My Top 10 List of Top 10 Lists for 2022

I recently heard someone on the radio discussing the fact that people like lists because they are time-savers and give information without requiring any work, like reading which we all know can be so exhausting.  So I hereby present to you a list of Top 10 Lists you can make yourself, and then read in bed instead of those boring books on your nightstand that you never open.

Top 10 Put-downs of Elon Musk on Twitter

Top 10 Flip-flops by Anthony Fauci on COVID

Top 10 Worst Outfits Worn by Nancy Pelosi 

Top 10 Insults of Donald Trump in The Washington Post

Top 10 Lies About Donald Trump in The New York Times

Top 10 Lies of Joe Biden Printed Nowhere 

Top 10 Anti-Semitic Remarks by Celebrities

Top 10 Woke Cancellations of Celebrities

Top 10 Rap Songs Using the N-Word

Top 10 Words You Can't Say Anymore

Bonus: Top 10 Celebrities Who Got Really Fat (Oops, you can't say that anymore!)

In and Out for 2023

Thank God it's that time of year again, when newspaper and magazine editors and anyone else with a job in publishing tells us what's "In" and what's "Out" for 2023, or else how would we know what to wear, eat, drink or read? 

The Los Angeles Daily News has come out with their "top food and nutrition trends for 2023," which I cannot wait to read so I'll know what to fix for dinner starting this Sunday. Here's a teaser: Faux meat will be very In, so stock up now on dead animal protein while you still can. And The Today Show -- who knew that's still on? -- predicts that trendies will drink less in 2023 based on some celebrities, like singer Katy Perry, opting for a Sober 2023. (Too bad about our well-stocked wine cellar.)

Not to be outdone, the editors at Amazon, that bastion of literary excellence, have announced their "Best Book of 2022." It's written by someone I never heard of, and either have you, but they say it's "bound to put a bounce in your step," so I'm guessing it's some sort of rom-com novel with a millennial heroine who finds true love while searching for life's meaning. (I'll pass and just read Edith Wharton's "Ethan Frome" and Don DeLillo's "White Noise" for the zillionth time.)

I also heard earlier today that skinny jeans are definitely very out, which pisses me off because I have several pairs, two of them relatively new and quite expensive since I bought them in the Hamptons last September. Oh well, guess I'll be out of step again. But then I'm old, which is OUT no matter what you're wearing, so I'm off the hook.

There are hair styles that must not be worn this coming year, and makeup trends to follow, and oddest of all, the Pantone Color of the Year, which, like it or not, demands to be your new paint color for whatever you are painting. This year's choice is "Viva Magenta," replacing last year's star color, "Veri Peri." (I personally like a yellow called "Wicker" by Benjamin Moore that has been discontinued.)

Obviously very Out: thinking for yourself. But then that's never really been In, has it?

The White House Press Secretary

 

The Young and The Stupid

Our incredibly moronic societal rules dictate that we not mock anyone for their obvious, or not so obvious, failings or deficiencies. Thus you cannot call a big fat pig "a big fat pig," or even "big," or "fat," or "a pig." You can't call someone confined to a wheelchair and unable to feed or clothe himself "handicapped," even though handicapped means "having a condition that markedly restricts one's ability to function physically, mentally or socially." 

You can't say a person is dumb or stupid or retarded even if and when they are. But what you can say is that anyone over the age of about 60 is a withered, feeble, senile, wrinkly coffin-dodger, geezer, prune, coot and old bag who has lost their marbles and is ready for the glue factory. 

Aging, defined as "the process of becoming older," is a condition of all humans that starts on Day One. Anyone who does not earlier overdose on drugs, abuse alcohol, engage in criminal activity, contract a terminal disease or choose to end it all before they get the chance will become old. It is, in a way, a condition to which we all aspire. Yet old age is constantly mocked without censure, not only by comedians trying to earn a living but by everyday people with a mean streak. 

Cher -- that beautiful, insanely talented singer and actress who has been performing to adoring audiences since 1965 and amassing a fortune estimated to be $360 million -- is now 76 years old. She is still beautiful, thanks to tons of plastic surgery, with a unique voice that is instantly recognizable. Recently she started dating a man 40 years her junior and has just announced their engagement. The comments online in response to this news are mostly insults concerning her age and how her betrothed must be after her money because who the heck would want to be with such an old crone. One commenter wrote, "She is smart -- she needs someone to change her Depends."

None of these comments are considered out of line by the powers that be and thus are allowed to stand. Yet when I wrote that one commenter was "stupid" for saying something stupid, it was rejected for "going against our community standards."

I am the same age as Cher. I can't sing and I don't wear Depends. I am, however, extremely sick and tired, mostly of my fellow Americans.

