I'll Stick With Google

I just learned that it's no longer cool to say "Google it" because young people no longer use Google to find out things they don't know, which is pretty much everything on Earth and in our solar system and the entire galaxy.

Instead they use ChatGPT or Gemini or whatever search engine they heard about five minutes ago on TikTok, so saying "Google it" makes you seem/sound old.

Well, guess what. I am old, and thank God for that. I just came back from the bank where I made a cash deposit of $45.00 into an account I rarely use. The teller, a young woman of about 25, took the money and first went through the bills and made them all face the same way. Then she counted the bills three times. Yes, three times. Two fives, a ten, a twenty and five singles. After counting them three times, she asked me, "Are you depositing $45.00?"

I'm pretty sure she doesn't use Google.

Floods In All the Wrong Places

I have slowly come to the realization that this place we call home is run by Satan. There is simply no other explanation. So I'm guessing that Heaven is run by God. This makes me happy as I think that almost all the people I know who have died are in Heaven now, enjoying their deaths.

How else to explain the recent flood in Nepal that swallowed up thousands of peaceful villagers and tourists in mere moments? Or the more recent flood in the Grand Canyon that came after half an hour's rainfall and swept through the canyon, killing more innocents who were out for a good time, hiking and camping and not hurting anyone?

Why are there no floods in bad neighborhoods full of warring gang members and drug dealers who run amok, killing and maiming for no reason other than violence for the sake of violence? Or maybe a flood in Russia that takes out the Kremlin in one fell swoop, ending the death toll in Ukraine? That would at least be understandable.

What Are We To Do?

My husband went to the Y to swim.  A friend called and she said she made 29 meatballs. (She's Italian.) My son is teaching teens how to drive. And I am doing nothing of any import.

It's Sunday so that means we did the New York Times crossword puzzle in the magazine. It was ridiculously easy, as usual, since these days the-puzzle creators are less intelligent than those who made them in years gone by, so instead of it taking us several hours, off and on, we finished it in under half an hour.

I went in the hot tub. That took 20 minutes. I am considering cleaning my closet and making a pile for Goodwill. I could paint but I'm not in the mood, and once again I wonder what for anyway.

So I'm writing this blog, wondering what people are supposed to do on a Sunday if they are not clergymen, firemen, surgeons, ambulance drivers or new mothers.  I wish people would read this and leave their suggestions, just not the crazy lesbian who I think I finally shook.

Dr. Dolittles

The state of health care today would be comical, were it not so tragic. 

Yesterday I experienced high blood pressure numbers during the afternoon. This was not unusual since I've taken medication for a condition called labile hypertension for 20 years. But this time was different, as the numbers on my BP monitor kept going up despite my usual tricks for turning it around. When they hit 228/108, a doctor friend who I trust implicitly told me to go to the closest ER. Fortunately my husband could drive me since I was afraid to move lest my head explode, or whatever happens with unchecked high blood pressure.

The triage nurse, an affable chap who reminded me of a young Bill Murray, spouted words straight out of a slapstick comedy. He said there was no need to come to the ER, because "We treat symptoms, not numbers." Since I was not having any symptoms except for the growing anxiety that I might stroke out any second, it was "no biggie." In fact, Bill -- let's call him that -- said to "throw away your blood pressure monitor, never check it at home, it will just make you crazy." So, even though he said I was free to go, Bill led me to the inner sanctum where all the curtains are to meet a doctor named Jake who would assess my situation more thoroughly.

After waiting some time Jake never materialized so we decided to leave, but then another doctor arrived who asked a lot of questions. Her advice was to ask my cardiologist to increase my medication. Still, my high BP numbers, which by now had come down considerably after taking some extra meds, were fine with her. She said it would be okay to go out to dinner with friends, something we had planned to do that night but were no longer up for. After about 45 minutes I was released, with nothing at all having happened to me except for racking up a huge bill.

My emergency turned out to not be an emergency after all. So we went to Five Guys and got a burger and fries.

Tony Soprano Is Dead To Me

I first watched The Sopranos back in 2005. I remember because it was the year my son was a senior in high school, when some of this closest buddies all but lived at our house. One or two of them would pop in to the den and sit for a while, transfixed, as was the entire nation, by the addictive series. At the time I thought it was the greatest thing I had ever seen on TV. So not long ago, my husband and I thought it would be fun to watch the whole thing again. To our surprise, it was like seeing it for the first time, given our spotty memory as older adults. 

