Get A Life!

If you're like me, you've noticed a steady decline of intelligence in the average American since the invention of the Internet. The evidence is everywhere, from the decreasing test scores of our students to the increasing weight of the typical citizen. Instead of eating well and exercising, the masses -- including billionaire Oprah Winfrey, an obvious non-masser -- now ingest drugs to diminish their appetites and girth. But perhaps the most telling sign is the overwhelming interest in the personal lives of celebrities, most notably a singer named Taylor Swift.

I, a former Woodstock Music Festival attendee who saw just about everyone who was anyone in the music world perform live in concert, have never seen Swift's act or heard any of her music, at least not that I know of. But being alive on the planet, I do know that she is dating a pro-football player and they are now engaged. Their relationship impacts my life not one iota. So imagine how little I care about rampant rumors that she is pregnant. The news is going viral! In fact, her fans are going absolutely wild over the possibility, excitedly exchanging tweets online. 

Here's what I don't get: Why would anyone except for the immediate family of the singer and her boyfriend, and maybe some of their friends, care? How can anyone get excited over the birth of a child they will never meet? What's the difference?

As the popular saying goes, people need to get a life. I usually avoid "sayings" but that one is very appropriate to several generations of today's youth, most of whom exist wholly online, forgoing their own lives and instead living vicariously through celebrities and influencers. This is a sad mistake that many will realize too late.

Earlier today I read about a 38-year-old Brazilian fitness influencer with 61,000 Instagram followers who drowned during the swim portion of an Ironman triathlon in Texas, shortly after she told followers to "savor every moment of life." Now what the heck are all her followers supposed to do?

Series Review: BIG MISTAKES

Levy and Ortega as siblings in very hot water.

The title says it all. Dan Levy, who was so engaging in the comic series Schitt's Creek, is less so in this new Netflix offering wherein he plays a closeted gay pastor who inadvertently gets swept up in the activities of a violent Russian/ Italian drug gang smuggling cocaine into the country via a bull's testicles. One wonders what the writers were smoking, drinking and snorting when they devised the storyline.

Starring along with Levy are Laurie Metcalf as his mother and comedian Taylor Ortega, who as his sister steals every scene and is the only reason to watch it. The twisted plot, which stretches the viewer's believability as well as patience to grievous limits, also involves Metcalf as an obnoxious, possibly mentally ill, harridan running for mayor of their unnamed small town. The two stories barely connect but occasionally crash into one another, adding to the total mayhem and chaos that defines the show. 

It's not funny, unless you find train wrecks funny. There is a fair amount of men kissing men, people screaming at one another, foreigners with guns kidnapping people, and some really triggering music, so if you like all that then you'll like this. 

I watched all eight episodes which mercifully were each just about half an hour long, hoping things would improve. They didn't. A second season is being threatened. I will not be tuning in.

People, They're the Worst!

Cher: Not bad for a cadaver.

Let's face it: The average American woman is hideous. Morbidly obese with ugly facial features, covered in tattoos like that will help, messy hair crudely dyed in Crayola colors, bad skin, multiple piercings and terrible taste in clothing. Yet she trolls the Internet writing scathing criticisms about Hollywood's elite, those chosen few among us who have risen above average to become beautiful, thin, fabulously dressed and often wealthy role models. For these very reasons they are hated by the average American.

For example, in an article online about Cher, one of the most gifted singers to ever exist, and who at 79 looks 30 years younger, still has a fabulous figure, beautiful flowing hair and lovely features -- thanks to Botox and surgery no doubt she remains wrinkle-free -- some bloated nobody likely munching on a bag of Cheetos in some dark hellhole in Boise, Idaho called her a "walking cadaver."

The walking cadaver has a live-in boyfriend who is 39. Someone should tell him she's dead!

Forgotten Memories

This blog has so few readers that I could post photos of me giving Bill Clinton a blow job and there would be no comments. Of course I never did that and so have no photos of it, and certainly wouldn't do it now, and would never post anything lewd or vulgar here. All I'm saying is that I could, and that they would go unnoticed.

Sort of like when disgraced Congressman Eric Swallwell raped and choked a woman until she blacked out and thought she died back in 2018, yet she never called the police or told anyone about it until he was running for governor of California in 2026. Don't get me wrong, I think Swallwell is scum, but still, his latest accuser reminds me of Christine Blasey Ford and her patently false accusations about Brett Kavanaugh on the eve of his Supreme Court nomination.

Where do they get these women?

Judgment Call

Judgment: the act or process of forming an opinion or 

evaluation by discerning and comparing.

My son's girlfriend thinks I'm too judgmental. That's just one on her list of things that are wrong with me, but it's the only one that irks me. After all, if we are not discerning then what are we? How do we differ from squirrels and birds and worms and lions and camels and crows and -- somebody please stop me, you get the point.

Many people earn their living by being judgmental. This includes theater critics, movie reviewers, therapists, doctors, dentists, lawyers, hair stylists, car mechanics, newspaper columnists, chefs, house painters, fine artists, furniture repairers, plumbers, piano teachers, dress designers and every last judge in our entire legal system, including the nine sitting Justices on the Supreme Court.

