Chainsaw Massacre

Painting by Veronique Radelet

It's been said by many more articulate than I that much of modern life is folly. The most obvious illustration is how much leisure time we have, some of which we squander sitting on our butts in front of screens. Be it a television, computer, or cinema screen, it's little difference to the body; all it knows is that it's sitting. And then to make up for all that down time, we drive over to the Y or a gym and sporadically exercise, using various machines that mimic real life, so that our arteries don't clog and cause our hearts to attack us.

Today my husband and I had a taste of what life must have been like before it got so ridiculous, and what it might still be like for those farmers and country folks who literally work for a living. One of our trees was struck by lightning last year, losing a large limb. We thought that was the only damage, but it slowly died over the winter. This spring the truth of the matter was revealed, and the dead tree was quite an eyesore out there on the front lawn, nestled among the living trees surrounding it.

Happy for any excuse to use a chainsaw, Mitch rose to the occasion and chopped the thing down yesterday. Today was the day we had to haul it to the burn pile about 40 yards away, and it was no small task. In fact, it took all afternoon and, in the heat of a summer day, was quite exhausting. Blisters, cuts, bruises, scrapes, chafes, sweating and swearing were involved, although fortunately nobody was decapitated. The end result was a feeling of accomplishment that we would have missed if that tree guy I called a week ago and left a message on his machine but he never called me back had actually called me back. We also have aches and pains in muscles that have been ignored since another tree needed the same treatment a year ago. If more things needed doing around here I could eat a lot more gelato and still stay in shape.

A True Gelato Fiasco

I have been trying to lose three pounds for the last year and a half. Sounds crazy, I know, but still---that's what's going on. And I have failed because of one miserable truth: food is delicious. If only it tasted bad, we'd all be thin and there would be no disease.

My particular Achilles heel of late is gelato. Somehow I don't care much for ice cream, but the Italian version is a horse of a different color--bad analogy I know but anyway, you get the point. Here in Maine there is a chain called Gelato Fiasco, and I understand the name all too well: just walking by the shop results in a fiasco for my figure. I went there last night and overindulged as usual. The problem is all the flavors--there are like a hundred of them and they are so unique and you can taste each one if you want, which I do, so by the time you make your decision you've already consumed quite a bit of the stuff. Caramel Salt! Chinese Five Spice! Peanut Butter Whoopie Pie! Espresso Chip! Key Lime Pie! Who can resist? And why would you, with life being so short and you only live once and if not now when, etc., etc.

Last night my husband did the unthinkable and registered for membership in the Red Spoon Society, which means that after buying several gelatos you can get one for free. Now we have to keep going; as Mitch says, "who doesn't want free gelato?"

Coffee, tea, or who the heck knows.....

A full-page ad in today's Wall Street Journal, which likely costs way more than an arm and a leg and may involve part or all of a torso, promises that in just three days, Starbucks will rock our world. The headline shouts, "The newest thing in coffee tastes nothing like coffee." What? Huh? How could that be? Lower down on the page it says "Rethink, Refresh, Re-Energize. July 10, 2012." The tippy-top of the company's logo appears below that. It doesn't say Starbucks anywhere. No need.

As a devout coffee drinker I am admittedly intrigued, even though I never liked Starbucks coffee and have always agreed with my friend Martha who right off the bat called it "Charbucks" because of its somewhat burned flavor. But stuck in the car on long road trips or while navigating around a strange city, the sight of that green logo offers a welcome feeling of familiarity, and I've been known to indulge in more than a few "skinny" lattes in my day. Still, it's just coffee to me, not dessert. Yet they have strayed deeper into that territory every year, now offering things like Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino (480 calories) and Double Chocolatey Chip Creme Frappuccino (410 calories) along with their ice cream, scones, cakes, pies, cookies, tortes, tarts, croissant sandwiches, paninis, biscottis and the like. In fact, I am betting that many tubbies can trace their obesity to a local Starbucks outlet--after all, it's just coffee, how could it be fattening?

So now I am on the edge of my seat wondering what they've got planned. What could taste nothing like coffee but be the newest thing in coffee?  I asked Mitch what he thought. He too was stymied, and offered the possibility that it could taste like hair spray or maybe lawn furniture, just two of the things that taste nothing like coffee. The mind boggles.

The Other Mosquito Coast

I am far less productive in summer than during the rest of the year because I am so busy:
1. scratching mosquito bites.
2. showering to ease the itching of mosquito bites.
3. applying creams and lotions to  mosquito bites.
4. swatting mosquitoes.
5. crying.

People who seem to know about such things say that if all the insects died--a situation I have prayed for nightly since childhood--our entire ecosystem would collapse and all life would cease. I am now wondering if it would be okay if just the mosquitoes died. If anyone knows the answer, please tell me. Then tell me how we can kill all the mosquitoes.