A Shaggy Saint Story

This being Christmas, I decided to read a long article in today's New York Times Magazine about a 12-year-old girl who died in 1959 that people are trying to have named a saint. Growing up in a Jewish household, I never heard much about any saints, except when people would say my grandfather was a saint for staying married to my grandmother. I think Mother Teresa may be a saint.

I am not embarrassed to admit my ignorance in this area because of two things. First, I have confidence in my intelligence and second, sainthood belongs to a sect of a religion I do not follow. Much of what I know about Catholics I learned from seeing the movie Spotlight, and none of it was good. Anyway, what I think, in my ignorance, is that a saint does God's work on earth and helps people in need, putting themselves last in all situations.

Okay, so back to the girl that died in paragraph one that they are trying to make a saint. Apparently she decided at age seven that she wanted to be a saint someday. Then she had a vision in her backyard of a woman dressed all in black. She saw this same woman in a vision again soon after, and told her mother. Then she got leukemia and started having a lot of nosebleeds and pain.

The doctors told her family it was terminal, in fact that she had two weeks to live, and one day the hospital priest went to the girl and said, "A beautiful woman is coming to get you soon," to which she replied, "I'll tell the Heavenly Father you said hello," or words to that effect. Then she died.

Since her death 60 years ago many people in her town in Louisiana (big surprise) have visited her grave and claim she has cured their cancers and other diseases, and are trying to have the Vatican name her a saint. This is the reason I rarely do anything but the crossword in the The New York Times Magazine.

I Need A New Drug

Living in Portugal would at least be something to talk about besides Trump!

As the end of this year approaches, wouldn't it be fun if the "new year" turned out to really be new? Alas, it won't. I'm willing to bet it will still be all about Donald Trump and January 6 two years ago and Hunter Biden's laptop and how Ron DeSantis sucks and more words you can't say. It's just the same old same old that we'll call "2023."

Echoing the great Huey Lewis, I need a new drug. Which, in my case, means a new country. I am seriously looking into moving to Portugal, one of only two countries on the map that welcomes older emigrants, the other being Israel which is too hot, too volatile, and too many Arabs if you must know. (Call me racist if you want -- it's all the rage anyway.) Besides, just imagining all the interesting blog posts I could write gets me all excited.

Wishing everyone a Merry Christmas, if that's your thing. It's nothing to us so tomorrow will just be another Sunday and the last night of Hanukah. (I wonder, do they have Hanukah in Portugal?)

Farewell, Nancy What's-her-name

Really, what can you say about an 82-year-old plastic surgery addict who lacks any sense of decorum, class, sophistication and maturity? Nancy Pelosi said her goodbyes to Congress in her usual childish manner:

“I was speaker and minority leader under President Bush, under President Obama, under what’s-his-name,” Pelosi said, referring to Trump. “The hardest thing that I had to do is when we had a Democratic president and we were in the minority, as minority leader, was to sustain a presidential veto. Because the Republicans would roll out stuff that sounded like a chocolate sundae but it's more like doggy doo.“

How Dumb Is Joe Biden?

My dear uncle Melvin Keller, possibly the smartest man alive during my lifetime, told me many years ago when I was feeling down: "Anyone who isn't depressed is not paying attention." Since he died over a decade ago he missed the whole Trump collusion fiasco and accompanying rise of Twitter to godlike proportions.  Surely depression is more warranted as a result of those developments. Here's proof: The number of antidepressant prescriptions over the past six years have increased by 34.8%, from 61.9 million in 2015/2016 to 83.4 million in 2021/2022.

I do not take antidepressants but I may have to start soon. One thing that's got me cradling my head in my hands today is learning that the First Lady of Ukraine, Olena Zelenska, visited Paris last week and spent 40,000 eruos, or $42,443 on a shopping spree at a high-end store while her husband was busy pleading with the country's leaders for additional aid to support his war with Russia. And look out -- he's headed our way to ask Biden for even more than the billions the U.S. taxpayers have already given. 

(Later on the story was denied, debated and eventually debunked, saying that while she did go shopping, she spent nowhere near that much. We can only hope.)

I've Heard of Seeing Stars, But Seeing Swastikas?

Racism is everywhere, and so are racial slurs. In fact, sometimes they are so well-hidden you can't even see them, which is a shame because then you can't be outraged and offended, the two most popular online emotions. For example, I, a Jew, had no idea that last Sunday's New York Times crossword puzzle shown at left was laid out in the shape of a swastika! And on the first night of Hanukah, oy vay!

I found that out just a little while ago on a daytime TV news program called "Outnumbered," which airs on the FOX News channel. One of the pretty talking heads -- there are five of them who sit on a couch, four women and one man who is "outnumbered" -- mentioned this in passing during a discussion about the latest Avatar movie (Avatar: The Way of Water) being criticized for being racist. 