Following are some judgments heard every day in common conversation:

1. It's too hot today.

2. It's freezing out there.

3. That's way too much to spend on a car.

4. Your nails look beautiful.

5. Donald Trump is an asshole.

6. That movie sucked.

7. These grapes are spoiled.

8. Buying a lottery ticket is just throwing your money away.

9. New York City has the best pizza.

10. That song is so annoying.

I could go on literally forever, but I won't. Anyway, a few nights ago I attended a play with my husband, my son and his girlfriend. Afterwards I commented that one of the costumes on one of the actors did not fit well and was very distracting. I thought it looked bad. I later learned that my comment was considered too "judgy." I would tell you what I think of her thinking that, but I can't. Not here. (Email me.)

Stuff We Never Think About

How many times have you wondered who is the poet laureate, not counting Maya Angelou who was famous for being black and reading her poem at Barack Obama's inauguration that, according to my husband, had something to do with mastodons?

If your answer is "never," you are on track with the rest of America. What are poet laureates, why do we have them, what do they do and who picked them for the job are questions one would ask if the subject ever came up, which it rarely does. 

The poet laureate is appointed to a two-year term by the Library of Congress. Currently it's someone named Arthur Sze, a handy fact to know if you do a lot of crossword puzzles. Starting his second year in the job, Mr. Sze says he is, "Excited to travel to multiple cities to celebrate poetry and poetry in translation."

The position earns $60,000 a year, which is $10,000 more than an elementary school teacher in Maine earns to educate children during their most formative years. I don't know if poetry is one of the subjects in the curriculum, but I do know that Maine scores lowest on all national tests and graduating seniors can barely read beyond an 8th-grade level or do advanced math beyond addition and subtraction. 

I've never heard any young person say they want to be a poet laureate when they grow up. Or a poet, for that matter. Personally, all I can summon up is "Jabberwocky" and "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening."  That being said, I do have a poet of choice and his name is Billy Collins. Following is my favorite poem of his:

I Chop Some Parsley While Listening to Art Blakey’s Version of “Three Blind Mice”

And I start wondering how they came to be blind.

If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister, and I think of the poor mother brooding over her sightless young triplets.

Or was it a common accident, all three caught in a searing explosion, a firework perhaps?

If not, if each came to his or her blindness separately, how did they ever manage to find one another? Would it not be difficult for a blind mouse to locate even one fellow mouse with vision, let alone two other blind ones?

And how, in their tiny darkness, could they possibly have run after a farmer’s wife or anyone else’s wife for that matter? Not to mention why.

Just so she could cut off their tails with a carving knife, is the cynic’s answer,

But the thought of them without eyes, and now without tails to trail through the moist grass or slip around the corner of a baseboard, has the cynic who always lounges within me up off his couch and at the window trying to hide the rising softness that he feels.

By now I am on to dicing an onion, which might account for the wet stinging in my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard’s mournful trumpet on “Blue Moon,”which happens to be the next cut, cannot be said to be making matters any better.

In Sickness and In Health

Most young people, blinded by love, accept the usual marriage vows and recite them easily. They promise to love and cherish and even obey, and be faithful and remain loyal in sickness and in health, til death do us part, confident that those issues will never come back to bite them. Well they're wrong, and those vows need a rewrite.

My husband of almost 40 years has had a terrible, loud, hacking, near-constant cough for going on two weeks now and I am fit to be tied, whatever that means. When I said I would stick with him "in sickness" I was imagining something much quieter, like him languishing in bed with me bringing him chicken soup and fluffing up his pillows, not me lying awake on the guest-room-too-hard bed pulling the blankets over my head to drown out the explosive hacking. And that's just at night -- the days aren't much better. 

I know it's worse for him and I'm sad about that, but I'm exhausted. Sleeping is a thing of the past, although Mitch seems to have mastered the art of coughing without waking himself up. Two visits to the doctor and a chest X-ray have netted no results other than it's bronchitis not pneumonia and it will simply have to "run its course." But the doctor never said one word about what I'm supposed to do.

About those marriage vows: Coughing should be mentioned and have a definite time limit.

80 Is The New 90

I am currently 79 years old. Happily, this number still retains some dignity. Nobody considers being 79 the same as being 90. Nobody uses it as the precursor to the grave. But 80 -- now that's a different story. When you're 80, people treat you like you're already dead. Being just two months away from that milestone, I can tell you from personal experience that it's a monumental drag.

The fact is I am limber. I work out with a trainer at CrossFit twice a week to help stay that way. I walk unaided, and with a spring in my step when I feel like it. (I would run but my hip replacement will last longer if I don't.) I live in a three-story house and run up and down the stairs all day long, too many times to count. (Yes, I hold onto the handrail, I'm not an idiot.) Still, lately I am treated like an invalid by people who know my real age, especially my own family. 

Just last night, descending the stairs at a theater after seeing a play, my son turned to me and asked if I needed any help, something he has never asked in all his 38 years, even when I could have used some. And just last week as I was emerging from an airplane, a  porter rushed over and shouted --just in case I was deaf -- "Do you need a wheelchair?"  Quickening my pace I shouted back, "Hey buddy, do I look like I need a wheelchair?"  (I was remorseful later, realizing he was just trying to earn a living.)

I'm sick of it. Treating seniors like they have one foot in the grave sucks. Can't we be permitted to feel good if we do feel good? A shining example is Cher, who is 16 days older than I am and lives with her 39-year-old boyfriend. (See photo.) 

So I've decided to cancel my upcoming birthday and continue telling anyone who asks that I am 79, steeling myself for the inevitable intake of breath followed by,"Wow, that's almost 80!" 

I'll take "almost 80" for as long as I can get away with it. 

