Pin Your Hopes on Acupuncture

I'm telling you people -- for whatever ails you, acupuncture is the answer. I wasted six months of my waning life going to see traditional doctors and physical therapists, none of whom made the slightest dent in the non-stop pain I was suffering in my knee. In fact, over that time it got a lot worse.  All the doctors  said the same things: It's arthritis, you're old, take painkillers, ice your knee, elevate your leg and get used to it.

Then I suddenly remembered my former acupuncturist who helped calm my soaring blood pressure about three years ago and figured it was worth a try. My first visit to him was 23 days ago and today I can say with assurance that I am cured. My knee no longer hurts when I walk down the stairs, or anywhere. It is no longer swollen. I can do anything. I haven't taken a painkiller or muscle relaxant in weeks. (Sadly I am still old, but that's not fixable.)

You might want to give it a try. And just in case you're a baby, it doesn't hurt at all. 

Twitter

A few hours ago, because Elon Musk bought Twitter and promised to make it a level playing field, I decided to sign up. I am already sorry. 

Since signing on I have received three e-mails from Twitter. The first one welcomed me to the platform, the second one encouraged me to get busy tweeting, and the last one said, "Fill your time with talk." It went on to describe how to find people to follow and what sorts of things I might say to them, just in case I am a babbling idiot.

I still don't get what a hashtag is so I think my days on Twitter will be few. Also, I don't want to fill my days with talk, I'd rather fill them with paint. Or maybe fettuccini, which I never eat because it is so high in calories.

I'm A Gender Outlaw

According to a certain segment of society (and a neighbor of mine), there are now 72 genders. Choosing one is so hard, it's worse than going to Gelato Fiasco.  But finally I have settled on "Gender Outlaw." This is defined as an individual who does not conform to society's expectations for their biological sex. Since I take out the garbage and pay the bills, I figure I qualify. Also, I do not get manicures or wear dangly earrings or high heels.

My pronouns are buddy and pal.

I started out a typical female and did all the usual girl things: Played with dolls, jumped rope with my friends, got my period and breasts, had boyfriends, wore false eyelashes, shopped for clothes, got pregnant and had abortions, got married to a man and had a baby. It was all great fun (not the abortions). But somewhere along the line I realized that high heels are very uncomfortable and makeup makes me look even older, so I stopped all of that. And my child grew up so my mothering days were over. (Unless he needs something.)

That's when I started wearing pants all the time and taking out the garbage. Also, my favorite movies are The Terminator, Taken, The Matrix and Die Hard, so you tell me what I am.

I Miss Joan Rivers

Being alive now is so tiring. Everything becomes a political issue.

A friend of mine just finished raking me over the coals, in person, for writing "crude things" in past blogs. She said she doesn't want to be friends with someone who has such "vile" thoughts. She particularly did not like the fact that I mocked Ketanji Brown Jackson, the newest member of the Supreme Court, for not being able to define the word "woman" and suggesting she should look between her own legs for a hint.

If anyone else found that offensive, I'm sorry. But really, as Joan Rivers would say, "Oh grow up!" (God I miss that woman.) Anyway, since it's getting harder and harder to come up with anything funny, or even remotely amusing, without offending someone, I may stop trying for awhile.

Who Can I Sue?

Nothing out of the ordinary has happened to me lately, and I'm wondering who's responsible for that. Certainly not me. I'm considering hiring a lawyer and suing somebody for millions of dollars, as soon as I can figure out who. The list of possible defendants is short.

First there is the inept orthopedic surgeon ( and his entire practice) I saw last week who was no help at all. In fact he did damage as I had to drive to his office, which required taking a very long detour during the morning commute because of road work being done on the Interstate, quite early in the morning. That cut short my beauty sleep so I was bedraggled for the rest of the day. This caused me to lose some lucrative hours of work on my latest painting that might have sold by now if I had felt well enough to finish it. Who knows. 