Why? Because the leading Avatar people, who are fictional and have blue skin, are played by white actors and not people of color. This is deemed racist because white people have no color so they should have cast black or Hispanic or Native American actors instead.

Now these are some real people of color!

Is anyone else getting sick and tired of all the hurt feelings and ridiculous demands of "people of color" or is it just me? And by the way, what about that swastika puzzle?

Where Are the Wabanaki?

Today's Portland Press Herald contains a letter from a reader complaining that the paper often writes about "Maine's tribes," stating that, "Wabanaki people have their own sovereign political and cultural existence," and thus do not belong to the state of Maine. And recently, the Maine ACLU issued a report stating that Maine schools are not including enough Wabanaki history in their curriculum.

My husband and I moved to Maine in 2009. Since then I have volunteered at Maine Medical Center, Freeport Community Services, the Portland Museum of Art, Mid-Coast Hospital, Maine Orthopedics, the American Red Cross and the Barbara Bush Children's Center. I have held paying positions at UpPortland (a local newspaper), the Tri-Town Weekly (a local newspaper), Wilbur's Chocolates (a local candy company) and Freeport Town Hall (election worker). 

Spending a good amount of time at each of those establishments, I never met anyone who identifies as a Wabanaki or anyone of Wabanaki descent. Yet the local news -- and the local liberals -- are consumed with making sure that we Mainers are fair to the Wabanaki. At the symphony, an announcement is made before the start of each concert imploring the audience to remember that we are listening to music on "sacred land stolen from the Wabanaki."

What I want to know is, where are all the Wabanaki?

FILM REVIEW: The Talented Mr. Ripley

First released in 1999 and starring Matt Damon, Jude Law, Gwyneth Paltrow, Cate Blanchett and Philip Seymour Hoffman as not-yet-fully-formed newbies, The Talented Mr. Ripley is lots of fun to watch today. (Philip Seymour Hoffman acted rings around everyone and his performance in this film led to his being named the year's Best Supporting Actor by the National Board of Review of Motion Pictures, a New York City harbinger of the Academy Awards.) But then it turns psycho, with gruesome images you will not soon forget, that is if you can stand to watch them unfold. 

The story, adapted from a novel of the same name, is quite convoluted and sometimes hard to follow. I was lost even before the opening credits were over. Tom Ripley (Damon) is an impoverished young man/sociopath with aspirations of becoming rich by assuming the life of handsome playboy Dickie Greenleaf (Law), who is already rich. 

He does this over a period of several months, having initially fooled Greenleaf's shipping magnate father into thinking he had attended Princeton with his son. The father pays him to go to Italy and persuade Dickie, an avowed expatriate, to return home.

Fine. A good story with Hitchcock-type twists and turns set in beautiful rural Italy, with visually exhilarating stops in Rome and Venice. But then things go downhill: The murders! The blood and gore! The very creepy take on homosexuality before it came out of the closet. Matt Damon's silly ultra-white fake teeth! Jude Law trying too hard! Gwyneth Paltrow in any role! Plus it's really long, two hours and 20 minutes to be exact. 

The Talented Mr. Ripley kept my attention by continually confusing me, which I suppose is one way to do it. But the creepiness factor kept me up half the night, so if you see it, it's best to do so in the daytime.  

Obesity Sucks

For most of my life I have used food to comfort me in times of distress. It doesn't work. All that happens is that I get fatter and can't fit into my clothes. I work on this addiction daily and feel like I am finally getting the upper hand.

I write this in hopes of reaching at least one young obese person who does the same thing. I am in my mid-70s and my days are numbered, so it almost doesn't matter, but for those of you with many years ahead, all I can say is: "Stop it right now!" Eating a donut (or twelve donuts) will not make you get that job, sell that painting, make the phone ring or increase your bank account. It will just clog your arteries-- I had a heart attack in 2017 -- and make your self-hatred far worse. 

Just do something else besides eat! Try meditation, I recommend any book by Eknath Easwaren, he talks about this very problem.

Cookies, for Christ's Sake

Growing up Jewish, Christmas was not a big deal to me. It did offer some perks, like days off from school and dinner at our neighbor's/best friends' house on Christmas Eve. They were Italian Catholics and did it up big. Excellent cooks, naturally the meal was a huge feast of meat and pasta dishes and desserts to die for. I enjoyed seeing their sparkling tree and all the holiday decorations, but still, in my family Christmas was just another day.

