The More Things Change.....

There is an awful lot of grumbling among the younger generations about the Internet sucking the life out of them and ruining their brains. Still louder grumbling focuses on how Facebook is depleting their inherited world of meaningful relationships. They do this grumbling on the Internet, most often on Facebook. I find this odd, not to mention duplicitous since, in fact, the younger generations are the ones responsible for all the new billionaires. Two more surfaced this morning on the front page of my newspaper, both in their twenties and now in possession of more money than God, because of an iPhone app called Instagram that offers a "fun way to share photos" and even "give them the look of an old Polaroid." (Hahahahaha, that just cracks me up!) 

Anyway, I wonder why, if these young people don't like the way things are going, they keep walking in the same direction. As somebody once said, and I wish I could remember who, "Don't start down any path that leads to a place you don't want to end up." Or something like that.

Although I frequent the Internet and both halves of my split personality have Facebook accounts, I desperately cling to life as it once was: My simple phone is for calling people. I use a camera to take photographs. I do not own headphones or earbuds or whatever they are called this minute and instead listen to music when I am sitting down, usually indoors unless I'm at Tanglewood, and doing nothing else. I eat oatmeal for breakfast. The simple life is still out there, you just have to push all those newfangled gadgets aside. A good pair of blinders helps.

This Message May Be Recorded

The other day I had a problem with my cell phone and called the AT & T technical support line. A nice man who identified himself as Sherman said he could help. After a few minutes, I said that his accent, which had a sort of Asian-Chinesey-Jamaican lilt to it, was intriguing and I wondered where he was from. Sherman laughed and said, "Oh, we are not permitted to tell you that. All I can say is that I am working offshore to help you solve your problem." When I asked what harm there could possibly be in my knowing what country he was from, he said, "All I can say is that I am working offshore to help you solve your problem."

This morning I received a phone call from a particular robot who calls here frequently. The woman's voice chided, for what seemed like the 800th time, "This is your second and final notice! There is nothing wrong with your account, but it is urgent that you contact us regarding your current interest rates......" I muttered the usual obscenities into the phone before hanging up, hoping that when the QC execs review the tapes "for training purposes" they might follow my suggestion about how to handle the telephone vis-a-vis their butts. Meanwhile, those thoughtful folks over at VISA know how much we all hate the robot. For holders of their premium Sapphire credit card, a real person answers the phone when you call with questions or concerns. Nice touch, if you ask me, bringing back memories of my childhood, when many people were actually human.

All I Know About Easter

Jesus Christ walked among us and was killed and then came back from the dead on the day now called Easter. This miracle is celebrated worldwide by Christians going to church and listening to priests, many of whom are pedophiles or at least pedophile apologizers, lecture in a foreign language about how to get to into the Kingdom of Heaven. (I am just guessing here as I have never been to Easter services.)

After church, there may or may not be a parade, in which women wear new hats called "Easter bonnets." Then, parents hide Easter baskets full of chocolate eggs and chocolate bunnies and marshmallow Peeps and jelly beans all nestled among crinkly multi-colored strips of paper reminiscent of bird's nest fixings. The children run around looking for the baskets. The White House has a giant Easter Egg Hunt, although with the First Lady on her high horse about nutrition, they are probably hiding real eggs and not chocolate ones on the White House lawn. For most families the day culminates in a big dinner, called Easter dinner, which is built around either ham or lamb. If it's lamb, there may also be mint jelly as a garnish. In some families, the kids decorate hard-boiled eggs by dying them. This is the best part of Easter, by the way, and something I did with my own son for many years, despite us being Jewish. Hey, I wanted to expose him to all religions!

First thing this morning my son called and related the episode of "South Park" in which they explained those very tall, very strange hats worn by the Pope by saying that the first pope was actually Peter Rabbit. I totally buy that.