The aforementioned surgeon added nothing to what I already knew. I left his office still hurting and unable to run in the recent Boston Marathon or go bungee jumping, two things I had pinned my hopes on doing that would have spiced up my boring life. 

Or I could sue my brother-in-law, who has deep pockets let me tell you, for having a bike accident 13 years ago that caused us to move to Maine to help with his recovery and leave my lucrative career writing for The Washington Post, not to mention my interesting and sophisticated friends and all the great music and theater, to live in this backwater town with nothing going on ever. Hence my boring life.

Lastly, I could sue that Orlando amusement park where the 14-year-old boy fell off the ride recently for adding to my debilitating anger and depression that his parents didn't think it unwise for their 340-pound son to go on a ride with a weight limit of 250 pounds. Naturally the bereaved couple is suing the amusement park and the ride's manufacturer, leaving no money for me by the time I file my papers.

There must be somebody.....

The Courage to Change

Taking a cue from Kanye West, now Ye, I'm thinking of changing my name to something more contemporary. Something cooler. "Andrea" is so yesterday, and I want to be hip and with it and now, even though a few days ago a doctor told me that I have arthritis because I'm 75 and what did I expect. Still,  like the Serenity Prayer says, have the courage to change the things you can, and so starting today my name will be "E-a". (Pronounced EE-yuh)

Thanks.

Beyond the Binary

I'm a little worried about myself because I just read about someone who is supposedly a "trailblazing global superstar" named Janelle Monae and I never heard of her. Where have I been? I mean she's trailblazing, plus she's global, and she's a superstar! But still, nothing. I have heard of other superstars, like Michael Jackson and Elvis Presley and all of the Beatles, and many others I ignore as much as possible, like J. Lo and Brittany Spears and the Kardashians and Kanye West who now calls himself Ye -- see, I know that -- but never this woman.  

I can relate!

The point of all this is that trailblazing Janelle has recently "come out" and is not a woman, or she is but doesn't feel like a woman, not totally. Following is her statement which I read this morning: 

"I’m nonbinary, so I just don’t see myself as a woman ... solely. I feel all of my energy. I feel like God is so much bigger than the 'he' or the 'she.' And if I am from God, I am everything. But I will always, always stand with women. I will always stand with Black women. But I just see everything that I am. Beyond the binary."

So really I guess I am just like Janelle after all! I feel all of my energy, except of course when I'm really tired or had too much to drink the night before. I also believe I am from God, so I guess that makes me everything too. But unlike Janelle, I do not stand with Black women or White women, I stand with cats and dogs and bunnies. And those adorable little chipmunks. And not just female cats and dogs and bunnies and chipmunks but male cats and dogs and bunnies and chipmunks as well. 

So in a sense, I am way beyond the binary: I am beyond species. Meanwhile poor Janelle is stuck being only human. Now who's the trailblazer?

Dumb Doctors

Just get acupuncture, it works!

This morning I had a surrealistic visit at a doctor's office that begs retelling. I shall not name the doctor or the orthopedic office located at 33 Sewall Street in Portland, Maine because I want to say bad things about them and avoid getting sued.

My appointment time was 10:30 but I was instructed to come 15 minutes early to fill out the necessary paperwork as I was a new patient. So I arrived even earlier than that just to be sure I wasn't late since I had waited for this appointment with His Holiness the Orthopedic Surgeon for almost a month.

The subject to be discussed was my left knee, which has been seriously ill since last October. I have taken it to several doctors, a physical therapist and an acupuncturist. It has been x-rayed and MRI'd. The sports medicine specialist I saw twice said I needed to see a surgeon in case of my needing a knee replacement, which I knew in my heart wouldn't happen until A, Hell freezes over or B, Kamala Harris does something right. But I still wanted a surgeon, who after all went to medical school for this stuff and actually graduated, to explain my MRI results and what I could expect going forward.