And so it has remained all my life, except for those years I was married to a non-Jew. Again, there was a great feast, a pretty tree and generous gift-giving from the in-laws, but no mention of Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary or the Three Wise Men. In fact, to this day the only hint of the religious aspect of the holiday is the occasional "Mother and Child" postage stamp stuck on a Christmas card that arrives in the mail. 

Now in my 70's and not living next door to any friendly Christians, the holiday has been watered down to checking out the home-baked goods that show up at our tiny post office, a local tradition that implies the small-town warmth and camaraderie as seen in those annual Hallmark movies on TV. Only our town, while small, is completely lacking in warmth and camaraderie, unless you count the sign-up sheet for the baked goods. Today's post office offering was a sliced loaf accompanied by a handwritten sign saying, "Lemon-Lime shortbread, enjoy!" I didn't have any but Mitch said it was quite good except that it was actually apple coffee cake so go figure.)

Despite being an outsider I always participate in the post office baking tradition. It's literally the least I can do to celebrate the birth of Christ. This year I'm thinking iced sugar cookies with some festive red and green snowflake sprinkles on top. 

Political Contributions: Dollars to Doughnuts

Have you made financial contributions to your favorite candidates or political party, assuming your hard-earned money will be spent to help win elections? If so, stop it right now!

Seven-thousand dollars for doughnuts and $100,000 for hair and makeup services for party chairwoman Ronna McDaniel are just two of the dozens of line items recently revealed as expenses of the Republican National Committee, the main fundraiser for the party, during this past election cycle.

How dumb are we?

The Christmas Letter

Dear Friends:

Congratulations -- you made it through another year! For those who did not succumb to gruesome car accidents or diseases, it's time for another Christmas Letter. I received one today from someone who has five children and nine grandchildren and it's all about them, whereas I have just one child who is a very private person so I can't mention him, leaving just me and my husband to talk about. (Sorry.)

Also, instead of TMI about us, I will stick to banal topics nobody cares about, which is actually the hallmark of the traditional Christmas Letter.

January was fairly quiet, starting off with Lurch getting his flea medication on the 3rd and ending with an afternoon at the Portland Symphony on the 30th.  In February Mitch caused some excitement by going to court  for giving a cop in an unmarked car the finger several months earlier. I volunteered twice for the American Red Cross but was so bored I had to stop, as my assignment was crossing names off a list when people arrived to give blood. I didn't really see my role as life-saving or, honestly, worth leaving the house for. 

We went to Florida for eight days in March and visited our friends who live in NY but spend the winter there. Later that month I had an MRI of my knee, which had hurt for six months and was cured by two sessions with an acupuncturist. The test was, as you may know, a big nothing and not worth the weeks of anxiety that preceded it.

In May we drove to a foreign country with our dear friends from Charlottesville. It was Canada, as you probably guessed. (We decided against going to Mexico figuring if Joe Biden and Kamala Harris don't want to go there, why would we?) Quebec City was fabulous, as expected. We stayed in an apartment in the Old City that we found on Airbnb. It was quite lovely and new-agey, everything black and glass and chrome and shiny. An odd note was the master bath being right in the bedroom! Right next to the bed and behind a glass divider was an entire bathroom -- toilet, sink and shower. (That tests a marriage for sure.)

Mitch got COVID in May. 😢 He was okay; he just needed a lot of couch time. I did not catch it and remain Covid-free to date!

We got a new dining table and chairs for the porch in June, and in July we met former Governor Paul LePage at a neighborhood fundraiser for his re-election campaign. (He lost.) LePage was a lot nicer than you'd think since, being a Republican, all you hear is how bad he is.

In late July my best friend died and for the next few months I basically sat around, at home, staring at the walls and weeping. August is a blur. (Miss you Deb, in case you are reading this.)

In September we went to Long Island for a few days -- the Hamptons, you know -- to visit the same people we visited in Florida because really, you gotta see your friends as much as possible while they are alive. (Author's message.)

This Christmas we are flying to Arizona to visit old friends in Phoenix and Sedona and are praying the airline doesn't screw anything up.

Wishing all of you a Happy Holiday Season,

The Roudas

What Kind of Denier Are You?

First there were Holocaust-deniers. Next came climate-deniers. Soon enough there were election-deniers. Then Covid-deniers. And now vaccine-deniers. As I always do, I looked up the word "denier" to see if my definition is correct. I found the first meaning to be "a person who denies." Okay, just what I thought. But wait, there's a newer, more woke meaning: " a person who refuses to accept the existence, truth, or validity of something despite evidence or general support for it." Bingo!

I like the original meaning better. Anyway, I am none of those things, except maybe 5% election-denier and 7% climate-denier. But not enough so it matters, and it likely wouldn't show up in my DNA. And speaking of DNA, I recently purchased a "23andMe" test kit for my husband because he really wanted one, even though it's obvious (to everyone) he's a Jew from New York. 

