The Worst Season

Bug bites, bee stings, 

ants in the cupboard, noisy air conditioners, 

itching, ticks, Lyme disease, sunburn, 

sleepless nights, soaring temperatures, 

glare, Brown tail moths. 

Welcome to summer. 

Let's Hear It For the Jews

I was born to Jewish parents who were smart and funny. We celebrated many Jewish holidays. They took me to the theater and the opera and our home was overflowing with books. They put a high price on learning and made me do my homework every night before I could do anything else. All of our many relatives were a hoot; comedy was a huge part of my childhood. The food was beyond great. All in all, I loved growing up as a Jew!

I still love being a Jew and would not wish otherwise under any circumstances. I cannot understand why any group or individual person dislikes the Jewish people. I do understand that they fear them, for their intelligence and great powers of intuition and leadership.

To those people I say, get over it.

Breakfast With Grok

This morning my husband and I were casually chatting over breakfast, discussing where to take our friends from Florida who are arriving for a visit this week, when suddenly, out of nowhere, a woman joined the conversation. She was not in the room and I don't know her name, but her voice was coming in loud and clear from the vicinity of my husband's cell phone. 

What preceded this revolting development was this: Mitch, addicted as he is to technology, had asked Grok a question. I, an avowed Luddite, asked him, "Who's Grok?" Turned out it's one of those AI assistants that supposedly know everything. Okay, fine, if you say so. The question was, "What is there to do in Boothbay?" (I had already vetoed going there and Mitch was pushing for it.)

Mitch spoke his query into his iPhone, and the answer came back in written form. We continued talking, when suddenly a voice chimes in, very chummy, her sentences interjected with slang terms and "ya know" and "like" and laughing, like she was in the room with us, smoking a joint with her feet propped up on the coffee table.

I wanted to smash the phone. I kept shouting at her to shut up but she went on and on. Oh great, I thought, over-talkers are bad enough at parties but now, circa 2025, we have to put up with this not-real Chatty Cathy crashing our breakfast? I suppose I should be glad she didn't materialize in human form and demand a cup of coffee and a cheese omelet. (Mitch says that's still a few years away.)

The New Normal

This ad for a bathing suit illustrates 

just how far we have come as a nation 

in the war against obesity.

Fat Is Not Normal

Painting by Fernando Botero

Fat Americans are getting fatter every year. At the same time, being fat is seen as less of a problem and instead as just another body type. Mentioning someone's excess weight is considered rude and outrageous "fat-shaming." And just using the word "fat" is akin to saying all those other "bad words" you can't say. (You know the ones.)

I grew up in the ever-enlarging shadow of an obese sibling. Starting at about age 12, my older sister's weight was the topic of every household conversation. Those conversations became knock-down, drag-out fights by the time she hit her teen years. Plainly stated, her fatness ruined our family and totally wrecked my childhood.

So excuse me if I can't "embrace" fatness and call it "body-positivity." I saw my sister live a horrible, sad existence, unable to walk the last five years, locked inside her fat until the day she died at age 83 six months ago.

As a great cook with a big appetite, I have had my own weight struggles. But the memory of how miserable my sister was keeps me within a normal weight range. And yes, I do mean normal -- humans are not meant to be fat. How else to explain how much happier people become when they finally lose their excess weight and start feeling good about themselves and life in general?

 

Goodbye to A Golden Beach Boy

Brian Wilson died today at age 82, and I am strangely sad. I say strangely because hey, who doesn't know we're all gonna die, so no surprise there. But he was quite special to my particular generation, and right now it feels like his passing took all my youthful exuberance and memories along with him. 

Brian suffered from depression during much of his lifetime, and one can only hope he has found peace in the afterlife with all those dead rockers who went before him. Imagine the jam sessions!

One of his most personally revealing songs was also one of my favorites, from the fabulous album Pet Sounds, considered by almost every music critic to be among the greatest albums ever produced. Following are Brian's lyrics to I Guess I Just Wasn't Made for These Times.