I arrived before 10 AM and signed in. The "paperwork" took about five minutes. Then I sat in the waiting room, which seemed to be filling up at an alarming rate. About 20 minutes after my appointment time, I approached the front desk and asked the teenager sitting there, "What's up?" He said that I was definitely next, after one more person ahead of me. I asked, "So my appointment time of 10:30 means nothing?" The boy nodded in agreement.

At 11 AM, a girl dressed in jeans and a t-shirt entered the now overflowing waiting room -- apparently every doctor in the practice was running late -- and shouted my name. Walking me into the inner sanctum, she acknowledged my annoyed grumbling by saying, "Why are you so upset, your appointment was for 10:45." No, it was for 10:30 but I said nothing, saving my strength for what was to come. 

Once inside the little room, T-shirt girl asked me the same questions I had answered on the "paperwork" I had filled out when I arrived. I told her to look at that paper, which she was holding in her hand. She then left the room, telling me the Doctor would be "right in," and another 20 minutes passed. I played Words With Friends on my cellphone and called my husband to rant and rave. He begged me not to do anything I would regret later.

Finally the Doctor arrived, almost an hour after my appointment time. A tiny man, he looked like one of the Munchkins. From behind his face mask he said, "Now let's take a look at that knee of yours." (I guess that's how they talk in Munchkinland.) I said enough people had looked at my knee in the last six months to start a basketball team and besides it was better now, but I still wanted an interpretation of my MRI results and my options for the future should it get bad again. He said, "The radiologist is who looks at the MRI." Obviously he had never seen it, although I had been assured that it had arrived at his office weeks before. 

Dr. Munchkin, noticeably rattled, ad-libbed, saying that I definitely have arthritis of the knee which at my age is not surprising, and I should try taking Advil and ibuprofen. I debated telling him that Advil is ibuprofen but figured, hey, let him find that out for himself. After all, I'm not the one getting paid.

I did not check out at the front desk as instructed and left out a side door. Who knows, maybe nobody is getting paid.

This Will Make Your Head Spin

Who knew he was Jewish?

What passes for journalism these days is a laugh riot. Twenty years ago when I was writing feature articles for the Washington Post, my perfectionist editor held my feet to the fire over every little thing. Facts had to be checked and double-checked, typos were simply unheard of, and naturally the story had to make sense.

These things are no longer necessary to write for the Internet. Instead, you just need to fill in the space around the ads to make the advertisers happy. A perfect example of this can be found daily on what is known as AOL, which is where I get my email. 

Just today a certain headline caught my eye: "40 Details About Danny Kaye That May Come As A Surprise To Fans." Written by a woman named Sarah Jones, it begins with the news flash that he was a great entertainer and that through diligence and perseverance she has unearthed some facts about him that will "make your jaw drop!" 

First of all, just about everything AOL reports is allegedly "jaw-dropping." I am 75 and have never once had that experience, which sounds damn painful if you ask me and would certainly require a trip to the ER or at the very least an oral surgeon. 

Second, what is considered to be a "detail" and how can there be 40 of them about anyone? I can't think of half that many about myself. And finally, Kaye died in 1987, which is 34 years ago so who the heck cares now? Not me, and I was a fan.

But there is one interesting detail that I bet is not in Sarah's story: Danny Kaye (born David Daniel Kaminsky) was my husband's cousin. That fact should, at the very least, make your head spin, or maybe just your eyes roll.

I Miss Ted Lasso

I've been pretty depressed for the last few months and haven't really known why. Yes, the murder of thousands of innocents and the destruction of beautiful old buildings and entire towns in Ukraine is definitely a downer. And then there's Covid, still sort of hanging around, at least enough to make us pull out the mask, now a pitiful joke, whenever we enter an establishment that requires it. And people still getting sick and dying of Covid is a bummer.

But there have been other wars and other pandemics and I can't remember feeling this grim about them. Then it hit me, today, when I caught a glimpse of him on the Internet: I miss Ted Lasso! He always made me laugh and feel good about the world just for his being in it. Then he was over and I was on my own again. 