At first we loved it. Of course James Gandolfini was the best thing about it, but all the acting was superb. And the photography is certainly stunning. But despite enjoying certain aspects of each episode, we slowly became horrified by the repulsive and abusive behavior of almost all of the characters. What a bunch of lowlife animals! Even Tony, who I loved so much the first time around. He's possibly the worst one, cheating on his wife with any woman who looks at him twice and whacking close friends and beloved relatives without a second thought.

I won't make it through the whole series this time, as last night's episode was so nauseating I decided to call it quits. For some reason, watching people get beaten to a pulp with an iron bar, or shot in the face 22 times, or dismembered in a bathtub, or run over by a car, or strangled with piano wire, or kicked and punched in the stomach, or slapped around by a group of hoodlums is less appealing at 80 than it was at 59.

Peanut Butter

The best peanut butter available is not JIF or Skippy. It is Teddie's. Maybe there is a better peanut butter sold somewhere, like at a farmer's market or obscure natural foods store. But as far as what is available commercially everywhere, it's Teddie's and that's that. I prefer the Smooth, but it also comes in Super Chunky. Taste it once and you're hooked.

Liars

A few months ago, my husband and I did some political outreach for a Maine gubernatorial candidate who ultimately lost in the June primary. It involved driving to distant neighborhoods and dropping off literature about the candidate door-to-door in several Maine counties. We would probably have done it for no pay, but the promised wage of $25 per hour made it much more attractive, seeing as how it was during a hot spell with temperatures in the 80s. Nevertheless, we did it for two days and were happy to help.

The person who contracted us to do the work told us after a week that, "The check is in the mail." When no check arrived after another week passed, we inquired and were told again that, "I mailed it myself just yesterday."

The phantom check never came, despite the guy repeating the same thing over and over. Finally he said maybe he had the wrong mailing address. He didn't. Then he said, "Oops," promising he would be mailing it again, immediately. He obviously didn't.

The check has still not arrived. Lies, lies, all lies.

My Husband's "Art Project"

My husband has had a vegetable garden for years. It keeps getting bigger, and thus producing more of everything. Tomatoes, carrots, green beans, beets, green peas, onions, broccoli, eggplant, cucumbers, radishes, yellow squash, zucchini, peppers of many varieties, potatoes, lettuce, kale, spinach, basil, dill and cilantro. Sound good?

Here's the problem: There are just the two of us living here at the moment. We have only one dinner at night, and some nights we eat out. Therefore, we have too much stuff. We give some of it away, but here in Maine everyone with a piece of land has their own garden.

I ask Mitch every year to plant less, but he claims it's his "art project" and that he grows it for how it looks, and that I don't have to eat it. But every time I see the guy he's offering me a carrot or a radish or a tomato or something, whether it's mealtime or not. I remind him it's an art project and that I don't force him to eat my paintings. He shrugs.

Still, those veggies keep coming. 

Film Review: WILD INSIDE

Even the worst documentaries are at least educational, which is more than you can say about most bad Hollywood movies. But the best of the genre opens your eyes to worlds you never knew existed. Wild Inside is one of those. Just released, it tells the magical true story of Falco, a male Eurasian Eagle-Owl that escaped from the Central Park Zoo in February of 2023 and spent a year of delicious freedom -- the first in his life -- sightseeing in New York City.

From the moment a passer-by spots him on a city street, just sitting on the pavement looking wide-eyed and completely lost, we are in love with Falco. Soon enough the entire city was too. He was on the TV news, in magazines and newspapers, and all over the internet. A huge following of bird nerds soon sprung up and spent their nights tracking him, filming him, photographing him and thrilling over his every move.

Flaco himself is a beautiful and wondrous creature. Seeing him learn to fly and fend for himself, after 13 years of captivity in his tiny zoo enclosure, is enthralling. Afraid he will starve without his curated meals from the zookeeper, we celebrate his first kill -- a rat -- and revel in his survival skills. Go Flaco! 

Equally compelling are his human followers, a group of sensitive souls (with some heavy-duty camera equipment) who we meet through interviews, each of them showing their growing love for the giant bird. Spoiler alert: It's a sad but happy ending, definitely worth your time.