"I keep looking for a place to fit where I can speak my mind.

I've been trying hard to find the people that I won't leave behind.

They say I got brains but they ain't doing me no good -- I wish they could.

Each time things start to happen again,
I think I got something good goin' for myself, but what goes wrong?

Sometimes I feel very sad, can't find nothin' I can put my heart and soul into.....

I guess I just wasn't made for these times.

Every time I get the inspiration to go change things around, no one wants to help me look for places where new things might be found.

Where can I turn when my fair weather friends cop out?

What's it all about?

I guess I just wasn't made for these times."

Maine Myths

I'm sure everyone would agree that there are more and more rules to follow every day. To be considered a good, law-abiding citizen here in Maine it's no different, and in fact it may be even worse, considering that simply throwing away a piece of trash involves three different warning
signs.

The trash can shown here is at a rest area on US Route 1, in the town of Newcastle. It puts in perspective my husband's arrest and lock-up in our home town of Freeport for missing his court date, assigned four months earlier for driving with his vehicle's registration a few month's past its expiration date.

Maine has been called "America's Vacationland" since 1936, and in 1987 the state motto -- "The Way Life Should Be" -- was born. It seems that both of those things need updating. 

Deconstructing Golf

I've never thought much about golf. I know it's very popular and considered to be a sport. I remember my father playing golf occasionally at the local no-Jews-allowed country club down the street, snuck in by his Catholic friend who was a member. And that Tiger Woods and others before and since his rise to fame make fortunes playing it. But I had no idea how odd a pastime it is until my husband and I vacationed at a golf resort two hours north of our home. 

Although neither of us play golf, we went for the peace and quiet, two swimming pools, great restaurant, and fabulous water views the place also offers, and to get away from our cat for a few days. (We hired a petsitter.) Our beautiful condo overlooked the resort's 18-hole golf course, providing us with a bird's-eye view of the proceedings, which went on almost non-stop from just after dawn until dusk.

People rode around in little carts, stopping every so often to get out, choose a golf club from a bag on the back of the cart, then walk onto the grass and hit a little ball into the air with the club. Returning to their carts they drove a few yards to where the ball had landed and got out and hit it again, until finally they got the ball into a little hole in the ground marked by a flagpole.

Everyone wore hats. Most of the men wore khaki pants and hit white golf balls while most of the women wore pink or red shorts and used brightly colored balls like magenta or yellow. 

Every time we glanced out the window of our condo, or sat on the balcony drinking coffee and reading the paper, people were doing it. Apparently some people play for as long as five or six hours, enough time to paint a small bathroom or attend an anti-Israel protest.

I have friends who love the game and I applaud them, but after what I saw last weekend I'm thinking that playing golf is sort of ridiculous.

Flab Is In

Is this necessary?

This morning I made the mistake of commenting on a Reel that showed up on my Facebook page. Silly me, when will I learn that leaving a comment online only leads to heartache, frustration, disgust, anger and depression?

The Reel showed a beach scene with people walking along the sand. Depicted were several overweight women in bikinis, their flaccid tummies hanging over their bathing suits, loose skin bouncing about. I made the comment, which might have been perceived as trying to be helpful, "Don't women with bad bodies know they can wear a 1-piece bathing suit?"

OMG! The reactions! One woman called me a "dope." Another one said I had a "bad attitude" and I should just "STFU!" A third said, "There are no bad bodies, just bad people like you!" 

The average American woman today is 5'4" and weighs 170 pounds. I am that height and if I weighed that much I would lay in my bed all day and cry. (And eat Oreos and potato chips.)

Pride Goeth Before A Fall

Like antisemitism, bagels are on the rise the world over. Just here in the United States the current bagel market is worth $6.3 billion and is estimated to reach $8.99 billion by 2032. 

What's funny is that while everyone likes bagels, not everyone likes Jews, who invented them. They first appeared in Jewish communities in Eastern Europe, particularly Poland, during the early 17th century: "The first written mention of bagels appears in 1610, in the Community Regulations of Krakow, where bagels were noted as a gift to be given to women after childbirth." 