Check the Diploma

My health insurance company finally approved my "cancer cream," and yesterday I picked it up at the pharmacy. The instructions say to apply it Monday through Friday for six weeks, and it is packaged in single dose applications. There are a total of 24 doses in the package. I did the math. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday is five days, times six weeks, equals 30 doses. I was short six, more than a week's worth! This is cancer. I called the pharmacy:

Me: I believe there is an error in my prescription. I should have enough for 30 doses and I only have 24.
Pharmacist: Your doctor specifically ordered 24 doses, it says so right on the package.
Me: But the instructions say to apply it Monday through Friday for six weeks. Who wrote that?
Pharmacist: Your doctor.

See, I knew that New Jersey School of Medicine and Dentistry was bad news.

Updating Jewish History: Lose the Frogs

Last night, by force of habit, we had a Passover seder at our house. Finally, after reciting the same story year after year, there was something new: Instead of reading from a haggadah, the book of prayers and stories  recounting the history of the Jews in an orderly fashion, our leader--who is nothing if not plugged in--used an iPad. (Oy vay, see photo.)

Overall things weren't very different, although our chicken soup got a tad cold waiting for the Passover program to upload. Then, as usual, we heard about the trials of the Jews lo these many years, but with a modern twist. I especially appreciated the updating of The 10 Plagues, which in olden days included visitations of lice and boils and frogs upon the mean Egyptians, to include the more common tsunamis and tornadoes and earthquakes. It's true, there have been few frog storms in my lifetime, and if we Jews want to stay current and avoid being trampled to death by the ever-growing Mormons, we'd better drop that whole frog shtick.

The iPad version of Passover blatantly condoned the addition of an orange to the 5,000-year-old seder plate, the centerpiece of the table which carries the symbols of our history: a shank bone, bitter herbs, a roasted egg, charoset (Google it) and a bitter vegetable. The orange has something to do with women now being included in the upper echelons of the religion. I personally frown upon this Rachel Maddowesque development, as the last time I attended an event led by a female rabbi she was wearing black leggings and leopard-skin clogs. I miss the old days, when rabbis were old and wore black and had long beards. It was also nice when my grandmother did all the cooking, which she did handily for the 25 or so relatives crammed around our dining room table.

Last night it was a small gathering--just me and Mitch. Although it was sort of sad, at least we got to drink steadily during the proceedings instead of being limited to just four little thimble-sized cups of wine. And the wine, an '07 Stag's Leap S.L.V., was such an upgrade from the grape-juicy Manischewitz of our youth that by the end of the dinner we were both certifiably drunk and could hardly remember the names of all those dead relatives. (Thank you, Joel, it was a bottle for the ages!)

Penis Envy

In college, where I majored in fine art, I had a painting professor who taught me a lot about light and shadow and the relationship of color, value, shape and texture, much of which comes flooding to mind to this day whenever I approach a blank canvas. My brain being comprised mostly of Velcro, some of his other lessons also stuck, which is why I often think of the word "penis" before I start a new painting.

Early in the semester of Introduction to Life Drawing, our professor was appalled by a recurring problem whenever we worked from live nude models. When the model was female, all was well, but when a male posed for us, most of the students drew a sketchy, blurry mess where the genitalia should have been. Sensing a puritanical strain coursing throughout the classroom, Professor Kaupelis decided we must overcome our collective shyness over a simple body part, and thus instituted the following practice at the start of class: Each of us had to stand up and say our name followed by "penis." Two girls dropped the class immediately, but the rest of us became quite comfortable with the word; nevertheless, this practice continued for the entire semester. Several of the more precocious students embraced the subject wholeheartedly and devoted entire paintings to the organ in question, realistically depicting it down to the last pubic hair. I was not one of those, but I applauded their boldness.

All these years later, I can paint the hell out of a penis. (Maybe if my history teachers had employed some similar tricks I could remember which countries fought in what wars, and why. Alas, not.) Anyway, uttering the word PENIS outside of a doctor's office still turns most adults, male and female, into quivering, tittering, snickering masses of adolescent jelly, for reasons I cannot fathom.