Jewish Hospitality

If someone happens to stop by my house unannounced, just a few minute pass before I offer them something to eat or drink. If they have actually been invited, say for dinner or cocktails, they are greeted with a full spread worthy of Happy Hour on the QEII. I can't help it, I was raised that way. So I notice when I receive similar treatment -- or don't. The results of my independent study show that the generous folks who offer refreshments to visitors are always Jewish.

My husband and I recently went far afield of our vacation destination to visit friends who live in the state and wanted to show off their new digs. At first we assumed they would be putting us up, but they explained they couldn't so we got a hotel room nearby for two nights. (A crummy hotel, but hey, what are friends for?)

We arrived at their condo complex where they live independently of one another and spent about half an hour inside each one's home. After a brief tour of their individual premises, we sat together in the living room of each one. Nothing was offered in either location: Not a sip of water. No drinks before our dinner out in a restaurant. No after-dinner coffee or dessert. No breakfast in the morning after our two nights in the aforementioned crummy hotel. Basically, nothing by mouth.

Initially we were stunned and a bit hurt, but then it dawned on us: They're not Jewish. They just don't know any better. Like George's mother uttered in a particular "Seinfeld" episode after meeting his shiksa girlfriend's parents, "We're sitting there -- drinking coffee -- without a piece of cake!" His outraged father added, "It's stupid, that's what it is!"

Maybe it's not stupid but it's definitely inhospitable. Now I'm rethinking my behavior in anticipation of their upcoming visit to our home. It will likely be a lot easier to play hostess this time.

Trivial Pursuits

The CEO of Air Canada, Michael Rousseau, will resign from his position later this year after the recent crash involving one of that company's jets and a fire truck on a runway at LaGuardia Airport. He isn't leaving because of incompetence, or accusations of sexual misconduct, or embezzlement of company funds. In fact, no crime whatsoever. Instead, he is leaving because he delivered his televised condolence speech after the crash in English with French subtitles. Many people who have nothing better to do and have nothing real to worry about complained about that, forcing his resignation.

Popular bumper sticker of morons.

With so much big stuff going wrong in the world, it's hard to believe that anyone would care. Still, the Frenchies in Canada, a bi-lingual nation, are outraged that Rousseau's native tongue is English. Despite having taken French lessons for years, he explained that he was "just not comfortable enough" speaking the language, especially for such an important speech. But pettiness prevailed and off he goes.

Being petty is fast becoming the leading character trait of many human beings. Defined as "narrow-minded and ungenerous, especially in trifling matters," it is the stuff of almost every grievance these days. Pettiness is responsible for every road-rage incident, some of which end with the death of one of the participants. It's shocking how crazy people get if someone cuts in front of them in traffic, or doesn't move fast enough when the light changes from red to green.

Pettiness is exemplified by Donald Trump's stupid nickname, coined by the lefties, of "Orange Man." It fuels their derision about his hair color and his penchant for a Florida tan, sort of like if people had called FDR "Roller Boy."

Ode to Good Health

I saw a Reel posted by a fat woman who asked, "Why is my being fat the only thing you can say about me? What about all my other qualities?"

Here's how I answered her: For starters, we don't know you and can only see how you look. Certainly when it's a friend, neighbor or colleague we know in real life, we know other things about them. But still, being fat isn't about how you look but about how you act. What behavior did you indulge in to get that fat? That's what people object to, not how you look. 

Eating too much (gluttony), eating too much of the wrong foods (poor judgement), thinking about food constantly (lame brain), planning every activity around a meal (boring) -- these are not behaviors I seek out in people. 

Hollywood has recently taken things to the other extreme, with beautiful young actresses striving for totally flat chests (except for the fake boob crowd), sunken cheeks and skinny arms. Where are the role models for strong, healthy bodies? 

The times are certainly ripe for a return to putting health and fitness back on a pedestal. Remember the President's Council on Physical Fitness established back in 1963 by President Kennedy? Supposedly it still exists, with a different name, but if you look at today's youth you've got to wonder who's in charge of it and what the heck they are doing.

Another Loony Parade

The nationwide "No Kings" parades are making a comeback tomorrow, so steer clear of all cities if you are triggered by stupidity. Many misguided people who actually believe they are accomplishing something valuable by running around in crazy outfits and waving Fuck Trump signs will flood the streets for a few hours. Think of it as Mardi Gras without the alcohol.

The premise of these charades is filled with loopholes. First of all, and most egregious, Donald Trump is not a "king." He does not behave like one and never has. What he does that irks all the liberals is say what he thinks in plain English, without the soaring rhetoric. This confuses the masses, who need to not understand what their leaders are saying in order to feel they are smart enough to be in charge. For this they hate him.

Secondly, these costumed gatherings have absolutely no impact on strengthening our democracy or solving the country's many problems. The silly antics of the participants accomplish nothing besides creating a ton of work for the city's trash collectors the next day.

As a psychiatrist writes in today's Wall Street Journal, the "No Kings" protests are little more than group therapy for like-minded loonies, and bad group therapy at that. 

Why I Cry

As Sandy (Teri Garr) said to Michael (Dustin Hoffman) in "Tootsie" as they were leaving his apartment after his birthday party, "I cry all the time now ... like a tic."  All I can say is, "Me too." This might be because I am a hyper-empath, meaning I feel everyone else's feelings as deeply as my own, even if they belong to people I don't know. 

Lately my feelings are even sadder than usual, since there is war everywhere and hatred between everyday Americans and their neighbors, and senseless killings on the street of random young people just walking along or riding the subway, committed by lowlife, mentally deranged illegal immigrants who lack a soul and a reason to be here, or to be anywhere for that matter.