As a Jew, I am somewhat offended by the fact that bagels are so popular while Jews are so unpopular. It's like hating Italians but loving pizza. 

Yesterday I went to my local supermarket and found an abomination in the bakery department. My husband thinks it's a "rainbow" bagel, this being Pride Month. If so, those gays have their hands on everything! Anyway, if that's the case then they won't be around next month. One can only hope. (Rainbow bagels, not gays.)

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There's Nothing Funny About Colon Cancer

An op-ed in today's Wall Street Journal attempts to be funny in describing the prep for a colonoscopy, the diagnostic tool used for the detection and prevention of colon cancer. It tries hard but fails, mostly because there's nothing funny about cancer. The writer whines about how difficult it is to prepare for this important test, as if life really is just a bowl of cherries and nothing should ever be difficult.

Honestly, the prep for a colonoscopy is no big deal, especially when compared to the regimen required 35 years ago. Because the disease runs in my family I had my first one fairly early at age 41. It was so unpleasant that halfway through I wailed to my husband that I'd rather have colon cancer than finish drinking all the poison. (My word -- it wasn't really poison,) 

Obviously I didn't mean it, but the steps necessary for the doctor to see the walls of my colon clearly during the exam seemed overwhelming. Of course I finished the prep, but not without lots of crying and cursing.

Happily, times have changed. Yes, you have to take a bunch of laxatives and yes, you have to be on a liquid diet for a day or two before the procedure. But the possible results of not having one are far worse: I'm talking the removal of part or all of your colon, or death. And FYI, the procedure itself is a breeze, thanks to the lovely drugs they give you. I watched mine on a TV screen and found it quite entertaining.

According to the latest medical recommendations, everyone aged 45 and up should have a colonoscopy. Why not schedule one today? And please ignore that dumb essay in today's Wall Street Journal. It's not even funny.

Enough With the Tattoos

This guy makes me really sad.

When it first showed up, the tattoo craze was different, to say the least. People who got them could be seen as creative trendsetters embracing their individuality and wearing it front and center. Still, I never wanted one and told my high-school-aged son that if he got one we would change all the locks on the house and he'd have to seek other accommodations -- although we did allow blue hair and red spikes. Just nothing permanent he might regret later. 

That teenager is now 37 and from to time has thanked us for the No-Tat rule of his youth, which accounts for him being one of the few people today actually showcasing their individuality. 

Tattoos are literally everywhere, and seemingly on everyone regardless of age and station in life. Muscular young men, pot-bellied old farts, teenagers, middle-aged Moms, golf buddies with Dad-bods and wizened Gramps and Grannies all seem to have succumbed to the craze at one time or another, presumably in a weak moment or high on something. (Ex-Navy men who are now aging bikers on Harley-Davidsons are another story.)

I know we're supposed to think they're cool, but whenever I see a person who has spent so much money and time to be in lock-step with everyone else I think, "How sad." And the more tattoos they have, the sadder I feel.

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About That Giant Trump Banner

Lately I have to keep reminding myself that humans are just like ants and that I'm a blade of grass and that everyone alive today will likely be dead 100 years from now, including the newborn who just arrived this morning, so let's all just calm down and try to have a nice day, if possible. To that end, I refuse to be troubled by certain things going on in the world that are, well, troubling. One thing in particular that falls into this category is the huge photo of POTUS on a banner recently hung on the facade of the Department of Agriculture in Washington, DC. (See photo.)

As a Republican who voted for Trump in the last election, and who has until now felt relief that our country is no longer being run by hidden figures lurking behind a demented elderly man who was clearly unfit for the job, I have to say that the enormous photo is blatantly reminiscent of Big Brother in George Orwell's novel 1984 and gives me the willies.

To be fair, there is another portrait of equal size right next to it of Abraham Lincoln, now long dead. It's all got to do with celebrating agriculture and Lincoln's founding of the Department of Agriculture and blah, blah, blah. Still, it's creepy and completely bizarre.