A Book I Won't Read, and Why

In my ongoing quest for paying work, I found the following ad on Craigslist, listed under the category of Artists:

Lingering in the Woods is a Viking Fantasy Story. In the untamed wilds of ancient Finland, Chrigle is a young new shaman with a demanding chieftain. He is charged to provide safety over his tribe's hunters and has much to prove. With only his Spirit Guide to consult, Chrigle must protect the hunters from the ravages of the forest and lead his chieftain and tribe across unfamiliar land, which brims with unknown dangers. His burden grows as a witch with her own motives plies him with a curse and an aggrieved demon seeks his demise. Using spiritual powers, Chrigle must find a way to protect his people, save a tortured soul, and survive the onslaught of a demonic attack, but the price of righteousness may be too high. In this fantasy of Finnish lore, what begins as a journey for Chrigle to win his place among the tribe quickly turns into a test of will and sacrifice. Can Chrigle save the soul of a demon's spawn in order to protect his tribe and save himself from exile?

Naturally, after digesting this claptrap I was brimming with questions, among them:
1. Since I live in America in the year 2012, what do I care about the untamed wilds of ancient Finland, or even the tamed wilds of modern Finland for that matter ?
2. Why would Chrigle even try to save the soul of a demon's spawn? I mean, wouldn't that also be a demon?
3. What am I supposed to do about any of this?

And so, as yet another day passes without my earning a dime, I guess I should buy this book to help some other starving artist pay the rent. However, while I am definitely interested in learning how to survive a nuclear winter and ditto another four years of Obama, I don't give a hoot about saving my tribe from exile in the ravaged forests of an unfamiliar land. And considering that my Spirit Guide drowned in the Washington Hilton swimming pool 13 years ago, my demanding chieftain is often out of town on business, and the only witch I know isn't even speaking to me anymore, none of this even applies to me.

The Truth of the Matter

I wish I could be one of those people who gives everything a positive spin. Maybe in my next life. In this one, I am stuck being realistic--to a fault, some would say, like my husband. Contrary to what he believes, I don't see the glass as half-empty--I simply see it as bigger than necessary. For example, yesterday I went to the dermatologist. For over a week now I have worried about the scheduled procedure to excise my recently diagnosed skin cancer: The pain during, the pain after, the yukky wound, the growing scab, the resulting scar--it all sounded bad. But at the end of all that, I would be cancer-free!

My dear friend Jackie drove me to the dreaded appointment, since who knew what shape I would be in afterwards--when it comes to medical stuff, you never know. And this particular doctor graduated from The New Jersey School of Medicine and Dentistry, which I did not find all that comforting. (I grew up in New York--sue me.) As it turned out, the doctor explained that my particular cancer was shallow and could be treated with a topical chemotherapy drug in cream form, applied daily for six weeks. He advised that course of action because of the unattractive scar that would result from other procedures such as excision, curettage or freezing, and insisted it would do the trick with little fuss. A "glass is half-full" person would have been thrilled.

Instead, I left there feeling just as worried as before--maybe more. Cancer cream? Who ever heard of curing cancer with a cream? What am I, an idiot? This is not poison ivy, after all. And what if it doesn't work? The doctor himself said it doesn't work on everyone. What if I don't apply enough of the cream and some cancer cells remain? At least if they cut it out it would be gone. And suddenly I'm my own doctor? He probably just wasn't in the mood to do that whole gross procedure, after all it was already 3:30 in the afternoon and he had been working since 8 am, and I already told him I was big baby. Anyway, I went to the pharmacy to get the cream and they said it had to be approved by my health insurance first because it's so expensive, so now I am waiting. Today I still have skin cancer--and that's a fact.

Grabbing the Brass Ring

3-D painting by Janet Boyd

My husband often suggests we hire a cleaning lady to alleviate my household chores. My usual response is, "I would rather die." Despite the fabulous cooking and baking and cleaning and child-rearing portrayed in that movie, "The Help," I have never found help to be any help at all. When I had a new baby I hired someone to help, and the two of us sat around drinking coffee and talking most of the time. For a short while I had some hired help when my son was in elementary school and I was working part-time, and usually after the nice lady left I went around the house looking for all the things she had moved and put back in the wrong place. Besides, I find the whole concept of paying someone to clean my dirt appalling. However, after searching for jobs online in editing and writing for many years, I finally understand how to put things in a positive light, and am now considering placing the following ad on Craigslist in search of some help around the house:

Rare Internship in Home Maintenance
Don't miss this rare opportunity to live and work by the water in lovely Freeport, Maine! Now you too can have a shot at The American Dream: Home ownership without the mortgage! Every day (some weekends and nights required) you can rule the roost, cleaning a three-story, 10-room domain. Included are three bathrooms--all with toilets, one with shower, one with tub--awaiting your special touch to make them sparkle! Feel free to improvise; all necessary supplies will be on hand, after you have purchased them at the store of your choice. (All items reimbursable with receipts.) 