Before spitting into a test-tube Mitch had to answer a quite lengthy questionnaire. It asked where he was born, where his parents and grandparents were born, what medical conditions he has, his religious affiliation if any, and his race. Then he spat and sent off the kit, waiting on pins and needles to find out if he should start wearing a kilt or some lederhosen or perhaps a headdress if he's part Native American like the fake Indian Sen. Elizabeth Warren.

Mitch's results finally came back and revealed that he's 99.4% New York Jew. The remainder was .003 northern Indian and Pakistani, .002 Cypriot, and .001 Ethiopian/Eritrean. Not really news to anyone who sees him or talks to him for two minutes. Did they examine the contents of the test-tube or simply read his answers on their questionnaire?

Scam or not, save your money -- I paid $129 -- and just look at some old family photos. Feeling ripped-off, now I'm a 100% ancestry-test-denier.

Today Is Here, Who Knows About Tomorrow?

The good news: Google doesn't know everything.

This morning I woke up, which is a good thing that so many people take for granted. Okay, I'm appreciative of that. But, being spoiled by a relatively easy time of it -- no starvation, no evil dictator ordering me flogged for having extramarital sex, a roof over my head, etc. -- I have to add that it's not all roses in my life. For some unknown reason my face is swollen, something that I noticed as I was getting ready for bed last night.

I'm thinking it's an allergic reaction to something I ate, although I have no known allergies. But perhaps one is starting, which happened to my husband about 15 years ago. For years Mitch could eat salmon but didn't really like it, until one day, after eating salmon at a friend's wedding, his face swelled up so much he looked like he was wearing one of those fat suits they use in the movies to make thin people appear obese.  Since then he does not eat salmon.

Naturally I ran down a mental list of foods I ingested yesterday and came up with the only possible culprit: hot Italian sausage, an ingredient in the pasta sauce Mitch made for our dinner guests last night.  I never cared for sausage, not quite understanding just what part of whose body it comes from. That made me uncomfortable. Now I have an official reason not to eat it.

Unless it's not the sausage and I have the beginning of one of those terrible "rare diseases" you never hear about, like incipient balloon face, a.k.a, balloonus facial incipientus, and my face is going to expand to the size of a balloon and then pop. Who knows? As my father would say, "It could happen."

This is why I give generously to the National Organization for Rare Disorders, or NORD. There are more than 30 million Americans affected by one or more of nearly 7,000 rare diseases that never make the news. These are serious illnesses that lack catchy slogans, logos, annual marathons and celebrity endorsements. People suffer under the radar and hardly anyone hears about them, while breast cancer, prostate cancer, ALS and other more recognizable diseases get all the research dollars. 

December is almost halfway over, so get out your checkbook and donate to NORD today for a deduction on this year's taxes. Or just go to www.rarediseases.org. You never know what tomorrow morning will bring. If you wake up, that is. 

Woke Me When It's Over

Somebody's arm.

When will wokeness end? Will it be before or after the tattoo craze dies out? I look forward to the demise of both, but especially wokeness, a marker for irrational thinking, while tattoos simply indicate a lack of self-confidence in an individual who just wants to fit in. Tattoos never hurt anyone except the person getting them, while wokeness often treats people unfairly, damaging them socially and professionally while limiting the advancement of otherwise legitimate and possibly extraordinary people.

An article in the Portland Press Herald alerted me to the current woke folly going on in Brunswick, a nearby town. A fun and bustling community of 21,836 people, of those 91% are white, 2% are African American and 0.15% are Native American -- either Wabanaki or another tribe.

The town of Brunswick is in the middle of creating a huge outdoor mural for the downtown area, meant to show how peoples of all colors and creeds work together to make a harmonious fabric of harmony, or something. Naturally, things are not going harmoniously as everyone and their brother wants to weigh in on how it looks. So far the main complaints are: #1, not showing enough diversity and #2, using stereotypical imagery. 

For example, the largest figure is a Native American woman in the foreground with her long black hair in a braid. Uh oh, the braid is a stereotype! In the background are three more Wabanaki members and a black teenage girl on one knee doing some creative work. Somehow this is all considered disrespectful to everyone. (Is the black girl a slave? Why is she the only one kneeling? Is she working too hard?) There might be a white person in there somewhere but who cares.

For the time being the project is stalled while they work all this out. I sure hope they decide to put in some tattooed folks or there will be hell to pay.