Even though he is fictional, and for all I know Jason Sudeikis is a real prick (although I doubt it because he named his daughter Daisy), still the character named Ted Lasso gave me hope that some people like him actually do exist, or else how did the writers dream him up?

I guess I'll have to watch the whole series again until it comes back this November.

Sleepy Village Wakes Up

Freeport, Maine, 19 miles north of Portland and the gateway to the charming villages dotting the coast leading up to the crown jewel of Acadia National Park, has for years been the virtual starting point of "America's Vacationland." That's over, or it soon will be, as the sleepy little town known as the home of L.L. Bean's flagship store is waking up. Or rather, it has been rudely awakened by all the woke people doing the "right thing" as far as Governor Janet Mills is concerned.

So far two hotels -- one is actually a motel -- that formerly housed the eager tourists flocking to Maine from all over the country, kayaks and bikes strapped to their packed SUVs, have been corralled into housing only migrants from central Africa. This questionable situation has arisen because the city of Portland has reached its max capability, with 12 hotels there already housing 1,500 "asylum seekers." So with no more room at the inn, the overflow is being sent north.

Driving by these two locations one can see the new residents hanging around out front, lounging on beach chairs, listening to portable radios, or walking the two miles or so along Route 1 to Cumberland Farms and Dunkin' Donuts for food or whatever else they can find. Here's the punchline: Federal COVID relief dollars are being used to help pay for the emergency housing. (Hey, I don't make the news, I just report it.)

Brain Dead

These days most people are brain dead, or to put it more accurately, brainless. But it doesn't matter since in 2022, having a brain is so yesterday. If you have access to Twitter, Facebook and a variety of podcasts or a TV, all you have to do is imitate the people you see there who get paid for still having brains and just say whatever they say. I have so many friends who do that! 

The conservatives repeat whatever they hear on FOX News and the progressives repeat whatever they hear on CNN. It's so much simpler than thinking and leaves lots of time to do other things like play games online, make videos for TikTok and Instagram, order stuff from Amazon and go out for pizza and Mexican food, none of which require brains.

I'm glad I'm still around to see all this progress. It's so much easier to be alive now than back in the old days when you had to know things.

15 Weeks

Today Governor Ron DeSantis signed into law a ban on abortions past 15 weeks in the state of Florida. Online, people are flipping out over this, calling him "a monster" who is "trying to control women's bodies." The general feeling among Democrats is that an abortion at 15 weeks is so early, it's hardly a death at all, and that women should be allowed to kill the fetus growing inside them for many weeks after that. 

(Spoiler: Normally I don't divulge anything very personal in this space but now I have to.) In 1973, married and on birth control, I became pregnant and did not realize it until a few months had passed. Since my then-husband did not want children, I made an appointment for an abortion at the Washington, D.C. office of Planned Parenthood. 

After being prepped by a nurse, the doctor arrived and was examining me when he started yelling, "Get out of here! Go home! You have a baby in there! Are you trying to trap me?" I can still hear his frantic voice in my head to this day. Then he stormed out of the room. 

Naturally I was stunned and confused. Eventually a staff member came in to apologize and tell me that I was too far along and that they could only do the procedure up to 12 weeks, and the doctor had determined that I was a couple of weeks beyond that.

The illustration above shows a fetus at 15-weeks. I now can understand that doctor's extreme reaction -- it sure looks like a person to me, as it did to him back then. 

How far we have fallen as a society!

 

Even Grannies Can Suck

D.C. Comic's "Granny Goodness"

The word "grandmother" is often stuck into headlines to garner sympathy for whoever is being discussed, like we should feel so sad because the poor granny couldn't possibly have meant any harm. Granny had little grandchildren! They loved her. She brought them candy and toys and knitted things for them. Every granny is sweet and loving, at least to headlines writers.