There, I've said it. See, not all Trump supporters are blind to his faults. But a blade of grass doesn't care -- all it needs is water, fresh air and sunshine, and I happen to have all of those at this moment so I'll let it go. 

And The "Most Stupid" Award Goes To .....

There are lots of dummies in the world, as everyone will agree. But surely the dumbest of all are the members of the group, Queers for Palestine. 

Even if you know almost nothing about what's going on in Israel, or in Gaza, or even Palestine, you may remember when, a few years back, a gay man was thrown off a rooftop by Hamas members. 

While some websites dispute the veracity off that event, one fact remains clear: Homosexuality in Palestine is strictly forbidden, and LGBTQ people experience persecution and violence at their hands. 

So how is there a group of people who protest against Israel under signs saying Queers for Palestine?

Fat-Shaming Goes International

The following paragraph is cut and pasted directly from my blog post of October 23, 2012, on the subject of what I would do if I were President:

"We all know that being fat is unhealthy, unattractive, and in some dire cases downright disgusting. I have said as much before. So when I'm in charge, citizens will be ticketed for every pound over the legal limit, which will be determined by experts such as doctors and insurance actuaries. You might be eating a Whopper at Burger King one day and have a cop come up to you, produce one of those new wrist scales where they can weigh you on the spot, and give you a ticket for breaking the Fatness Law. It might be like $5 per pound, or more depending on how financially strapped my administration is at that point."

Public weigh-in in Turkey.

Well folks, just today I read that something akin to this very plan is currently in practice in Turkey, in order to combat the rising rates of obesity in that country. Started on May 10 and continuing until July 10, Turkish citizens are being weighed in public, at random places, by government representatives. If deemed overweight they are directed to health nutrition centers for counseling and monitoring by dietitians, then re-weighed at a future date.

Naturally there is some pushback from the citizenry, who say it amounts to "fat-shaming" by the government. I say good -- being fat is shameful when caused by gluttony and inactivity rather than an inherent disease. It's about time that someone in a position of authority took steps to halt this widespread scourge that threatens the eventual extinction of our species.

Maybe I should run for president. After all, I'm the perfect age for it: I'm 78 now and I will be 82 at my inauguration. That sounds about right.

How I'm Like (and Unlike) Ina Garten

This morning, after a scheduled meeting was cancelled and I was free to do anything at all, I watched a cooking video posted by celebrity chef Ina Garten, a.k.a. the Barefoot Contessa. My affinity for her stems from my dear friend Noreen Welle who loved all things Ina, to the point that when we were in Paris together we spent half a day searching for and finally finding Ina's favorite street market for ingredients for our home-cooked dinner that night.

That Paris trip in June 2006 was Noreen's first and last as she succumbed to multiple myeloma at age 57 just days after Christmas that year. I still miss her dearly despite all the time that has passed and somehow seeing Ina Garten reminds me of Noreen, who was an ardent cook and credited her skills to watching Ina's cooking show.

The video I watched today showed how to make Chicken Piccata, which I do quite often only I call it the far less glamorous name of Pounded Chicken Breasts. Anyway, hoping to learn a few new tricks I watched it and was amazed that she made it exactly as I do, down to the very last detail. So great minds cook alike! Yet Ina's famous and I'm not. Close in age, also Jewish and born in Brooklyn, our similarities end there. Ina's net worth today is $60 million while mine is $0 million, and she has a swimming pool at her mammoth Connecticut mansion. (See photo.) 

I console myself with the knowledge that she's fatter than I am: at 5'3" she weighs 159 pounds, and I am 5'5 and weigh 142. Ha -- take that Ina! (Believe me, I'd rather be fatter with all the money and a pool.)

Bagels and Ticks

Growing up in New York I had access to almost every type of cuisine. By the time I was a teenager my tastebuds had scaled heights unimaginable to people raised in the boonies. Back then I never imagined I would live in a food desert, yet here I am in my late 70s, and it's no fun.