So go ahead and grab the brass ring! Among the challenges are a fabulous, professional stove top with six burners that seem to manufacture grime and grease! Wash and sweep beautiful hardwood and ceramic tile floors covered with sand, mud and animal fur! As an added perk, the home boasts three adorable cats, offering you the ongoing opportunity to interact with several litter boxes on a daily and never-ending basis: Scoop cat turds, wash the boxes and implements, constantly haul 28-pound boxes of litter in from the store, adding muscles as you go--in fact, do whatever the hell you wish! Vacuum, dust--the sky's the limit!

Unfortunately at this time we are unable to offer any pay, but for the right candidate this can grow into a permanent position and at a later date there may definitely be a small stipend. Don't miss this rare opportunity to live and work by the water in beautiful, rural Maine! (Water not visible from home, Whoopie Pies not included.)

Shut Up, Al!

The Reverend Al Sharpton should just go dig a big hole and jump in, lie down, fold his hands over his now-too-skinny self and wait for the hordes of people who will surely come forward to throw the dirt on top and silence him once and for all. The so-called activist does nothing but make things worse for his people, and by that I mean people of color, and by that I mean black folks, and by that I mean African Americans or whatever term is considered okay to use this very minute to make sure nobody thinks you are a racist.

Just what do we mean by the word reverend? Something that is revered, something we stand in awe of, something worthy of adoration. Really? Al Sharpton? The college dropout and former tax scofflaw who told Michael Jackson's children, "Wasn't nothing strange about your daddy. It was strange what your daddy had to deal with." Well Al, here's a news flash: there was something strange about their daddy-- just check the old photos. And there's something strange about you. Claiming to stand for equality, you hate whitey and spend your waking hours scouring the planet for proof of racial discrimination. (Maybe if you would just shut your big mouth, decent people of all colors could figure out how to get along.)

Beginning in 1984, when Bernhard Goetz felt threatened on a New York City subway and shot his four black assailants, Al has been there--fanning the flames of racial hatred. He was there fanning the flames in 1987 when 15-year-old Tawana Brawley told her wild tale about rape and abuse by six whites who turned out to be imaginary. Since then he's been riding the coattails of every situation in which a black person is involved in a crime, as long as the perp is white. In the current case involving murdered teenager Trayvon Martin ("Justice for Trayvon" hooded sweatshirts available in sizes S, M, L, XL, XXL, and XXXL), Al is playing judge, jury and policeman all in one, having convicted shooter George Zimmerman, who is Hispanic, so I guess Al is widening his net. In that spirit, he has now decided that the entire town of Sanford, Florida, the site of the incident, is culpable, and is calling for "economic sanctions" against the town's merchants until, one supposes, George Zimmerman hangs from a tree.

What's Black and White and Dead All Over

We didn't get our regular newspaper delivered today, for an unknown reason, and the interesting thing is, I didn't care. In days gone by, reading the Sunday New York Times was the reason to have Sundays at all. And of course doing the crossword puzzle in the Magazine section, an activity I began back in junior high and did faithfully until last weekend, was one of my major raisons d'etre. (I took four years of French, sue me.) But now, what with the Internet splashing the latest news all over the place every few minutes, I already know everything that's happened both here and abroad, and certainly more than what the paper says since it was printed last night. As for that crossword puzzle--I hate to say it, but playing Words With Friends online is much more stimulating to my brain, and after all that's what it's about, right? I mean I don't fill in all the blanks just to impress myself with how much I know.

Sad but true: Newspapers are almost gone. Oh well, more trees for everyone. Still, I would like to know where my paper is....