Yesterday a 54-year-old California woman was fatally shot after leading police on a car chase following her ramming into an officer's SUV and refusing to stop. Sorry, but even if she hit the cop car accidentally, fleeing the scene was not a good idea. Then backing into the very same cop car when he caught up with her was a second bit of poor judgement. And refusing to exit the vehicle was her third mistake. Now she's dead after the cops fired 30 rounds of ammo into her vehicle.

Sounds bad, right? But here's what makes it a news story: the woman was black. Better yet, or even worse, she was a grandmother!!!!! The headline I saw was, "Black grandmother fatally shot by cops." 

Well guess what! Biologically, woman can become a "granny" at the age of 24 or 25, as is often the case in poor or minority families. And here's another fact: Grannies can be mean bitches, just like everyone else. Just because you had a kid who had a kid, it doesn't mean you are a nice old lady, or even old or even a lady and certainly not a nice one. I had one of those mean ones, and although she never rammed a cop car she did plenty of emotional damage during her lifetime, believe me.

Series Review: IS IT CAKE?

Contestant Andrew Fuller doing his baking thing.

Inflation is at a 40-year high. Russia continues to obliterate Ukraine villages and kill civilians. All of Shanghai is on lockdown because of rising Covid cases. People are getting shot on the NYC subway. And worst of all, Kamala Harris is the Vice President. Basically, things suck all over. So the only thing to do is lose yourself in whatever works, be it alcohol, hot fudge sundaes, marijuana or bingeing TV shows, the stupider the better. Last night I found one that can't be beat for its inanity and entertainment value. Is It Cake? is streaming on Netflix and it's "guaranteed to ease your mind" to quote Freddie Mercury's "Killer Queen."

The premise is silly and ridiculous, yet oddly absorbing and challenging. A group of bakers are asked to make cakes that look like everyday objects in the hopes of fooling a panel of judges who have to discern which one is the phony from among five real ones. It's crazy! Last night's episode had bakers making faux fast food, including tacos, a cheeseburger and a breakfast sandwich. The winning baker wins $5,000, with a chance for another five grand by choosing a fake thing from a baked thing at the end.

Not only are the final cakes awesome and amazing, but watching the various talented bakers do their thing is also lots of fun. And the emcee for the show, Mikey Day, is a riot, as are the contestants themselves. After all, it's not your ordinary person who spends their life baking trompe l'oeil cakes for a living. One guy had green hair piled high, a pierced nose and a black and green beard. (See photo above.)

Each episode runs about an hour and you'll never think about anything else for the whole time. Admit it, you could use a break. Try it.

Doctors Without Scruples

Now entering the seventh month of knee pain, I can finally say it's better and even almost gone completely! This miracle -- I see it as a miracle since I have prayed every day for the last 210 days about it -- is due to three specific people: my personal CrossFit trainer, my acupuncturist and my good friend who is a nurse practitioner. Each of them plied their trade to the best of their ability and it worked.

Notice I did not mention any doctors or physical therapists, those people we all run to when we have a problem. While I was seen by three of them -- a general practitioner, a sports medicine specialist and a physical therapist -- none of them did or said anything that had any positive impact on my situation. Following is a summation what each did.

THE GENERAL PRACTITIONER: His nurse had me stand on a scale to get my weight, as if I haven't been weighing myself every morning of my life since I was 12. Next she took my blood pressure, like I don't do that every day at home. She also took my temperature and checked my oxygen with one of those things you stick your finger in, both of which I have done almost daily since the start of Covid. After 20 minutes there, nothing had occurred that might stop my knee pain but they definitely have my updated insurance information. 

Eventually the doctor entered, gave me a big smile and started asking the same questions I had answered on the sheet of paper handed me when I arrived. He said it might be arthritis or it might be something else, he wasn't sure. He had me lay down on the examining table and moved my leg from side to side, then said to ice it, elevate it and take Tylenol for the pain, and see a physical therapist. 