Brain Drain

One day last week I posted a comment on my son's Facebook page to register my joy over something he said. "Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" expressed my feelings exactly. Soon enough a friend helpfully pointed out that I had misspelled the word "fabulous." I explained that it was a line from the poem "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll. I thought everyone had been made to memorize it in high school, just like me. Later that day I asked my husband if he knew the reference. He did not. I prodded him with, "twas brillig and the slithy toves....." Still nothing. Armed with this new information I briefly wondered how we could remain together, but decided that he had so many other good qualities, divorce would be an over-reaction. Nevertheless, I was disappointed.

This morning, as Mitch was cooking his eggs, he began to recite a long poem. I was impressed, thinking, "Aha, he is not illiterate after all!" But then he got to the part about Jeb becoming a millionaire. It turned out to be the opening jingle to the old TV show, "The Beverly Hillbillies." Mitch knew every word. In fact, as he demonstrated during breakfast, his retro-TV show repertoire also includes all the words for "Flipper" and "Mr. Ed," two shows I never even watched, forget learning the inane jingles.

I am convinced that the brain has limited space and should be cleared out from time to time. I am keeping "Jabberwocky," but I might get rid of some other stuff. What's clogging yours?

Say Cheese

There is a possibility that depression is caused by a parasite in cat feces that one contracts from handling cat litter. Since I have three cats, I am at high risk for T. gondii, which increases the likelihood of attempting suicide, according to a Danish research study of over 45,000 women. The funny thing is, I am currently depressed because of my friend who killed herself two days ago, and she did not have any pets. And while I don't actively enjoy dealing with cat poop, it never depresses me but instead makes me feel like a responsible pet owner. After all, they can't change the litter themselves.

What does depress the hell out of me is the news that more and more middle class Americans are hiring photographers to document their vacations. Many hotels now offer two- and three-hour photo sessions as part of their room fees. One honeymooning couple had photos taken of themselves on bicycles, lounging in a hammock and on a dock at sunset. (What, no bedroom shots?) The groom, Chad Bradford from Arlington, Virginia, explained that they "appreciated having one less thing to worry about on our vacation." Today photos are a big part of socializing, with many being posted on personal Facebook pages and sent to friends and family via iPhone and email. Some professionals will shoot YouTube videos of you and your kids enjoying Disneyland or running around New York City, at a cost of $100 to $800 an hour. Clients may opt to have some photo retouching done--heck, it's cheaper than plastic surgery and far safer. One pregnant vacationer recently told a busy Caribbean photographer who works in Nevis, "I don't want my thighs to be that big."

Now that's depressing.

News You Can't Use

There is exciting news today, which I read about on the Internet. Apparently scientists in Great Britain have finally found the Higgs boson. (I know, I could hardly believe it either.) The boson, which I think is far smaller than a bison, was named after a physicist named Higgs who has been searching for it most of his life. If his name were Goldblatt it would be called the Goldblatt boson, so thank goodness for that. Anyway, it is no less than a particle that holds the entire universe together! I'm not sure why it isn't called the Higgs particle since the words seem interchangeable, but as my sister-in-law would say, "there you have it."

Without the boson, the universe would be the consistency of Campbell's Tomato Soup, or actually any soup, that one just popped into my mind. It was my favorite when I was growing up, although I always had a hard time deciding whether I preferred the plain kind or the Cream of Tomato--they were both quite yummy. This chap Higgs is now 83 and is very happy the boson has been found while he is still alive. He is quoted as saying that he will ask his family to put some champagne in the fridge. (One wonders why he can't get it himself.)

FYI, before you start celebrating, you should know that one scientist involved in the research admitted that it was not a done deal. He clarified, "It is very much a smoking duck that walks and quacks like the Higgs. But we now have to open it up and look inside before we can say that it is indeed the Higgs."

Who Cares How You Look in a Bathing Suit?

There is such a thing as too much time on your hands. There is also such a thing as too much expendable income. Those things come together in the form of a new cellulite treatment called Cellulaze, a laser machine that "burrows under the skin" and promises to eradicate the dimpled fat that 85% of all women and 5% of all men develop as they age. It is done by a plastic surgeon under anesthetic and costs about $7,000 for two thighs and $2,500 for each extra area. Of course, the procedure has not yet been perfected and some patients may develop nasty infections called seromas, characterized by a buildup of fluids that need to be drained. (Are you feeling nauseous yet?) There may also be temporary bruises and scars, and patients may not want to appear in public wearing shorts or a bathing suit for a long, long time--if ever.

I learned about all this in today's Wall Street Journal, in a section they call Health & Wellness but perhaps more aptly should be titled Modern Insanity. Our superficial society has certainly lost its way since caveman days; fretting over cellulite seems nutty in light of our global problems, not the least of which is the very air we breathe. Yesterday, on a lovely summer day here in Maine, with bright sunshine and blue skies punctuated by sporadic periods of intense rain, a beautiful woman I know opted to end her life. It was not because of cellulite on her thighs, rest assured, but it may have been because of the very fact that such worries exist and such solutions are offered. Today a new day begins without her, and I am determined to honor her memory by appreciating what's good in life, fat cells be damned.