I cry for my cat who is now 19 years old and weighs just ten pounds, when he was once ten years old and weighed 19 pounds. Lurch gets frailer every day and I know what his future holds, and mine. Until then, he is a pain in the ass, wanting me to hold him, brush him, feed him treats, pet him and generally not do anything that is not those things in order to make his remaining days, weeks or months pleasant.

I cry because my formerly-sane husband thinks spending $12,000 to be stuck inside a pine box and  lowered into a hole in the dirt, for eternity -- after he's dead of course, which if you think about it is even nuttier since he won't even be able to enjoy it -- is a good use of his hard-earned cash.

I cry because my recent lab results showed that I am "pre-diabetic" and so I must take some immediate steps to avoid that disease, meaning goodbye bagels, potatoes, pasta, rice, noodles, cookies, pretzels, fruits and anything else that could possibly make me stop crying.

Those TV commercials showing abused dogs, or children with cancer, or starving African babies ruin at least a few hours for me if I even glimpse them for a few seconds before shutting them off.

I cry because I am going on vacation next week and it will involve flying which is even worse now because of the horrible Democrats who have shut down our government and made the TSA lines longer and airports more chaotic. For example, just days ago a jet crashed into a fire truck on a runway and killed both pilots -- boo hoo, imagine their poor mothers getting that news -- as if flying wasn't bad enough already. 

Fortunately, I do not cry in my sleep, but I do cry the following morning because I did not sleep well and so wake up exhausted. I also do not cry while playing Words With Friends or watching "Sleepless in Seattle", "You've Got Mail" or "Apollo 13", so I see those repeatedly and try not to think about how Meg Ryan ruined her face with plastic surgery and how shitty she must feel seeing her glorious younger self, lest I cry about that. 

Also, any of Mike Birbiglia's Netflix specials make me laugh hysterically, so I thank God for those. But then I cry because I wish I could see him in person but he'll never come to Maine because who would? (Mainers have no sense of humor, it's a known fact.)

The Enemy Within

This morning I woke up to peace and quiet in my beautiful home in Maine. Surrounded by snow-covered woods, the view out every window looked like a scene from a Hallmark Christmas card. The only disturbance was the soft meowing of my cat, who of course needed something. On my nightstand was a travel mug full of coffee left for me by my husband who had gone to the gym early. All was right with the world.

Then I turned on the TV. 

Suddenly I was deeply immersed in a nightmare world of ballistic missiles destroying buildings and uprooting lives in distant countries. A beautiful college freshman was fatally shot on the street, for no apparent reason, by a Venezuelan illegal immigrant with a long criminal record. Two pilots were dead and many people injured after a runway crash at LaGuardia Airport between a passenger jet and a fire truck. 

By all reports, most medical conditions are either caused by or made worse by stress and anxiety. I have more than my share, the most recent being a blood clot in my leg with no known cause other than stress. I'm ten pounds heavier than I want to be from eating compulsively to blot out negative thoughts. I'm tired most of the time after sleepless nights full of leg cramps and bad dreams.

None of my complaints can be blamed on anyone besides myself. If I avoid the news, eat only what's good for me and drink some warm milk with honey before bed, who knows how healthy and happy I might be?

When You're Dead

Nobody knows exactly what happens after we die. This is because nobody dead has ever come back to life, and I mean nobody. (If you are thinking Jesus Christ, oh please.) From all that we can see here in this realm, dead people cease to exist. They don't need food or clothing or shelter or anything at all, really. Dead people do not have expenses.

The cost of dying is a different story. It's actually free if you are incinerated in a plane crash or fire or lost at sea.
Lingering illnesses that require hospitalization are a different story, since the cost of a bed and treatment are crazily high. The thing is, in all of those cases you end up just as dead. So why leave the survivors with less cash?

This is the conversation my husband and I are now having, which is goddam depressing if you ask me. I say cremate me, and do it for as little as possible. This can run anywhere from a few hundred bucks up to a thousand, depending on a few details. I want no details, wishing to leave as much money to my son as possible.

On the other hand, my husband, who seems to have taken leave of his senses since his best friend died and was buried in a Jewish cemetery five months ago, has suddenly decided he wants to be buried too, with all the bells and whistles. This will run to $8,979, with $2,600 going to the Jews in charge of picking up his body, washing it, and eventually dumping it in the ground in a plain pine box -- the body wrapped in a shroud for an extra $150.

I am unbelievably outraged at his apparent insanity, allegedly brought on by seeing his friend lowered into the ground. Somehow he likes thinking of Ira deep in the dirt, seeing it as a "respectful repository of the body that once held his soul." All I can say is, Oy vey iz mir, Gut in himmel, when you're dead, you're dead! That money could be used to help living people in dire need, or else leave it to your son and future grandchildren. 

The thriving death industry is little different than drinking the Kool-Aid in Jonestown. A cult is a cult is a cult.

A Catty Rant

How was she talked into leaving her house looking like that? Was she drunk? Is she on drugs? Was she promised a ton of money by the dress designer? Did the dress even have a legitimate designer or was it made by a gay friend trying to break into the fashion industry?? Is she remorseful now and considering suicide? Was she confused and thinking she was going to a Halloween party?

I did not watch the Academy Awards because A, I forgot they were on and B, I never saw any of the movies that were nominated and C, it's a stupid waste of time, but still I was forced to see photos from the event that made it into the mainstream media for days following the Hollywood ego-fest.