Shame On A.I.

Last night I attended a performance at a local theater. When I got home I studied the program, reading with interest the bios of the cast members, which often include a personal note at the end of their acting credits. What jumped out at me was a line that had been blacked out with a marker. Still, holding it up to the light I could make out the words, "An avid sex fan and sexaholic." Really? Either the man had chosen to include that in his resume or someone on the staff was up to no good.

Interested to find out more, I emailed the theater and learned that it should have said the actor was "an avid Sox fan and Soxaholic," but their electronic proofing system had missed it. So 17,000 copies (!) had to be redacted by humans at the box office. And still, it was legible to anyone with an eagle eye, like me. 

As a former editor and proofreader with years of experience, I would have caught the error for sure. Just another example of how people are better than machines.

The Lesbian Said About It, The Better

Not long ago I wrote a post describing my recent car accident wherein I crashed into a mailbox after momentarily blacking out at the wheel of my car. It was a bad experience, to say the least. In the post I mentioned that the owners of the mailbox are two women who live as a committed couple. The official term for them is lesbians, a word I used once in the post.

Since then this blog has received "hate mail" from an anonymous lesbian over the fact that I used the word, I assume; I can't imagine why else. She said some awful things which were not only mean-spirited but incorrect, rife with erroneous assumptions about what had and had not actually happened.

Since then, the readership numbers of that particular post have skyrocketed to heights never seen by me before. (She said she hoped my "bigoted blog post" would be read by a lot of people.) Conclusion: Lesbians are very touchy. 

Some Days Are Better Than Others

Okay, so I wrote a rather depressing post earlier today about missing beloved dead people. I got over that when my son called and I realized that he is my favorite person and he is alive and talking to him always cheers me up. So much so that I often listen to our past phone conversations on his podcast called "Zack's Mom". (Find it on Spotify.)  

Moods come and go, often for no reason we can identify. Hormones? Bad dreams? Lack of sleep? Or that old devil, dehydration? Who knows? Certainly not that shrink you tell your troubles to, usually at a very high price. The fact is, some days are better than others. Our job is to get through the bad ones somehow. If you're having one of those today, remind yourself:

1. You woke up this morning.

2. You are not in the hospital recovering from surgery. (Skip this one if you are.)

3. You do not have an upcoming surgery scheduled. (Skip this one if you do.)

4. You are not homeless, have food in the fridge and indoor plumbing.

Then go take a hot shower and clean something: Your garage, the refrigerator, a closet, whatever. It's very therapeutic. Soon enough it will be tomorrow, which for all you know will be one of the good ones!

Calling All Dead People

By the time you reach my age, you like more dead people than living people. These days, when I'm down in the dumps and need someone to talk to, the people who could cheer me up the most are not available -- at least not without a Ouija board. This sucks and is one of the worst parts of life.

Let's Get Real About AI

Business bigwigs and government leaders talk up "AI" like it's a fabulous invention that will revolutionize mankind and improve life for everyone. But what if, instead of saying the initials, people said what they actually stand for? Just how great is artificial intelligence? Let's see. 

Synonyms for artificial: unreal, contrived, hokey, stilted 

Similar to artificial: affected, arranged, dummy, ersatz, factitious, fake, false, faux, imitation, simulated, staged, substitute, synthetic, unnatural 

Related to artificial: unreal, counterfeit, imitative

Call me old-fashioned, but I still prefer reality. While it's currently all the rage, in the long run, "AI" might not benefit society even a little.

Puzzle-Mania

Today's puzzle, in case you need help.....

Just in case you don't believe that people are getting dumber, grok this: Every week on page three of the Sunday New York Times, there is a column called "Wordplay: Tips for Today's Crossword." The explanation for this is that, "A Times Games columnist helps readers solve the day's crossword."

I started doing the Sunday crossword in the Times magazine section when I was about 12 or 13, with my mother. I never stopped, and today I do it with my husband as we have for our entire marriage, going on 40 years. Not once have we needed help to complete it. But never mind getting help --  the column I mentioned gives the answers, right there in print! Not all of them, but many. 

Now you tell me what that says about the level of intelligence of the typical New York Times reader, not to mention their editors.