Having Serious Conversations

Someone named Pat Goodwin chided me on Facebook --actually he/she called me a "MAGA fool" -- for posting something that he/she thought was "off-topic," as if Facebook is some sort of scholarly, serious website where important topics are discussed by important people, like within the halls of Congress. 😂😂😂😂😂😂😜

Oh no, not there either. Okay, perhaps at Harvard or Yale. Oops, wrong again. Certainly not at Stanford. On TV talk shows? Over coffee at Starbucks? Not really. At work? Ha!

Maybe important people are having serious conversations at home. One can only hope they do better there.

My Obscure Blog

Today some stranger tried to hurt my feelings online by calling my blog "obscure." Just to be sure I knew what that meant and it wasn't something terribly dire, I looked it up and found the definition to be, "not discovered or known about." I decided I could live with that. In fact, I'll go as far as to say that being obscure has been my goal in life. Many times I have backed off from the spotlight, mostly because glare hurts my eyes but also because being a celebrity, or "known," seems to me a fate worse than death.

I write this blog because I love to write. And since arriving in Maine 13 years ago, after ten years writing for the Washington Post and two years for the Deseret News before that, I've never found a local outlet for my talents that wasn't either totally embarrassing or paid a pittance for too much of my time for no good reason. So I write my own columns for my own pleasure, and that of a few friends who get a kick out of it.

My biggest fan died last July, cutting my circulation down by a third. But still, Mel and Ted spur me on with their daily comments or thumbs-up. (Love you guys!) And besides, after I'm gone my son might read a few of the posts and still be able to get a laugh from his dead mommy.

President Wimp

It's crazy, unbelievable and ultimately quite frightening that a 32-year-old, black, lesbian basketball player well-known for her obvious disdain for the United States -- as well as Russia since she brought illegal drugs into that country -- was freed after 10 months by our feeble-minded president while a 52-year-old white, straight, former Marine remains in captivity after four years. President Wimp claims that Putin told him he could "only have one" in exchange for an American-held Russian arms dealer with the nickname "Merchant of Death."

Say what you want about Donald Trump, he would have gotten both of them home. 

Welcome Home, Brittney!

Paul Whelan remains imprisoned in Russia after four years.

Okay, so finally Brittney Griner is free! I was overjoyed to hear that, even though I am not a basketball fan, personal friend or anything at all to the woman (or man as I suspect). But it really irked me that an obviously clueless American -- who takes pot to Russia? -- was sentenced to spending nine years in a penal colony somewhere in the middle of Russia for a minor infraction. How could her release not be good news?

Of course, on the Internet it's always bad weather. Hundreds of people tweeted their unhappiness and downright anger that Brittney is free while another American -- white, male, non-basketball star, former Marine Paul Whelan -- remains in captivity after four years, insinuating that Brittney got preferential treatment because she (he) is gay and black.

Can't we just all celebrate and acknowledge something positive our government managed to pull off, even for ten minutes? Yes, I know, we traded away a dangerous arms dealer who wants to kill all Americans. But hey, it's Joe Biden -- not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Anyway, welcome home Brittney!

Trump, Musk, Hunter Biden

The ehbd djsjkks we sjjdt Donald Trump anndheuiew. Shsjs weird f kilsa to kmndns all Trump ananda Elon Musk. Grew oh nwwhe y bass jbbbyeee noir, wwjdsp cos Trump aahhsgwebbfge dn Twitter nana ms dm Musk, whilfe exno Hunter Biden. 

Trump nwjwje dfpihnng to ajsjbd wbeeebnty jaja. Musk, agdsgdfiei w wijon Twitter mma majdhggf Hunter Biden.  Okallahdh fhjht t Trump ans wiibhf porl foui ees. Trump waassd ook ffdlldfw e Musk anno gkgk w Biden. 

Trump, Musk ann andikt Twitter kkdodb al Hunter Biden? Tdjjje a all Trump: "Pooeioe bab vbaif sto drog ffraw kkkd wlelleciortn of Biden," salll sofo awh Trump safs Musk annannsfkk weld!

Dumping Trump, Et Al.

Yesterday I met with a friend I had not seen for over a month. Our lunchtime conversation led us to the dismal state of society these days. I mentioned the horrific murders of four college students in Idaho and she was completely clueless about the whole grisly mess, not having read the news lately as she's been busy renovating her new home. Her TV had not been hooked up and besides, she's an outdoors fanatic and hardly ever does anything that doesn't involve a pair of running shoes or ski poles.

Initially I was stunned that she had not heard about the crime that had dominated many news venues for the past four weeks. But then I thought, so what? How did her ignorance of something that happened to other people far from where she lives affect her life? The answer of course is that it didn't, and doesn't affect any of us except those immediately involved, yet most of us waste countless hours of our precious time here gossiping about lives that don't touch ours and never will. 