The Puffington Host and Other Miscreants

I can remember back before Howard Stern was famous. He was a local radio jock who I listened to on my morning drive to work when I lived in Washington, DC, and he was pretty damn funny. Then, on the afternoon of January 13, 1982, the horrendous crash of Air Florida Flight 90 into the 14th Street Bridge occurred and made him an overnight sensation because he did something so mean-spirited on his show, it was almost beyond belief. The morning after the crash he called the airline and asked the price of a ticket from National Airport (now called Ronald Reagan National) to the 14th Street Bridge, about one mile away. This was perversely funny, ironic and wry, opening a window into Stern's unique mind, except for the fact that at the time of the phone call people were still floating atop and dying underneath the icy waters. The rescue had gone on all night, keeping much of the citizenry either glued to their TV sets or huddled out on the banks of the Potomac watching the horror unfold in near-blizzard conditions. Stern was summarily fired, and thus began his quick rise to national fame and eventual untold millions, just for being so ballsy as to say what some cynics might have been thinking privately but had the good sense not to utter aloud.

So, I could do the same thing with this blog. My own fame--not 15 minutes but more like two-- came from a post wherein I allegedly called for the murder of Keith Olbermann, the former political pundit and rat-fink who has since been scolded away into the forest. While I did not intend that interpretation, almost immediately nearly 1,000 Twittering fools found my blog, upping its readership from the usual 150 or so. I learned that being outrageous earns you fame and death threats, especially when the outrage is nasty. So I could get famous if I said things like I hate President Obama because he is black, which of course I don't and he barely is anyway, or that I love Mitt Romney because he is a Mormon and it's about time we had a deeply religious man in the White House, which is also a crock. I could write almost anything negative about Gabby Giffords--like despite the fact that she never speaks, perhaps because she still cannot, people want her to run for office anyway-- and get noticed, or at least grab the attention of Arianna Huffington's merry band of bottom-feeding  journalists who are so desperate for a paycheck, they'll turn any shred of detritus into "news." (See photo) But I don't say those things because I don't mean those things, except of course the latter, and my blog is ignored by the hungry masses looking for someone to hate more than themselves.

The road to fame is rutted and muddy and not for the faint of heart. I'll never get there, but I sincerely appreciate the loyal readers of this forum. Thank you all.

On Tom Cruise's Divorce

Tom Cruise telling Katie he wants a divorce.

I have never met Tom Cruise, but he seems like a nice enough guy. I have certainly enjoyed him as an actor, and think he excels at that particular craft. But for some reason, people hate him for his religious beliefs. The Church of Scientology is somehow seen as less respectable than the many Churches of Jesus Christ, so Cruise is a labeled a "nutcase" who might be gay, and Katie Holmes, his soon-to-be-dumped wife, has in reality dodged a bullet. So goes the general consensus.

I hate the consensus, general or otherwise.  If you ask me, you can take the whole lot of consensi and float them out to sea, for all their carbon-copy opinions are worth. What I want to hear is what this individual over here thinks, and what that individual over there thinks, not what everyone thinks they are supposed to think to be accepted by the group and not be branded as "different," which in our culture is a fate worse than death. I don't get that. Anyway, remembering that scene in "Jerry Maguire" where Cruise is on the phone with Cuba Gooding shouting, "Show me the money!" has brightened many a moment for me. I hope he finds happiness.

It Ain't Over Yet

My best friend Deneb just returned from climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. She is now full of tales of mountain lions and zebras and that special light they have in Africa. Just a year ago she spent a month at sea, sailing to Hawaii with two strangers. Each winter she lives for three months on a snowy Utah mountaintop trapping birds for scientific study. And what am I doing while she is doing all that? Painting pictures. Cooking meals. Doing laundry. Feeding the cats. Getting the mail. Writing this blog. Jeeez, what a loser I am!

Okay, so adventure is not my strong suit, but I do make a mean cheesecake. Still, I look for some excitement that goes beyond the hiking, biking and kayaking so readily available here in Maine. Shall I take up hunting? Too mean-spirited. Hmmmm, what to do, what to do, to transcend the everyday? Apparently I am not alone in this desire; a "YouTube challenge" currently popular with young people involves applying salt and ice to various body parts until the pain becomes intolerable or the skin falls off, whichever comes first. Somehow that doesn't speak to me.

So, determined to do something exciting to enliven my obituary--which according to a friend who just completed hospice training, we should all have ready in a drawer somewhere--I investigated the possibility of spending a year on Monhegan Island. After reading about the inevitable hardships--no town water in winter, wind and ice storms every few weeks-- I downgraded to just a month in the fall. But after learning there is no doctor on the island, which is 10 miles and 75 minutes by boat from the mainland, I abandoned that plan in deference to my wildly fluctuating blood pressure and slowly disintegrating hip.

There is still time; anything could happen. After all, I've already seen that movie three times--the one about the old people retiring to India. Besides, who doesn't like cheesecake?