When Your Neighbors Are Democrats

I live on a beautiful street in a small town 20 miles from Portland, Maine. Except for one other family besides ours, it's populated by Democrats. It's a dead-end street, so if you enter by mistake you will have to turn around when you understand that fact. Although the house at the end of the street has a long driveway where you could do such a thing, the meanies who live there have posted a sign that says "No Turn-Arounds."

Mrs. Meanie walks her dog, off leash, every day past our house. Often, her giant out-of-control Yellow Labrador tramples through my gardens and pees somewhere on our front lawn. I say nothing, because dogs will be dogs. Besides, neighbors are people we must live with, peacefully one hopes. Yet Mrs. Meanie doesn't share that feeling. 

The other day she started SCREAMING at Mitch for supposedly driving too fast, even though he wasn't. Waving her arms wildly, she shouted, "Slow down!!!!!" with obvious hostility. (Meanwhile her dog was peeing on another manicured lawn.)

Our next door neighbors haven't spoken to us in the 14 years they have lived here. Several others who we were once close with shut us out a few years ago when we put a Susan Collins sign on our lawn, realizing possibly for the first time that we vote Republican. One particularly virulent Democrat whose vast gardens I watered daily for two weeks when she vacationed one hot summer, actually marched over to my house to say, "I don't like the way you think."

Here's the funny part: At the entrance to our street there are two lawns signs. One says, "Love Is All Around," and directly across the street from that, the other says, "Be Nice."

Welcome to Strawberry Fields

Back in the days when I wrote features for the Washington Post, my editor was a relentless task-master.  The opening paragraph had to identify the old standbys: who, what, where, when and why. The byline consisted of one name only: mine. And I had to identify everyone I quoted by name and connection to the story.

But that was then, before the dummies took over. In today's Wall Street Journal, the bylines of four of the five front page stories carry either three or four names. WTF? What the heck are they all doing -- looking up words in a thesaurus? And many of the quotes are attributed to "people with knowledge of the situation" and "someone in the room at the time."

John Lennon foresaw this murky future years ago in his song, "Strawberry Fields Forever": 

"Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.

It's getting hard to be someone, but it all works out

Nothing is real, and nothing to get hung about."

Stuff People Are Interested In

 

Photos of Hollywood starlets in revealing clothing

Meghan Markel and how much her life sucks because of the Royal Family

Different ways President Trump is an asshole

How Jew-hatred is growing globally

Anne Hathaway's exposed pregnant belly (see photo)

The rise of socialism in America

Kate Middleton's latest outfits, hairstyles and children

Old women like Martha Stewart trying to look young and stay relevant

Parents who murdered their children

Husbands who murdered their wives

Celebrities walking around New York City

The latest weight-loss craze

Violent Black crimes on the rise

Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce's marriage

Transgenders in sports

New Netflix series

The war in Iran 

 

Here's One True Thing

The Real Maine starts 20 miles north of the city of Portland.

Back in the 1990s -- basically the last century -- my weekly humor column ran in the Deseret News, a noteworthy Salt Lake City daily. I never had any trouble coming up with what to write about, as humor was different back then. If it was slapstick funny and made you laugh, or if it was satirical and made you think, it was fine with my editors. Those days are long gone. There are no more humor columns in newspapers because much of what was considered funny in the past is now labeled insensitive or hurtful to somebody, somewhere.

Consequently, my sense of has humor died through disuse. So this blog, started in 2007 with the aim of being funny, has morphed into something else. Call it musings on society, which more often come in the form of complaints about the downward slide of intelligence among my species. While it may be true, it's not very amusing.

Comics like Jerry Seinfeld rake in big money talking about silly, inconsequential quirks of mankind, while edgier comics like Anthony Jeselnik push the envelope way past the edge and have fewer followers and less name recognition. Meanwhile, fallen stars like Louis C.K. attempt a comeback with questionable material that even I, once a big fan of his, find objectionable. (Rape and jerking off are not funny.)

My current hero and go-to when I am down is Mike Berbiglia. His four Netflix specials continue to crack me up and feel better about life no matter how many times I've seen them. His subject matter is his own life, told in story form with absolutely no holding back on the gruesome details. I applaud him but I cannot be like him. The events of my painful childhood might make others laugh, and have, but I no longer feel like sharing anything personal for fear of inviting the vicious slings and arrows that lurk on the Internet. 