What I'm saying is there's no lox in Maine. At least none to speak of, meaning belly lox. Sure, Maine has plenty of Nova, or what I call supermarket lox, which is A, tasteless and B, still expensive, so why bother. Consequently, having "bagels and lox" is a rare thing at our house despite our being Jews.

Today we tried, and invited friends over for brunch. We had Bloody Marys, hoping the liquor would temper our expectations. The bagels were great -- fortunately we have an excellent source that produces as close to the real thing as we have found. Onions, capers, cream cheese, tomatoes, the whole deal, of course. But the lox. Not good. Salting at table can only do so much.

I know -- people are starving the world over and I'm complaining about the lack of lox. How ungrateful. Still, I'm hoping that someone might read this and realize there is a market for it, and other Jewish foods, here in Maine and move here and open up a good deli. As my father would say, "It could happen." Stranger things happen all the time. Remember, Kamala Harris became Vice-President and was a heartbeat -- and cancerous prostate -- away from having the nuclear codes. All I'm asking for is some decent belly lox in "America's Vacationland." 

Anyway, what we do have plenty of here in Maine is ticks. Wood ticks and deer ticks are literally everywhere, inside and out. I got a bite on the back of my neck recently and was literally miserable for days despite getting an antibiotic within 24 hours. I itched a lot, hurt constantly, wept openly and couldn't sleep for fear of all the terrible things I read on WebMD happening to me. 

So come along to Maine on your vacation and you won't be disappointed. Everybody expects ticks and nobody comes for the lox.

How to Become A Celebrity

Becoming a great actor or actress requires talent. But becoming a famous actor or actress, or celebrity of any kind, requires a long list of attributes but talent isn't one of them. What is needed varies for men and women, although both genders must be completely lacking in humility, modesty and the belief that we are all created equal. In fact, they must truly believe that they are better than almost everyone else on the planet. (Think Jennifer Lopez.) It also helps a lot to have famous parents, or maybe an uncle or aunt, to get you through doors impenetrable to the average person.

Women must have ample breasts and a big backside, real or fake, and the burning desire to show them off constantly, often bare and in whatever situation arises, in the most outrageous ways. Just today I saw a photo of the singer Rihanna arriving at the Cannes Film Festival in a dress with a slit up one side to the top of her thigh, completely baring her right leg, and a huge circular cut-out exposing her naked abdomen and tummy. Being pregnant, there was that "baby bump" that she wanted everyone to see. Why? Possibly to get her unborn child accustomed to being in the spotlight.

Male celebrities need a lot of what we Jews call chutzpah. They don't have to pose half-naked but they must be ultra-masculine and very cocky, no pun intended. Has-been TV star Jon Hamm is the best example: a little talent, a big ego, and a beautiful young wife -- the younger the better. 

Common human traits like compassion, pride, a desire for privacy, the fear of embarrassment, emotional intelligence, kindness towards strangers and self-knowledge are not only unnecessary but actually get in the way of reaching the upper echelons of celebrity status. I used to think that having a star on Hollywood's Walk of Fame was an important factor, until recently when actress Ellen Pompeo of Grey's Anatomy bought herself one. Who knew that's how they got them?

Look Who's Missing

I wonder if I had not been found after being kidnapped at the age of four, if the call for help would be an "Andrea Alert." Thankfully I was found and my parents were spared from hearing that sad reminder every time a child went missing. But who knew that an "Amber alert" -- first used in 1996 in the case of Amber Hagerman (see photo) -- just referred to a white child?

It didn't, of course. But today I saw an "Ebony Alert" online for a missing black girl. Really -- are we now making child abduction a race issue? And if she's not found, will that mean the police didn't try hard enough because she's black? And to be fair, shouldn't there be Brown Alerts (Latinos), Yellow Alerts (Asians) and Red Alerts (Native Americans)? 

Just asking.