THE PHYSICAL THERAPIST: He asked a lot of questions while moving my leg around, like does this hurt, does that hurt, how about this?  He talked a lot about arthritis and suggested I get an x-ray. He said I could do any exercise but not if it hurts, and go for walks but stop if it hurts. He recommended the use of  ice, elevation and rest. He suggested I make another appointment in a month, adding "Make sure we have your current insurance information." 

THE SPORTS MEDICINE SPECIALIST: He was young and cheery with a positive "We can do this!" attitude. He had me get an x-ray right then and there, which we looked at together. He said it was something called a Baker's Cyst, and actually pointed it out to me on the x-ray. He suggested giving me a shot of cortisone in my knee, but was careful to describe all the possible bad side effects, including making the pain much worse. I passed on that. He said to ice it, elevate it and see him again in a month, and be sure they had my insurance information.

I returned to the physical therapist who did even less on the second visit than he had on the first and double-checked on whether they had my correct insurance info. I returned to the sports medicine specialist who did pretty much what he had done the first time, although this time he said I needed an MRI so he could get more information, and also gave me a printout of some knee exercises I should do. I got the MRI results online which showed no Baker's Cyst but some arthritis. The results were also sent to the doctor who had ordered the MRI. That was more than two weeks ago and since I hadn't heard a peep out of him,  I called his office and a nurse said she would ask him. She put me on hold, then came back and said he suggested I see an orthopedic surgeon who would be calling me to make an appointment. (Still nobody from the surgeon's office has called three weeks later.)

All the while, twice a week since last October, my CrossFit trainer has been doing several therapeutic things, like wrapping my knee tightly with an elastic strap called a floss band. That lessened the pain right away and lasted for a day or two each time. 

Last week I went to an acupuncturist and had an hour-and-a-half session that helped immediately. Over the weekend my nurse-practitioner friend gave me an impromptu leg massage that made my knee feel better than it had since the pain first started. Then yesterday I worked out at CrossFit in the morning and had a second acupuncture session in the afternoon, and today my knee feels about 90% better. Nobody with a medical degree of any kind has contributed to my recovery, but they all were sure to get my insurance information.

Butterfly Lies

If you have a lick of sense you see the Internet as a cesspool of lies, innuendo, half-truths and scurrilous rumors. You also know that it can often be your best friend, like if you don't know the meaning of the word "scurrilous" you can find out in an instant on the Internet. So, because its inherent good equals the bad, it remains popular. And despite your repeated vows of never looking at it anymore, you still scroll through Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and so many more I don't even know their names. 

Still, sometime you get hit in the face with how supremely dumb it all is. Like today, when the following message appeared in my Instagram feed, God knows how or why: "Whisper a wish to a butterfly and it will fly up to Heaven and make it come true." 

If only one person tried that and it worked, it would end all organized religion. People would start tending butterfly gardens instead of going to church on Sundays. I'm not even going to try it, that's how dumb I think it is.

Another Black on the Supreme Court. Yawn.

It's all so confusing. We were taught that we're supposed to treat everyone as equals. And as the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., the all-seeing, all-knowing God of black wisdom, famously said, we should judge people by the content of their character and not the color of their skin. So why all the celebration over the appointment of a black judge to the Supreme Court? And not even the first one, but the third, so it's even less of a milestone. Basically it's a been-there-done-that situation.

Oh, but she's a black woman! So even though many women have served on the Court already, including the three that are already on there, her skin color makes her what? Special? Different? More important than any other shade of woman? How, exactly?

Meanwhile, in the last few years it's been pounded into our brains that women are supposed to be treated just like men, so again I ask -- what's the big deal? I guess the Democrats have some 'splaining to do.

Past My Sell-By Date

One morning last October I woke up and noticed that my knee hurt. No big deal, I thought I might have pulled a muscle at the gym the day before. But it got worse and eventually took over my life, becoming just about all I thought about. Then along came the war in Ukraine, and so I started crying about that every morning when I woke up, right after crying because of my painful knee.

