high-blood pressure event.

But it all tastes so good! It's fun to get Chinese take-out! (Unless it's like that restaurant on Long Island when I was growing up that turned out to be using cats in a few of their most popular dishes.) The current winter Olympics in Beijing are like that. Such fun! But if you dig a little deeper than what's shown on TV, you'll learn about the dark underbelly of the government-controlled games.

Most heinous is the treatment of those athletes who get a positive result on one of their twice-daily Covid tests. They are immediately whisked away to an "isolation center" akin to a Motel 6. The athletes are literally locked inside tiny rooms not even big enough for them to do any exercising, which is key to staying strong. They are served the same three crummy meals a day, every day, sometimes for weeks. They become physically ill and emotionally depleted at a time when they need to be in peak condition if they are freed in time to participate in their event.

This is how the heartless leaders of China, and by their silence the members of the International Olympic Committee, are treating the world's best athletes. You'd think at the very least they could send in some moo shu pork with a few pancakes and some wonton soup. 

My Contribution to Big Pharma

What they think of Covid in another galaxy.

Feeling crummy with a slight cough and a headache, and having had dinner last night with someone who seemed pretty sick although he said it was a reaction to a shingles shot he got the day before (even though his wife just got over Covid a week ago), this morning my husband and I took home Covid tests. It was my first, so I was pretty nervous about it. But after reading the accompanying literature I realized there was nothing to worry about since no matter what, it was almost certain to be wrong. 

For example, if you didn't stick it up your nose far enough, it could give you no information. And if you didn't twirl the swab around for exactly 15 seconds inside each nostril, you could get a false negative. (Or a false positive.) Then you had to put the swab into a tube and do some more twirling around while squeezing it, or was it swirling? Yes, it was definitely twirling inside the nostril and swirling in the tube. Then you had to flick it. With all the squeezing and twirling and swirling and flicking, I became quite rattled.

Then there was the part where you had to put in exactly four drops of the liquid, no more and no less, into the test kit well. Any less would give you a false negative. Or maybe positive, I forget. And if you read the results sooner than 15 minutes or later than 30 minutes, it could result in a false positive. (Or was it a negative.)

If you drank too much coffee beforehand, or not enough, the results could be invalid. If the phone rang during the test, you'd have to start over. And if you coughed during the procedure, all bets were off. 

Mitch and I both turned out to be negative. Maybe. But to be certain, we should take another test. Not sure why we would since it says right on the box that the test has not been FDA approved. Anyway, somebody made a cool twenty bucks on us today.

Whoopi's Two-week Vacation

The head honchos at ABC decided to punish Caryn Johnson, a.k.a. Whoopi Goldberg, for her clueless comment regarding racism and the Holocaust by giving her two weeks off. More than a punishment for her, it's time enough for the story to die down and for the public to think they did something about it.

How best can Whoopi spend her time off? Maybe she could do some reading about the Jewish religion. She could even go to Israel. Or Brooklyn. Or take a trip to Washington, D.C.'s Holocaust Museum. 

She could learn how to make real bagels. Or gefilte fish. Or kugel -- or at least find out what kugel is.

Better yet, she could do the paperwork required to change her last name from "Goldberg" to "Cushion."

The Ultimate Cultural Appropriator

Whoopi with her family members killed in the Holocaust, NOT!

Whoopi Goldberg is not Jewish. I bet you anything she eats blueberry bagels and thinks she's eating a bagel.

Her parents were both black and she grew up in the projects in New York City. Her birth name is Caryn Elaine Johnson. Her father was a Baptist minister.

She claims that Goldberg is "her name." She says she "feels Jewish." She doesn't go to temple or know anything about the history of the Jews, but she "likes the holidays."

Whoopi wears her hair in dreadlocks, like the African she is. 

She recently said that the Holocaust was not about race because the Nazis and the Jews are both white peoples.

She is truly an asshole. She named herself Whoopi after the whoopee cushion. That at least makes sense because she is just a big fat fart.

Crazy Times in Toon World

The Harvey Weinstein of Toon World?

In honor of Women's History Month this coming March, the brains behind the Disney empire decided to get Minnie Mouse up to speed. Enough with the dress and heels! So designer Stella McCartney was hired to upgrade Minnie's look in celebration of women everywhere -- and transgenders of course -- who don't wear dresses anymore. Stella created the black and blue pantsuit shown at left, suitable for Hillary Clinton although in a much smaller size. 

Okay, fine, I get it. Personally I haven't worn a dress since the last wedding I attended, and I can barely remember the names of the betrothed couple. Still, what's the point? Minnie Mouse is a cartoon! Do we now need to "woke" up even fictitious characters? 

And if we're gonna start changing iconic images, how about putting some pants on Donald Duck? The guy is naked from the waist (or where a waist would be if he had one) down, wearing only a sailor's shirt and hat. Yet he hangs around schoolyards and in elementary school classrooms. Is he exposing himself to little kids? Constantly, how could he not?

Mickey Mouse at least has the decency to put on a pair of shorts, and girlie ones at that. I say someone should get menswear designer Tom Ford to man-up Mickey, at least with some long pants.