One picture stood out from all the rest, and was shown by every news outlet: Heidi Klum looking really bad in a dress that might have been made in my 8th-grade Home Economics class back in the 1960s.  Not only is the dress ridiculously hideous and ill-fitting, but it exposes some hard truths about the former supermodel: she's losing tone and has developed quite a tummy. 

I could go on but I've got things to do. 

(FYI, TODAY'S PAGE LAYOUT PAYS HOMAGE TO HEIDI'S DRESS!)

Blocking Out Food Noise

These days it's almost impossible not to think about food. It's so common it's been given a name: Food noise. 

Just turning on the TV to catch up on the war news involves having a stuffed-crust pizza shoved in your face. Change the channel and it's a commercial for one of those hot new weight-loss injections. Or maybe it's a cooking show, or a baking show, or an interview with a formerly-fat-now-skinny actress telling how she lost the weight. 

Food noise is inescapable, and makes me long to be stranded on a remote island living on nuts, berries, and the occasional fish my partner-in-stranding would catch. Instead I'm faced with the never-ending question, "What's for dinner?" that sends me to a supermarket full of empty calories, and it's all making my clothes much too tight.

Several things should happen to right these wrongs. First of all, Girl Scout cookies should be outlawed. They taste terrible, are full of bad ingredients and increase in cost every year despite the decline in quality. Even the Thin Mints aren't thin anymore! To raise money, the Girl Scouts should start selling healthy things. How about plants, flowers, vegetable seeds for a garden?

Next, all the inside rows of all the supermarkets should be eliminated. No more crackers, cookies, chips, candy, sodas, donuts, cakes, pies, breads and pastries. This would make the stores smaller and more manageable to get around. Think of the time saved shopping!

The FCC should outlaw commercials for any foods deemed unhealthy. In fact, why stop there? Just outlaw any foods deemed unhealthy, or at least make them unaffordable. For example, a small French fries at McDonald's should cost $15.00.

Bring back weight limits for flight attendants, they've gotten way out of hand. And while I'm on the subject, stop doling out those crappy snacks on airplanes that people eat because they are petrified they will crash to their death any second so why not have some Goldfish crackers or chocolate-chip cookies or pretzels on the way down.

If food was fuel, everyone would stop thinking about it and all that food noise would pipe down. People would look better, feel better and be in much better moods. Even anorexics would start eating better.

The Luck of the Irish?

Yesterday was a "holiday," I suppose mainly for Irish people although it is printed on my Mark Rothko Wall Calendar and I don't believe he was Irish, so why is it there? (I just looked it up and Rothko was a Russian Jew, but 1 in 4 adults in America are of Irish descent.)

Anyway, also being a Russian Jew I did not celebrate St. Patrick's Day, but I did read about a few parades. One of them took place in Kentucky, where a 50-year-old mother of two was walking too close to a float in the local St. Paddy's parade and somehow her foot got entangled with one of the wheels and she was pulled under the vehicle and died on the way to the hospital. 

So from now until forever on St. Patrick's Day her kids will think of the freak accident that robbed them of their mother and their childhood. No matter how you slice it, that's pretty bad luck.

Flickering Brain Syndrome

I meet more and more people these days who lack brains. Or else they have brains that have fallen into disrepair since they are used less often as technological advances replace them, making thinking unnecessary. So they flicker, like a light bulb on the way out.

Flickerbrains really bug me. Not as much as fat people who are just pathetic, but still, a brain is a terrible thing to lose, or waste, or something, if you ever had one, to quote Dan Quayle, former VP for George Bush the Elder many years ago. (See, my brain flickers on and off too.)

One of those flickerbrains just called our house phone, showing the caller ID "Wireless Caller." I answer our landline just for fun, since it's usually spam and I love hearing that Indian accent. Today it was this guy Amos, who has called at least five times over the past few years and it's always the same conversation:

Me: Hello?

Amos: I'm looking for Mitch.

Me: He's not here. Don't you have his cell phone number?

Amos: I do, I thought this was it.

Me: No, this is his home number.

Amos: Oh, I thought I had fixed that in my contacts.

Me: Guess not.

Amos: I definitely will. What is his cell phone number?

So I give him Mitch's cell number and we hang up and I have no doubt that Amos will call the house in a few months and we will have the exact conversation again. BTW, he's no dummy: he's a successful business owner, wins big government contracts and lives in a ritzy neighborhood in a home that faces the water. It's just that his brain is going.

The Future of Us

As reported in today's Wall Street Journal, Elon Musk is busy making a new fleet of vehicles that have neither a steering wheel nor foot pedals, and instead operate on Tesla's Full Self-Driving software. Called a Cybercab, they are already in production in Austin, Texas.

After those cabs hit the streets, Musk plans to start development of humanoid robots. I guess they'll get around by Cybercab. As for the rest of us, the article did not specify how Musk plans to use humans once we become extinct.

How to Be Happier, Instantly

I live in Maine. There are no missiles being fired at me, no drones circling overhead, no blaring sirens warning me to take shelter. In fact, it's not even snowing here today! All is calm. So why would I choose to end that peace by turning on my TV and seeing the intense war, death and destruction occurring thousand of miles away, about which I can do absolutely nothing? 