Joe Biden's Prostate Gland

Joe Biden's "office" -- whatever that is -- has announced he has prostate cancer and now every last Democrat and Republican you ever heard of and lots you haven't are offering their "thoughts and prayers" to him and his family. Naturally they have all posted this sentiment online to ensure their reelection.

If I were to get cancer I would want the best oncologists available to put their heads together and come up with an effective treatment plan. That's it. If sending "thoughts and prayers" worked, my friends who are currently suffering with the disease right now would be cured. They're not.

Jim Comey's Shell Game

Shell game: A fraud or deception perpetrated by shifting conspicuous things to hide something else. 

Former FBI Director Jim Comey, who famously said Hillary Clinton was "extremely careless with classified information" and that "no reasonable prosecutor would indict her" for destroying laptops and cell phones that may have held incriminating evidence, is back on the front page. 

Eight years after Comey himself was fired by Trump during his first term and subsequently faded from the scene, suddenly he's out walking on the beach and just so happens to come across some seashells in the sand perfectly arranged to form the numbers 86 47, causing him to post a photo on Instagram of the "cool shell formation." 

After shocked reactions from many people Comey admitted he knew it was "political in nature," but he never knew that 86 inferred violence, as in "Kill Trump." How come I know? I'm an artist, not a lawman. 

What I also know is that James Comey is no dummy, and his little shell game is likely a ploy to get himself back in the news, just in time for his new book being released in a few days. Way to go, Jim!

The Homeless Look

According to its own editors, "Harper's Bazaar is your source for sophisticated, elegant and provocative fashion trends straight from the runway, makeup and hair inspiration, and chic wedding and travel ideas." As proof, the magazine recently presented the above photo of the daughter of Doug Emhoff, husband of Kamala Harris, dressed for a night out on the town. Her look was described thusly by the magazine's fashion experts:

"For the chic night out, the former second daughter wore a simple cropped black tube top beneath a relaxed beige trench coat. She then layered on a bandana-like, blue printed poplin skirt from the Italian house over a pair of light-wash straight-leg jeans. It was a creative, funky twist that instantly elevated the look and reflected Emhoff’s love for signature offbeat layering."

Film Review: NONNAS

Just released on Netflix, Nonnas has a stellar cast and not much else. Based on a mildly interesting true story about an Italian restaurant in Staten Island, NY, I sat through it mainly to see Vince Vaughn, a favorite actor of mine, in a serious role. He was great -- just as compelling as when he does comedy. So if you like him, you'll enjoy this movie.

Vaughn plays Joe Scaravella, a single sad sack who lived with his mother until his late forties. We meet him right after her death and he's an emotional, unmotivated mess. Friends suggest he do something new to move on with his life, so he uses his inheritance money to open a restaurant in his mother's memory. To be authentic, and as a unique hook, he hires Italian nonnas (grandmothers) to do the cooking. 

The eponymous grandmothers are played by Susan Sarandon (78), Brenda Vaccaro (85), Talia Shire (79) and Lorraine Bracco (70). The most fun comes from seeing these four dynamos in action as they first reject, then accept and finally come to love one another as family. Two other standouts are Bruno (Joe Manganiello) and Stella (Drea de Matteo) as Joe's best friends. (I was very happy to see Stella a.k.a. Adriana alive and well after Silvio, at Christopher's behest, killed her in New Jersey's Pine Barrens on The Sopranos.)

Most problematic is the script. For example, Joe doesn't hire any waiters but somehow all the food gets from the kitchen to the dining room. He opens a fabulous restaurant -- look for the backlit wine rack behind the bar -- with almost no money. Not one customer shows up for an entire month and so Joe decides to close the place, but first invites all his friends for a big party to use up all the food and a crowd of people arrive. Why didn't he invite them on opening night? That was stupid. But not as stupid as the food fight in the kitchen -- you'll know it when you see it.

The bottom line: Nonnas employs every cinematic and verbal cliche in the book, including musical ones, to tug at the heartstrings of a willing audience seeking to escape the harsh realities of everyday life. It doesn't succeed.