So this blog has no raison d'être other than my love of writing. With the hope of bringing a nugget of worthwhile information to any stray reader, I suggest that the city of Portland is no longer worth a visit if you come to Maine. I was there recently and was appalled by the number of zoned-out druggies asleep on street corners, on bus stop benches and in doorways. Homeless encampments, needles littering the gutters and empty storefronts add to the city's bleak feeling. If you come to Maine on vacation, bypass Portland and make your first stop L.L. Bean's in Freeport. It'll give you what you're looking for.

Film Review: DANNY COLLINS

Danny, giving his fans what they came for. 

Finding something on Netflix that isn't a frothy rom-com, a grisly horror movie, a documentary about a heinous murder or something starring Jennifer Lopez is a daunting task. Last night I almost gave up but then stumbled on Danny Collins, a star-studded movie released in 2015 that sounded interesting. Turned out it was. Starring Al Pacino, Bobby Cannavale, Anette Bening, Jennifer Garner and Christopher Plummer, and directed by Dan Fogelman (This Is Us, Only Murders In the Building), it's a funny/sad/quirky comedy/drama that almost defies description, but I'll try.

Pacino plays Danny, a fading superstar who's still raking in the dough from sold-out concerts filled with aging fans, married to a girl one-third his age who cheats on him with the pool boy, and hates his life. Sick of filling his empty soul with booze and drugs, Danny has an epiphany when he learns that a letter from Beatle John Lennon written to him eons ago, inviting him to get in touch, never reached him. Stunned, Danny realizes how different things might have been if he had gotten it! 

Deciding it's not too late to start over and do good, he tracks down the adult son (Bobby Cannavale) he fathered with a one-night stand 35 years ago and never met. As one might expect, Danny's flashy arrival at his son's middle-class New Jersey suburb is not met with open arms. But soon enough Fate steps in and makes all things possible.

Pacino's over-the-top performance as a buffoonish, drug-fueled lounge-lizard is as far from The Godfather's Michael Corleone as one could get, making it clear that he is one of our greatest actors of all time. Transformed by love and an adorable granddaughter, Danny's
good heart comes to the surface. By the last scene, I needed tissues.

Mean People

Two days ago I fell asleep at the wheel of my car and crashed into a mailbox. I lived and my brand new car sustained damages in the thousands. The mailbox died and had to be replaced. To that end, I gave the owner of the mailbox my name, address and phone number which I watched her enter into her cell phone, and promised to replace it.

The next day my husband spent five hours doing so, first going to the crime scene to assess the situation, then going to the Home Depot half an hour's drive away where he spent $100 on a new mailbox and post, and stick-on numbers for the box. He then returned to the crime scene and, using his post-hole digger, installed the new mailbox, making sure it was to local code. The outside temperature was 87 degrees that day.

I could have left -- my car still drove -- without giving the lady my name or phone number, leaving her broken mailbox on the ground. After all, I was incredibly traumatized and confused by the whole incident and was anxious to get home, crawl into bed and weep hysterically. But I didn't. 

Have we gotten a thank you call or text from either her or her wife, the two ladies of the house? No. Draw your own conclusions regarding Americans, Mainers or lesbians. I have. 

Toughing Out My Cat's Ninth Life

Living with an old cat is not any more fun than living with an old anything, be it animal, vegetable or mineral. Take, for example, my dryer. It no longer dries the clothes the first time I ask. I have to go back to it and rearrange the load, then ask nicely and set the dial for another whole cycle. Who knows why, maybe it's just sick and tired of the whole wash-rinse-spin thing. 

We ditched our old toaster a few weeks ago for only toasting one side of the bread at a time. Ditto our electric coffeepot, which refused to keep the coffee hot once it was brewed.

Old clothes are annoying, what with the stains and rips and the not fitting anymore. Out they go in the trash, or maybe to Goodwill if there is anything left to recommend them.

Parents of course get better treatment, either moving to in an in-law suite if their kids are nice or an assisted living facility if they are not.

Humans cannot abide living with old things, but when it comes to our pets that's a different story, much worse than wet clothes or demanding parents. For example, my 19-year-old Maine Coon Lurch is in his ninth life.  He has been disintegrating before my very eyes for the last year. Once weighing in at 16.5 pounds, he's down to about ten, and all bones.