Take, for example, today's headline involving actress Kirstie Alley, who died yesterday at age 71 of cancer that was recently diagnosed. Hearing it I cried, but were my tears for Kirstie or myself? I could be diagnosed with cancer any day, and I'm older! And just now I read about a new law in Indonesia banning sex outside of marriage. You can be jailed for a year if you are caught! That was upsetting, until I remembered I don't live there. (Not that I'm planning anything....)

Outside of wars and natural disasters, much of the news is little more than junk in the attic. Enough already about Donald Trump! If he, or any of those D.C. jokesters, does anything I need to know about, I'll know about it.

Losing Faith in Humanity

Cruella de Vil is my neighbor.

For some time now I have been very bummed out about life in general. I still believe in God, but I've lost faith in humans, and let's face it -- there are a lot more of them than just that one guy. (Or gal, but that's it, God is definitely not a transgender.) What's got me down today is how mean and disrespectful total strangers are to one another online. Is that our natural state? Sadly, maybe.

My own Instagram account has 33 photographs on it. Whenever I post a new one -- something I consider to be beautiful or interesting in some way -- I delete an old one so there aren't too many to see them all. But just having an Instagram account opens me up to a world of hurt, with lots of those Reels showing up that people post and comment on. Once in awhile I also comment. Big mistake.

Yesterday a woman posted a video of her dog who refuses to eat unless she microwaves his food for three seconds, after which he immediately chows down with gusto. That made me smile as my cat is the same way! If I neglect to stick his food dish in the microwave first, a suggestion I got from my vet, he stares at it like it's poison. I shared this information in the comments section of that woman's video, and got back so much negativity you'd have thought I'd written, "I love Hitler."

One person said that's how his neighbor's dog got cancer and died and so my cat would also get cancer and die soon. Another one said I should, "Check the ingredients and you'll find out the joke is on you." What does that even mean? A third said, "Your vet is a moron, your cat will die, hahahaha!" Yet another person wrote, "You shouldn't even be allowed to own a pet."

These people do not know me. They don't know that I have owned cats (and dogs) for my entire life, that my last two cats lived to be 18 and 20 -- this one is already 15 -- and that absolutely nobody has ever cared for their pets with greater empathy, love, and precision than I have. 

Nobody wrote, "That's interesting, I guess it might make the food more appealing." Or, "Gee, I never heard of that, seems wrong somehow but you must know what works for your pet." No, that would be nice. And sane. And reasonable. Which most people are not. And it's not just strangers who treat you like shit; friends do it too.

Like Mary M., who after 13 years of dinners at my home or hers, having me water her many, many outdoor plants each summer for the two weeks she's vacationing, my buying the wreaths and poinsettias her two daughters sold for high-school fundraising each holiday season, accepting my thoughtful and generous gifts at Christmas, asking for my help in her attempt to become a painter (just like me), and coming by unannounced to unload her crappy old lampshades and throw pillows as if I'm the local chapter of Goodwill, waltzed into my home one day last spring to say she didn't like the things I write in my blog and would like me to "change the way I think politically."

Of course I wouldn't, and haven't, and so that was the end of the friendship. And her pussy-whipped husband, a closet Republican who stopped by for a hit of pot and a glass of whiskey pretty much every time he walked the dog, was gone too. (Gotta keep the wife happy!)

Larry David, the genius behind the hit TV shows Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm, said it best: "People -- they're the worst!"

TV Review: MAD MEN

As usual my husband and I are late to the party when it comes to watching hit shows on TV. We always assume that if something is wildly popular with the masses it must suck. Sometimes we are wrong, as we learned with The Sopranos and LOST. But Mad Men, airing from 2007 to 2014 and winning 16 Primetime Emmy Awards along the way, is surely the worst of the worst.

Classic Don Draper activity: smoking while drinking.

We lasted until Season 2, Episode 7, in which Don Draper, the married creative director of an ad agency set in the 1960s, has another one of his tawdry and tiresome sex scenes, this time with the wife of a client he has been screwing with some regularity for months, and which we, the audience, are forced to watch, telling ourselves that this is not porn but a highly-acclaimed and 100% approved national TV series. Still, as he grinds away on top of her and then slaps her, ties her wrists to the bedposts with his belt and some scarf that was handy and ultimately leaves her that way, we beg to differ.

Don Draper (not his real name) is the Hero. We are supposed to love him, swoon over him, and tune in week after week to see him cheat on his wife with yet another woman, ignore his two kids, chain smoke Lucky Strikes and drink what seems like a fifth of whiskey each day at work, forget how much he drinks after work. He is clearly an alcoholic, sex-addicted liar who lacks any emotion, has stolen another man's identity and is idolized by everyone who meets him, except his wife who feels alone, depressed and trapped in a loveless marriage.