Since then I have gone to my primary care physician (a nice man who knows nothing but is good at Googling), a sports medicine doctor (a smart man who knows about sports injuries but not much else), a physical therapist (a jovial man who is happy to move your body parts around but don't quote him on anything), all to no avail. I had an x-ray and then an MRI, both of which revealed the presence of some arthritis in the knee but nothing to write home about. A visit to an orthopedic surgeon with a possible knee replacement was suggested. (I decided to save that for when Hell freezes over.)

I've iced it and elevated it and rested it, swallowed countless tabs of Advil and Tylenol and CBD, rubbed it with Voltaren and Arnica gel, and still it hurts. So yesterday I went to see an acupuncturist. Right away he asked my age. I said 75. He said, "What did you expect would happen to your body after using it for so long?"

Finally, a wise man.

Some Lives Are Better Than Others

Real people live here year-round.

I follow a family on Facebook that lives on Mohegan Island, a paradise located 12 miles off the coast of Maine. I've been going there in summer since 1970. Once I stayed for two weeks, but usually it's only for a few days, maybe four. Then it's back to real life. But the family I follow online lives there year-round, along with 90 other hardy souls, and their Facebook posts fill me with those feelings we're never supposed to have: envy and jealousy. It's just that their lives are so much better than mine, and yours, and just about everyone who doesn't live on an island 12 miles from the mainland.

Today's post from Mohegan is a long one, since they write a Spring Letter each year instead of a Christmas letter. It's full of news about the children playing outside in the warm sun and the birds returning from their winter havens making nests for the new babies and early flowers popping up from the newly-softened soil and the sun smiling on the burgeoning wildflowers in the meadows dotting the island. It describes a life so filled with beauty and nature and so far removed from mine, it's almost too hard to read about.

I would never describe the details of my daily life for fear the reader would fall asleep before the third sentence. For example, after I finish washing my paintbrushes I am going to an acupuncture appointment because despite a recent MRI, Western medicine hasn't a clue about the pain in my knee I've had for six months. After that I will stop by my dentist's office to get some teeth whitener. And then .....

See what I mean?

No More Boosters for Me, Thanks

Another booster? No thanks, I'm good. (No -- I am not a conspiracy theorist, even though I do think that Clinton Death List is fairly suspicious.) While I don't want to contract the coronavirus in any of its ever-changing forms, I'm also not eager to introduce additional viral materials into my body for maybe a few months of protection. It's not that I think a booster will harm me, although it might, it's just that I doubt it will do much good. And if I haven't caught Covid in the last two years despite being with others who have, I probably won't.

And then there's my friend Kay, a 50-year-old healthy, happy woman who became mysteriously ill the day after receiving her first vaccination almost a year ago. Since then she spends her life in one or another doctor's office -- she's seen too many to count -- or on the Internet reading everything written about the vaccine and its effects worldwide, searching for any clue to her debilitating condition.

Kay's list of symptoms is long and depressing, including balance issues, neuropathy in her feet, fatigue, mouth sores, hearing problems, headaches and general body pain. She's been tested and retested for many things, all of which come back with no answers besides "it must have been the vaccine."

One doctor prescribed prednisone and since Kay can't exercise -- she's too exhausted -- she's put on quite a bit of weight. Like anyone in her situation, she's often depressed. Had she passed up the vaccine and contracted the virus last year, she likely would have been fine in a week or two and it would be a dim memory by now. Instead, every day for her is a living Hell.

So no thanks. No more boosters. I'm good.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Who Cares

A certain group of teachers in Florida are having hissy-fits over the recent Parental Rights Bill that passed last week, which says that sexual identity and transgender issues cannot be discussed in kindergarten through the third grade. Somehow this has caused a rash of teacher resignations in that state because the law allegedly keeps them from "being who they are."