That Lady Is No "David"

"David"

Not David, now in Times Square.

A bronze statue of a sloppily-dressed, overweight black woman with braided hair now stands defiantly, hands on her ample hips, in Manhattan's Times Square, for reasons known only to the artist and whoever he convinced to put it there. 

Entitled "Grounded in the Stars," the 12-foot-high work was installed yesterday and will remain there until June 17. Meant to "celebrate marginalized people and bodies," and coincidentally compensate for all the statues of white men everywhere, artist Thomas J Price says his work is "a nod to Michelangelo's David." 

All I can say about that is "Ha, ha -- somebody get that man some glasses!"

Stop Beating Up Our President

So is this how it's gonna be for the next four years -- the bratty Democrats throwing daily tantrums over not getting their way, just like the last time they lost the election? I'm afraid so.

You may recall that the when Donald Trump won the presidency in 2016, the petulant losers -- each of whom had been elected by their constituents to make laws and run the country -- spent every waking minute seeking ways to kick him out of office. 

They famously invented the "Russian collusion story," which turned out to be a hoax funded by Hillary Clinton's campaign staff. What was not a hoax was the fact that Hillary had smashed her cell phone with a hammer and wiped her several personal computers with bleach to avoid having her crimes discovered. (Oddly enough, the Democrats in Congress and those who run the media had nothing to say about that.)

There was more, which honestly I have forgotten by now. Lawsuits involving his alleged womanizing, his alleged unsavory business deals and his alleged desire to end democracy and shred the Constitution all went up in smoke. What remained was his just plain breathing in and out, which pisses off the radical lefties to this day. 

Try to imagine how great our country could be if everyone worked together to achieve peace and prosperity for all, regardless of who occupied the White House. Who knows -- maybe Trump would do an even better job if people weren't always trashing him.

 

How My Cat Is Like Joe Biden

While he has not been professionally diagnosed, I am pretty sure my 17-year-old cat has Feline Cognitive Dysfunction, which causes him to behave more like Joe Biden every day. This is not as devastating for me as when my 57-year-old mother developed early onset Alzheimer's and died at age 62, but much sadder than if Nancy Pelosi, Maxine Waters, Chuck Schumer and Ilhan Omar all perished together in a plane crash.

Since Lurch never spoke English to begin with I haven't had to mourn the loss of us sharing deep conversations, but there are other symptoms that are blatantly disturbing. First of all, he seems to never know what to do with himself, and so sits in one spot staring into space for perhaps 20 minutes. Truth be told I do this myself quite often and call it "meditating," but I'm pretty sure Lurch is not repeating a mantra to himself. 

He also seems to have lost his appetite, yowls mournfully for no reason, and is no longer very affectionate to his human roommates. He hasn't hunted a mouse or a chipmunk in more than a year and even fresh catnip bores him. Another odd thing is his crying to get into the basement, which used to be his favorite place to hang out. He still cries at the door to the basement, so I open it and he walks down a few steps and then comes right back up. Still, he will cry to get down there again a few hours later.

But worst of all, and most Biden-like, he still demands to be treated like royalty. So we brush him and spoil him with treats and try various brands of expensive cat food and bring home new toys, all to no avail. I'm not proud to admit it, but despite feeling immense sympathy for him I am looking forward to his successor.

The Not Really News

Why is it -- with half the world at war, with children orphaned and starving, with entire cities destroyed, and with homeless people sleeping on the streets of our biggest cities -- that the headline story on my AOL home page concerning Pamela Anderson, an actress I have never seen perform, and her new hairstyle she recently debuted at the Met Gala (a party for the rich celebrities that occurred in Manhattan) spurred so many ordinary people who were not in attendance to comment as if it matters? Following are just a few of the  responses seen online:

"I hate her bangs."

"I had hair like that when I was seven."

"She looks like the Little Dutch Boy."

"I wouldn't leave the house looking like that."

"Who is Pamela Anderson?"