Admit it: you've got to be a masochist to watch the news these days, unless of course you are directly involved in some way. If my son or daughter were in the military or a journalist covering war, I would tune in. Aside from those conditions, all it does is make me anxious, sad and depressed, all the while alerting me to the many diseases that I could get and the many drugs I should ask my doctor about. And oh yes, don't forget that shingles could get me at any moment so I must get vaccinated ASAP, I hope it's not too late.

We've all heard the expression, "No news is good news." I suggest taking that literally. From now on my TV will be called the Movie Box.

The New N-word?

Today I made a vet appointment for my cat. The doctor who I always see and who is fantastic had no openings for the next three weeks, so it would have to be with one of the others in the practice. I told the receptionist that I was okay with any of them except for the guy with the heavy arm, neck and face tattoos, multiple facial piercings and long painted fingernails. "I can say, that, right?" I asked. She said that was fine. Then I had to go and ruin it by adding, "You know, someone normal."

Oops, big mistake. She immediately bristled and said, "That's not acceptable. That is definitely not acceptable language." She was pretty pissed. "You can't say someone is not normal."

I apologized for offending her but explained that, being 79, his bizarre appearance is anything but normal to me. Or to anyone in their right mind, which is what I thought but did not say. For example, a friend of mine who is in her right mind went to that vet practice on my recommendation, but when she got there and saw Dr. Tattoo she immediately walked out. She now drives eight miles to the next town to see a different vet.

So, is normal the new N-word?

Mothers of the Year

Those lips should make her a big hit in prison!

"A California mother who left her two young sons strapped in a hot car while she underwent a cosmetic procedure has been sentenced to 15 years to life in prison after one of the children died."

So many things are wrong with the paragraph above, it's hard to know where to start. For example, it leaves out the possibility of the death penalty. The article continued:

"Maya Hernandez, 20, of Visalia, was sentenced after pleading no contest last month to involuntary manslaughter in the death of her 1-year-old son, Amillio Gutierrez.

"Hernandez left Amillio and his 2-year-old brother locked in a parked car on June 29, 2025, as temperatures soared to 101 degrees in the area, while she went inside a medical spa in Bakersfield for lip filler injections."

Dead tummy-tucker.

People who have cosmetic procedures falsely believe that changing their looks will change their lives or who they are, but in reality they either remain idiotic or die, like the 47-year-old influencer who recently passed away from complications of a tummy tuck, which she documented to her thousands of Instagram followers. She had three kids and a husband but still needed to have a flatter stomach.

How is this my species?

I'm Surprised the Suicide Rate Isn't Higher

An article in today's New York Times has alerted me to a trend called "looksmaxxing" that has taken over the current generation known as Gen Z, those born in the mid- to late-1990s through the 2010s. What it means is that how you look, how attractive you are, matters more than anything else and thus requires you to focus all your energy and time on improving your sexiness. Yet oddly enough, those people who engage in it don't have or want to engage in sex. They shun relationships, instead spending every minute of every day improving their looks, including using extreme measures like "bone smashing," or hitting their faces with a hammer to re-structure a jaw, and using crystal meth to stay lean. 

The leader of this trend is an influencer who goes by the name of Clavicular. Born a normal kid in normal New Jersey, somewhere along the way he decided his self-worth was to be found in his looks, which honestly weren't all that great. Today he is much better-looking and has 762.6 thousand followers on TikTok and 176.8 thousand followers on Kick (where he earns $100,000 a month). 

Humans are in such a bad place now, I can only thank God, (Thank you God) for the fact that I was born long before all this and thus avoided having to navigate this bizarre world as a young, single woman, most of whom are largely ignored by men who are busy looksmaxxing.

Thankfully my own son, a Millennial born in 1987, is naturally very handsome, so that's one thing he doesn't have to worry about. But if he opts to have a child now, I hate to think how deranged things will be in a dozen or so years when my future grandchild hits puberty.

Things Could Always Be Worse

It's bad enough waking up with a cold and body aches all over which sounds more like the flu, and also with a blood clot in my calf that could, maybe -- probably not but still the possibility exists -- break apart and a little piece could make its way to my lungs and cause a pulmonary embolism that kills me, so did I really need to see that article on AOL, which is where I get my email, about a 20-year-old college student who gave birth in her toilet at home, then let the baby die and buried it inside a trash bag in her backyard before dashing off to appear in a school play? 

The answer of course is a resounding "No!" Yet the powers that be at AOL decided that was a great bit of news to share with their readers. To what purpose, I have to wonder. Are humans so debased that only the most heinous stories will satisfy their lust for horror? Or is it in some twisted way to make people feel better about their own lives? As in, I have never killed an infant so I guess I'm doing pretty well?

So in a way, except for my cold (or possibly flu) and my clot, for which I'm taking medicine, having never killed an infant, this day is off to pretty good start.

Look On the Bright Side

In case you feel all alone in the world because your parents are both dead, or you have no siblings, or you grew up in an orphanage, or whatever the reason you think life has dealt you a bad hand, here's an item I found online to cheer you up: 

 "Police were called to a home in upstate New York about a deceased individual inside the residence. Troopers found Philip Knickerbocker, 63, deceased on a couch, New York State Police said. 

"Investigators soon determined that Philip was allegedly strangled to death by his son, Hans Knickerbocker, 40, who allegedly intervened in an argument between his father and his wife, police said.

"During the argument, Philip poured coffee on Jacqueline’s head and tried to punch her, the documents allege. Hans, who was in his bedroom, became upset, according to the documents, confronted his father and allegedly beat him with his fists."