I have never understood why being gay becomes the major fact about gay people. Like really, who cares who you sleep with? Does anybody? Do you do other things besides have sex with your chosen partner? 

Gays, and all the rest of those letters, should just shut up and do the jobs they are paid to do, bearing in mind that their sexual appetites are not important to an 8-year-old. 

Instead of "Don't Say Gay," everyone should just go back to Bill Clinton's advice regarding the military years ago, with an added kicker: "Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Who Cares."

No Secrets, Some Lies

This morning I entered my own name into a search engine to see what information is online about me. It was downright sickening. I found my home address, my home phone number, my age and of course marital status, my personal art website and every article I have ever written for any publication, not counting the ones I wrote before the Internet was invented. 

Even worse, there were a few dastardly lies about me sprinkled among the mostly true facts. I decided that the only sane reaction was to return to bed and pull the covers over my head, which I did. That worked for awhile but then it was hard to breathe so I came out and decided to write this blog post. 

The good news is that my weight was not shown anywhere. Ha! At least something of mine remains private.

The Devil Goes to Hollywood

Now I've heard everything! Denzel Washington, an actor I once adored who now seems off his rocker, not to mention a lot less handsome with his bright-white fake choppers, has come forth with his take on the Smith/Rock slap-story that refuses to die: "The Devil made him do it." (See Satan at left, dressed for his walk on the red carpet.)

Seems all of Hollywood is on steroids, meth, cannabis or alcohol, so nothing they say or do makes any sense. All actors should just say their scripted lines, then go back to their mansions and stay there until their next job.

Call Me Freaky

I read in today's paper that passport applicants will soon have the option of identifying as neither male nor female but rather as a freak of nature, the result of a lawsuit by a human being that calls itself Mx. Zzyym. My husband, who was clearly male when I met him but now I can't be sure, thinks this is great, claiming there are "many people" like Mx. Zzyym who are neither sex. (It's about 1.7% of the population.)

That must include me, since even though I have female genitalia I don't wear pointy-toed high heels, push-up bras, false eyelashes or dangly earrings like Judge Jeanine and the rest of those ladies on the TV news shows. I have never had a pedicure. (I've had a few manicures but found them soul-crushing.)

I abhor "lunching" with girlfriends and shopping for clothes. I also don't count on "men" to do things that need doing, like painting the living room, taking out the garbage or moving heavy furniture. I reject most popular human pastimes altogether, including riding roller coasters, watching Jeopardy and DWTS, rooting for sports teams and eating Mexican food. (I see no difference between a fajita, a burrito, a taco and an enchilada.) 

So starting today my pronouns will be grouchy/grumpy. My current passport photo reflects this.

Will Smith, Chris Rock and God Almighty

Today is Friday. Six days ago a meaningless event occurred that has dominated the Internet since then. It's embarrassing that the petty, inconsequential and possibly fake altercation between two "actors" who earn millions by "pretending" is still being discussed. Exactly who got hurt in that silly little incident?

Are we supposed to feel sorry for Jada Smith for having a disease that causes her to lose her hair and her sense of humor? It's not painful like cancer or arthritis or so many other serious diseases, and she looks pretty good as a bald person. Also, she could choose to wear a wig like many people do, even those with lots of hair. (She could borrow one from her son for sure.) 

Should we feel sorry for Will Smith, whose wife he "defended" has revealed proudly over the years that they have an open relationship and Jada has sex with other men? I wonder, does Will ever slap any of those guys? Maybe in the future he will hit them on the head with his brand new eight-and-a-half pound Oscar; now that would do some damage.

Should we weep for Chris Rock, the comedian who was unscathed by a limp-wristed slap on the cheek and who since then gave a sold-out concert in Boston where his ticket prices were cranked up to $1,000 because of all the publicity he earned getting slapped for a "joke" that was hardly a joke at all?

We actually should feel sorriest for God, who made us all in His image and with the highest hopes. Mankind is surely a major disappointment to Him.