"Her stylist needs to be fired."

"Very dated hair and eyebrows."

"I thought she was Mia Farrow."

I was hoping someone might know.

The Shame of Anonymous

It's so sad to hide.

I've recently received a slew of negative comments on this blog from someone signed "Anonymous." Really, on this little blog written by a nobody -- that's me-- you can't sign your name? Why is that?

According to a psychologist at Australia's University of Queensland, "Some of those who choose to remain anonymous -- these so-called ‘keyboard warriors’ -- appear to be motivated by toxic behaviour.” So, in the interest of my mental health which is already a bit shaky, I have temporarily shut down the comments feature for The Daily Droid. 

This is actually no big deal since my most prolific commenters have been my husband, who can say what he wants to say to me in person, and my best friend Debra who was killed in a car crash almost three years ago and who since then has only communicated with me via digital clocks. Deb has never mentioned my blog, so I assume there's no Internet in Heaven. (Thank God!)

My hope is that this particular Anonymous isn't someone I know personally, although he/she certainly could be. My past includes many now-militant Democrats who are surely angered by my constant trashing of their party leaders, so you can't blame them for retaliating. Or could it be a waning celebrity, like Whoopie Goldberg, Joy Reid, Maxine Waters or Joy Behar -- the most common targets of my vitriol? At least when I insult them I sign my real name.

So, dear reader, if there's anything you feel you must say, contact me via Facebook or email.

When It Comes to Cupcakes, You Can't Go Home Again

"The story of the world’s most famous bakery begins in 1996 on a quaint, cobblestone corner in the West Village where Magnolia Bakery opened its doors for the first time. The sweet smell of cakes and cookies and pies and pudding tumbled out, wafting down the streets, beckoning all in."

The words above come straight from the website of Magnolia Bakery, which was once a magical sort of place fit for a fairy tale. I was among the adoring acolytes waiting on long lines that snaked around the corner and down the block from the bakery, no matter the weather. If it was snowing, you bundled up. If it was raining, you brought an umbrella. The cupcakes were that good. 

Once inside the tiny shop, in view of the glass cases displaying the goodies, you got busy deciding what flavor cupcake topped with which kind of frosting. By the time it was your turn you ordered enough for a small army since it had taken you half an hour or more to get there, and who knew when you'd be back. 

In the early days, when there was just one store in the Village, the cupcakes were literally to die for, topped with ethereal frosting that swirled a few inches up to the heavens. They were epic, unlike any other baked goods anywhere. So a trip to Manhattan to visit friends and family always included a stop at Magnolia Bakery.

Recently, all these years later, my husband flew home from a visit to New York and excitedly announced that he had brought some of the iconic cupcakes with him. How, I asked, remembering them as wonderfully fragile and fabulously messy to eat. Seems they had grown so popular they were able to expand all over the city, including an outlet at LaGuardia airport. Mitch made a few selections and flew those babies back to Maine with care.

Sadly, these cupcakes look nothing like those cupcakes. Now they are supermarket quality, half the size of the originals and grimly packaged for a long shelf life. Worst of all, the list of ingredients one cannot pronounce is distinctly unappetizing. So far I haven't tried one, whereas in the old days I had scarfed down two in the car before we'd even gotten to the Bronx.

Cisgender, Shmisgender

I'm confused about many things, but there's one thing I'm sure of: I am a female. My gender was declared at birth, and I don't think my parents relied on the doctor's opinion -- it seemed pretty obvious to them based on MY BODY PARTS!  (See photo.) Yet in these crazy, mixed-up times, to be considered cool, woke, fair and caring, I am supposed to refer to myself as a "cisgender female." What's that, you ask?

"The word cisgender describes a person whose gender identity corresponds to their sex assigned at birth, i.e., someone who is not transgender." -Wikipedia

Though I may incur the wrath of many, I will never, ever refer to myself that way. I started out as a girl, grew into a young woman, spent some years as a hot chick and morphed into an old lady. Cisgender, shmisgender -- I am female.