Lauded by critics for its authenticity in depicting a certain era, in the last episode we watched Don and his wife and two kids take a picnic lunch in the country, mostly to drive in Don's brand new Cadillac. After lunch on the grass in an idyllic setting they pack up to go home, leaving behind all their dirty paper plates, used cups, empty bags of potato chips and soda bottles on the grass, then hop into their flashy Coupe DeVille and speed off with nary a care in the world while the camera lingers on the mess, in case we hadn't noticed. 

I'm wondering, who did that, ever? Nobody, that's who. Or at least nobody who drives a Caddie and makes a decent living and dresses in fine suits. Maybe low-life creeps who live in trailer parks threw trash out the window of their beater jalopies, but not affluent middle-classers like the Drapers. Hey, I was alive at that time and while I was just a teenager, I know what I saw and my parents and their friends, all of whom could have walked onto the set of Mad Men and fit right in, drinks and all, never littered as much as a tissue and would have had a cow if they caught me doing so! 

The constant smoking, the heavy drinking, the vapid women with their pointy breasts and obsequious behavior and willingness to have sex with any man who looks at them twice is the stuff of daytime soap operas, not fine, thought-provoking drama. At least on Grey's Anatomy, another prime-time sexy soap where everyone ends up sleeping with everyone else, usually in the hospital supply closet, you learn a little bit about medicine so it's not a total waste of time. For example, did you know that a certain percentage of people die in surgery each year for no apparent reason? That little tidbit kept me from having surgery on my arthritic knee and instead I was cured with acupuncture. So far the only thing I've learned from watching Mad Men is that most Americans have their minds in the gutter, and that hasn't helped me at all.

Everything is Racist!!!!!!!

All of London is abuzz over the most recent example of racism from the royal family, with coverage of the heinous act filling British media yesterday. Here's what happened: Lady Susan Hussey, 83-year-old lady-in-waiting (whatever that is) to now-dead Queen Elizabeth II asked a visitor to Buckingham Palace what part of Africa she is from. 

The wounded party is Ngoni Fulani, the CEO of an East London refuge for women of African and Caribbean heritage. Does that sound like a native Londoner to you? Not really, although the fact that she was asked that question has people foaming at the mouth over yet another example of racism by the royal family, the last one being when Meghan Markle, who is biracial, was asked if she wondered about the skin color of her unborn child when she was pregnant. OMG, that's like murdering George Floyd and Emmet Till while making Rosa Parks sit in the back of the bus! 

Accusations of racism are rampant these days. But relax -- to avoid the poisonous label you don't have to have any black friends or even know any black people. Just be sure to play rap music really loud on your car radio, put a Black Lives Matter sign on your lawn and, like Hillary Clinton, always carry a bottle of hot sauce in your purse or pocket.  

Thankfully, the horrible racist of Buckingham Palace "resigned and apologized for the hurt caused" by her question. At least that.

Lobster Do's and Dont's

Our local Whole Foods in Portland recently announced it will no longer be selling Maine lobsters because trapping them may possibly kill a right whale, something that has never happened in our waters and a decision that has triggered a call to boycott the store. (There have only been two whale entanglements in Maine, most recently in 2004, and no right whale deaths have ever been caused by Maine lobster gear.) Fine with me, I'm neither a lobster nor a Whole Foods fan, and I have no feelings one way or another concerning whales, except I really enjoyed reading Moby Dick. 

While Joe Biden is all in favor of legislation currently under review that will greatly and negatively impact lobster fishing, threatening an entire industry and way of life in Maine, his White House chef just ordered 200 Maine lobsters for a state dinner in honor of visiting French President Macron and his wife. This makes sense how?

Personally, I rejected the eating of lobster years ago for several reasons, not the least of which was the manner in which it is prepared. You boil them alive! Allegedly they have to be alive or else they won't taste right, although if they tasted right you wouldn't need to submerge them in melted butter when served. 

But hold on -- boiling them alive seems downright humane compared to this recipe published in the New York Times for something called Lobster Cappuccino. It was in step #3 of that recipe that I swore off the crustacean forever:

"To make the lobster broth and garnish, lay the live lobster on a cutting board. Place the tip of a large, heavy knife at the indentation where the carapace meets the head of the lobster, making sure the cutting blade is facing the lobster's eyes. Swiftly and forcefully, plunge the knife through the lobster until the knife hits the cutting board."

Assuming you have somehow avoided eye contact with the lobster, have not yet thrown up and are a direct descendant of Hannibal Lecter, you proceed to step #4, in which you "Twist off the claws and tail, split the lobster in half, then discard the innards after scraping out the roe."

Bon appetit, Monsieur and Madame Macron.