Lurch is 75% deaf, 50% blind and 100% demented. Still, we feed him and give him fresh water and change the litter and brush his lackluster fur and try to play with him and cuddle him, although he has no interest in much beyond treats and sleeping. He also likes to go outside and sit on the deck and stare into space. Usually he comes right back inside, but today, in a hot 85 degrees, he has wandered off, causing me to cancel all plans so I can stay home and hop from window to window looking out for him.

Since he is deaf, calling out his name is useless. There is simply nothing I can do but wait, which is the worst possible tool in the Doing Department. Sadly this is not my first rodeo so I know how it will end. I just don't want it to be today.

Asleep At The Wheel Wake-up Call

Yesterday at about 2 pm I was driving my month-old beautiful Audi A3 home from a gym workout when I fell asleep at the wheel and woke up to a mailbox crashing into my windshield. It was shocking and dreamlike. Nobody was killed and I did not die, but somebody might have. The car jolted to a stop less than an inch away from a tree.

Now I keep thinking of what might have been. I could have killed a mother wheeling her baby in a carriage. Or an elderly couple out for a walk. Or a cute little doggie. Or a jogger. Or maybe two or three joggers. Or myself. 

Instead I broke somebody's mailbox. 

Instead of sitting at my kitchen table writing this I could be on life-support in an ICU. Paralyzed. A vegetable for the rest of my life. Instead I am awaiting for the body shop to call and give me an estimate for the damage. I am also depressed, alarmed, sobered, scared, tearful and stunned. After driving for 64 years without ever having an accident, I can't say that anymore.

Moral of the story: If you are very tired, don't drive. Also, if you are alive today, thank your lucky stars.

Fat and Skinny Had A Race

Modern life is so confusing. Electronic devices speak to us in many different languages and accents, men wear dresses and call themselves women despite having a penis, and women who menstruate lop off their breasts, grow beards and swear they are guys. 

Something else I find very confusing is this: It's very "In" to be obese and call yourself "curvy" or "plus-size" and pose half-naked on TikTok in your underwear exposing your grossly sagging stomachs and elephantine legs, and get lots of comments like, "You go girl!" and "You are beautiful!"

At the same time, it's very "In" to take Ozempic or Wegovy or Zepbound or Mounjaro or any of the other GLP-1 weight-loss injections or pills even if you are already thin, just to lose a few pounds. This is applauded as a sign you are taking care of yourself and looking your best.

This is like saying it's great to be smart and it's also great to be stupid. Which is not possible, and I'm guessing you know which is better.

Maine's Art Desert

Move to Maine if you like to ski, kayak, swim, sail or hike and eat lobster. You'll have a ball. Do not move to Maine if you are an art lover. You will be disappointed.

The museums, a paltry few, all show the work of the same artists ad nauseam: Winslow Homer, Alex Katz and anyone named Wyeth.

They move the paintings in their collections from room to room. They rearrange the groupings. But believe me, if you've seen them once you've seen them all.

Forget seeing a real-live Picasso, Dali, Matisse, Renoir, Van Gogh, Rothko, Kahlo, O'Keefe, Vermeer, Degas, Monet, Manet, Turner or anyone long-dead. Not even a Hockney!

Oh wait -- forgive me. There is a Picasso at the Portland Museum of Art. Small, but nice. I've seen it 100 times in the past 17 years and I always like it.

The (Poor) Nanny

Recently I attended a political fundraiser held at the private home of a neighbor. His property boasts an enormous lawn overlooking the Casco Bay, with beautiful landscaping all around and a stunning water view. The guests numbered about 75, most of whom gathered around a groaning board full of luscious foods and a bar serving beer and wine. The weather was perfect and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Except for one person, an attractive woman in her late 30s or early 40s who stood well apart from the crowd, nursing a glass of white wine.

Naturally I went over to speak to her, having been that loner myself at some parties in the past. It turned out she was the nanny to two young children, ages six and eight, who were present. Also in attendance were the children's parents, grandparents, an uncle and an adult cousin. Yet for some reason that escapes me, the nanny was brought along to keep an eye on the children. 

And so she did. In fact, that's all she did. As the rambunctious youngsters ran around the vast property, she tailed them like a hired private eye while their numerous family members were busy drinking, talking, eating and yukking it up with the other guests.

I hope that nanny was being paid handsomely. Very handsomely. And I also hope that when those kids grow up, they'll love their nanny more than their shithead parents.