So relax, call a friend and go for a walk. Things could be worse.

Marching Forth Into the Unknown

Exactly two weeks ago tomorrow I had a brand new adventure: I got a blood clot in my leg! This was less exciting than taking a water taxi on the Grand Canal in Venice or a helicopter over the Grand Canyon, but equally, if not more, impactful. 

Since the clot showed up, several different doctors, nurses, radiologists and physical therapists have offered their advice after A, going to medical school many years ago or B, researching the problem online for the latest info, and so I have gotten conflicting recommendations as to how to proceed. Meaning I am now utterly confused and don't know how to proceed.

The one person in my life who would have known exactly what I should do died 16 years ago, and since then I have been on my own, medically speaking. My wonderful uncle and friend, Dr. Melvin L.Keller, could instantly assess any medical condition and determine a course of action. He was magical in that way. Naturally, being so anxious and fearful of dire things happening to me, I had him on speed dial.

Today is his birthday. He loved to say he was born on the only date that was a command: March Forth! If I could have any wish granted, it would be for him to be alive again, young and healthy and funny and smart and loving as he always was. Also, he could tell me if I could go back to CrossFit, or use a rowing machine, or do planks and sit-ups, and all the rest. Short of that, I'd like some doctor who is alive and knows something to tell me what to do next.

Time to Vote Republican

Bartender AOC doing the work God intended for her.

If Donald Trump discovered the cure for cancer, Democrats would accuse him of being racist for not finding a cure for sickle-cell anemia, a disease that mainly afflicts African Americans. That's how misguided, misinformed, messed-up and mistaken they all are. And I do mean all.

I have few friends left who vote Democratic. The closest one is a tireless workaholic who spends every minute of her life helping others, be it through her work as a nurse, her role as a daughter to an aging parent, or as a mother and grandmother.  Naturally she has little time to educate herself on world events, and being a true bleeding-heart she naturally thinks all immigrants should be allowed in no matter their status and sure, let's give them a nice clean bed and healthcare, everyone else be damned. I get that, and I love her anyway.

My few other Democrat friends skim the surface of what's going on and consider themselves up to speed because they watch CNN or MSNBC and read the opinion page of The New York Times. On the other hand, all the Republicans I know are deep into learning everything they can about what goes on in government. They watch all the news, read all the newspapers and listen to various podcasts with differing political slants. 

There is simply no comparing the two parties. For example, Republicans Secretary of State Marco Rubio, Senator Ted Cruz, Senator John Kennedy, Senator Rand Paul, Senator Tom Cotton and Senator Josh Hawley are all super-smart. As opposed to Kamala Harris, Rep. Jasmine Crockett, Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Governor Gavin Newsom and Pete Buttigieg, who are all clearly idiots yet are named as possible front-runners for the 2028 presidential race.

Come on people, do some research before you damn Trump as "orange man bad," as if his hair color has anything to do with anything. And if you mean his skin, well that's just racist.

Don't Believe A Word of This!

Jeff and me, old college buddies, met for a drink just before his arrest.

Recently a photo was circulating online showing Hillary and Bill Clinton laughing with Jeffrey Epstein, the deceased POS that everyone loves to hate. It was incendiary because just the day before, Hillary had sworn under oath that she had never even met Epstein! So there she was, caught in another lie.

My husband wondered at the photo's veracity. Checking various sources online, we learned that indeed the photo was a deep fake. Stunned, we wondered just how easy it is to make a phony image and decided to try. So Mitch prompted Grok, the AI app from Elon Musk, to "make a picture of Jeffrey Epstein with this woman," sending along an old (and quite unflattering I might add) photo of me. 

Surely that wouldn't work, we mused. Yet less than one minute later, a reasonably believable photo appeared, which is shown above. I then texted that photo to five of my friends, saying I knew Epstein in college and visited with him shortly before his incarceration. Only one of those friends doubted it, texting back immediately, "Nice AI!" Two others fell for it whole-hog, and one other half-hog.

Here's the thing: Mitch is no expert on how to do this sort of thing, and yet he accomplished the task in no time. Just imagine the results when someone well-schooled in AI manipulation exercises their skills! We can all agree that public trust is over. Be on the alert: Whatever it is, if you can't touch it, taste it or smell it, it's likely not real.

People Who Know Nothing But Should Know Something

Some days it's exasperating just being alive. Today is one of them. Owing to an unfortunate health emergency -- a blood clot in my leg -- I had to purchase a pair of knee-high compression socks. So off to the drug store I went, and asked the pharmacist where I might find such things. He directed me straight to them, saying, "They go by your shoe size." 

Only they didn't. The package said nothing about shoe size. Instead the directions were to measure at the widest part of the calf and also the ankle to determine your size. Thinking that might be the case, I had brought a tape measure with me.

As I was busy measuring my leg, the pharmacist called over to me, "Can I help you? What are you doing?" I explained, after which he muttered something under his breath, shook his head and turned away.

Moral of the story: Whatever it is, if it's possible to do it yourself, do it yourself. People you think will know more than you usually don't.

Things Really Were Better Then

Crazy people today are so much crazier than the crazies of the past. For example, today I read about an elementary school teacher who had sex with a dog and posted a video of it from her cellphone, and a transgender kindergarten teacher who identifies as a wolf and told his/her students as much.

This goes along with other dire developments in our evolution, like fat people being much fatter, mass shootings becoming commonplace and suicides rising among young people. In fact, almost everything is worse today except the number of cereals available in the supermarkets and going to the dentist.

I loved being a mother and I still do, but if I were a young woman this minute and became pregnant I would abort without a second thought. One can only imagine how babies born now will fare in the coming years. Will they all have sex with their teachers in elementary school ? Will they be obese by age eleven and have heart attacks and diabetes on the regular? Of course none of them will actually know anything since everyone will have an AI device implanted in their brain by their fifth birthday. Will they still know what trees and flowers and birds are? 

While growing old in today's youth-obsessed society is no picnic, what with random ills and diseases showing up willy-nilly, at least one has fabulous memories of when things were so much better. Here's a quick walk down memory lane to the good old days before the invention of the Internet, which has gradually turned our world into a waking nightmare.

The Good Humor Man drove past your house every night in summer!

1. Doctors valued their patients and took the time to educate them on how to be healthy.

2. People only wore pajamas and slippers at home, never out in public except if they were insane.

3. Obesity was rare and to be avoided rather than celebrated.

4. Elected leaders were reasonably intelligent, unlike Kamala Harris, AOC, Mayor Pete and Governor Hair Gel, all leading candidates for the 2028 Democratic Presidential nomination.

5. Music had recognizable melodies and lyrics were more than just illegibly shouting to a beat while grabbing one's crotch.

6. Flying was fun and special, with lovely stewardesses treating you like royalty, as opposed to today's short-tempered and often unkempt flight attendants herding you like cattle into a holding pen.

7. There were no people named Spam Risk, Spam Likely and Probably Fraud calling you on the phone.

8. The ice cream man drove right by your house every night in summer! (See photo.)

Everybody's Mommy Dies, Savannah!

Savannah Guthrie, a TV celebrity who became really famous to millions of people who never heard of her before when her mother was mysteriously abducted three weeks ago, just posted a video online saying how sad she is without her mommy. Her heart aches for her. She can hardly sleep.

Well guess what, Savannah: It happens to everyone. Every mommy eventually dies, as does every daddy. And every doggie and kitty and worst of all, sometimes a child of still living mommies and daddies. So just suck it up, we have all heard enough.

My own mommy died at the age of 62 of early onset Alzheimer's and it wasn't on the news. She started losing her mind at age 57 and could no longer speak or recognize anyone after a few years. You had your mother for an additional and relatively healthy 22 years. Be grateful for that.

Go Fund Me, Please

Eric Dane and daughters.

Last week I slipped on the ice while carrying four heavy bags of groceries into my house and since then I have been in a lot of pain with a torn soleus muscle in my calf and a sprained ankle. Not only that, I am also grieving because the actor Eric Dane died and I liked him a lot back when he played Dr. Mark Sloane, a.k.a. McSteamy, on Grey's Anatomy. 

And not only that, but my beloved cat is 19 years old and has lost a lot of weight and doesn't play much anymore and hardly eats anything. And now it's snowing really hard outside and very cold and windy too and we may lose power. So please, help me out!

I would set up a GoFundMe page for myself but apparently that's just for rich people. Like the aforementioned recently deceased Eric Dane, who died with a net worth of approximately $7 million, but still his two teenage daughters need help! Although they live with their mother who is very much alive and an actress herself, with a net worth of $5 million, still they need money for things, like private school and paying the pool boy and going to summer camp and on skiing vacations, and judging by the photo shown here, food!

So if you want to help me out, just email me at andreajrouda@aol.com and I will send you my Venmo address. Thank you.

The Nancy Guthrie Diversion

Like many people, I don't watch morning TV shows. So I had never even seen Savannah Guthrie before her mother was abducted.  Naturally, it follows that I don't care about her mother. At least not much. While it's sad that such a crime was committed, so many crimes like that occur that we never hear about. What makes this case any different, causing it to dominate the news for the last three weeks?

One can only wonder what very important things are all of us not seeing while our attention is diverted towards an unknown missing 84-year-old woman who held no public office and who mattered only to her family and close friends.

Something big, I assume.

Having A Mom vs. Being A Mom

There's a world of difference between having a mother and being a mother. I speak from experience.

I had a mother once. She died at age 62 in 1983. All I can remember about her is that she was my greatest champion who thought I could do anything. My well-being was high on the list of her priorities, if not at the top only because I had an older sister with special needs who occupied that spot. Sadly, in hindsight I see that I did not do for my mother anything close to what she willingly did for me. It never occurred to me.

Then I became a mother myself and suddenly my life took a back seat to my child. His happiness came before anything else, and still does. I would do anything required of me to assure his comfort and success in life. And sadly again, it is clear that he does not feel the same way about me. Motherhood is not a two-way relationship. 

That's just the way it is. There's no punchline, no joke, no laugh. Just the honest truth, which any young woman considering taking on that role should fully understand.

What An Ass!

Cardi B is a popular, award-winning rapper applauded for her outspoken lyrics and "sex positive" messages, including an openness to a variety of sexual orientations, interests, identities and expressions. 

Over the years since she burst on the scene, Cardi has had many injections of who-knows-what and for who-knows-why into her butt. I'm guessing it wasn't to enhance her vocal range or her smarts. 

Still, her net worth is estimated to be $100 million. Apparently money can't buy brains, but it can buy a ginormous ass which somehow can be exchanged for cash. (Sort of like bitcoins.)

Thankfully, even Cardi has her limits, which can be seen in the photo here, saying, "After this tour, I'm taking some time out. I'm going to Colombia, nobody hit me up, nothing. I'm taking this ass out!"