The Christmas Letter

Dear Friends and Loyal Readers:

All in all, 2017 turned out to be pretty average, not counting Donald Trump being president. As usual I unfriended several people on Facebook who simply had to go. And I achieved a new personal best on Words With Friends: 173 points for QUAINTER!

Mitch and I didn't go anywhere exotic like Bora Bora, just a week in Florida last March and a few long weekends here and there during the year. That was fine with me since I hate flying as much as food poisoning, but since Mitch is constantly itching to travel somewhere strange we might have to do that this year to dampen his severe wanderlust.

Last summer we had the exterior of our house painted purple! Depending on the weather it's pretty wild, and I can only hope that our deplorable next door neighbors (who still have not spoken to us in the three years since they moved in, or maybe it's four) find it offensive. Since you only live once and life is short, we finally got some new carpeting in our bedroom and a new furnace and hot water heater. Besides, the carpeting was stained from past cats vomiting on it and the furnace was on its last legs and about to blow.

Mitch and I watched all six seasons of VEEP on Netflix. Actually, it wasn't on Netflix, it was some other streaming service, but you get the point. The show started out really funny but ended up being a bummer, since it's about politics and how funny is that after all.

At the end of September something exciting happened to me -- I had a heart attack! (FYI, it's much more fun to say than to actually do. It always gets a reaction!) Anyway, the doctor put in some stents and I have to take a boatload of prescription medications every day for a year, but I'm fine now so I guess they're working. The worst part is that we were away from home at the time and in our haste to pack up and get to a hospital I left my favorite hair dryer where we were staying. (Well, not the worst part, but now every time I dry my hair, which is basically daily, I think about having a heart attack.)

Since this is supposed to be newsy, I should report that none of our pets died this year and our one remaining cat killed two birds and one mouse, so his hunting instincts are still sharp, although oddly enough, when there was a mouse in the house behind our fridge, all Lurch did was sit and stare at it. (The fridge, not the mouse.) We learned that one of our siblings is a meth head, another one had a screaming fight that resulted in the police being summoned, another one was hospitalized for a mysterious illness and yet another hasn't been seen in more than thirty years. So much for family! At least our wonderful son is thriving and is as beautiful and brilliant as ever, maybe more.

Wishing you all Happy Holidaze!

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree

Years ago, back when I was in my twenties and very different from the person lurking inside me, I had a best friend named Mary with whom I did everything. Both single working girls, we lived across the street from one another and shared our pursuit of what I call the Three Ms: movies, music and men. We vacationed together often in Florida and New York, and I visited her family home in Michigan. We laughed a lot. We shared stories about our respective shrinks and supported one another during tough times, meaning our latest boyfriends and break-ups. We were a perfect match!

Things went swimmingly for us for more than a decade, until we each got married to very different men who did not share the love. This disparity eventually caused a fissure in our friendship that widened into a chasm, until one Sunday morning over bagels and lox, and with our young toddlers in tow, it exploded into a volcanic eruption inside a coffee shop in lower Manhattan. End of friendship.

Several years later I ran into my old friend who turned out to be living a few miles from me, just over the border from our Washington, D.C. home in the wealthy enclave of Chevy Chase, Maryland. She invited me over for lunch, which I gladly accepted, eager to possibly rekindle the friendship. But alas, it was not meant to be, mostly because I was appalled at the squandered wealth tucked into every nook and cranny of her enormous home.

It was painfully obvious time had changed both of us: while I had busied myself writing newspaper articles, painting and delivering meals to shut-ins on weekends, she had spent all her time shopping. As we toured her grand home, the last straw for me was the master bedroom. Mary was currently involved in having wall-to-wall carpeting hand-made with a border to match the curtains and bedspread in her boudoir, the very one she shared with her creepy husband she had never liked in the first place but who was independently wealthy due to a family inheritance.

Mary and I each had one child, quite close in age, who played together as kids. Today her daughter lives in Los Angeles and has made her career as a "home stager," decorating multi-million dollar properties for sale in Beverly Hills. My son lives in Maine, buys his clothes at the thrift shop and teaches classes on how to live off the land.

Funny how we were two peas in a pod all those years ago.

Watch Where You Walk

It's been said many times that life is a crap shoot; I think of it more as a walk through a minefield. Like yesterday, for example, when a high-speed commuter train from Seattle to Portland derailed on a bridge and dangled over the road below like a child's Christmas toy gone bad. I was not on board, but 77 other people were. Three of them died and today hundreds awoke in serious condition in area hospitals, yet I woke up in my cozy bed same as usual and was just fine. Lucky me, and how come?

I also was not at my desk in Manhattan's financial district when a jet plane crashed into it, killing me instantly, or worse, sparing me and making me choose between death by the encroaching fire or by falling 100 stories to the concrete street below, a fate met by many in 2001. Nor was I partying at a Las Vegas country music festival last October when a maniac shot random concertgoers, killing 58  and injuring hundreds more. Why them and not me?

The simple answer is that I didn't work at the World Trade Center and I'm no country music fan, but is there something deeper? Closer to home, in fact just a few miles from where I live, a painter of great talent, a woman just about my age, contracted a crippling disease a few years ago and has been unable to paint since then. Now confined to a wheelchair, word is she's doing poorly. Why her and not me? And why did a friend of mine down the street receive a diagnosis of breast cancer just a few days before I got a letter saying my recent mammogram was "normal?"

The only thing you can do is be careful out there. And if you make it home in one piece, be sure to pet the kitty, put the kettle on and praise the Lord.

The Winter of Our Discontent

Right now the outside temperature is eight degrees and my cat is pissed off because he's stuck indoors. This is a sorry state of affairs for both of us since the burden of responsibility falls on me to keep him amused. It's an almost impossible task. Lurch hates cat toys, rolling his eyes each time I bring another one home. Predictably, he inspects the offending article -- a catnip-stuffed mouse, a glittery ball with a bell inside, a clump of feathers on the end of a stick -- for about 30 seconds before walking away in disgust. The rest of the time he guilt-trips me by planting himself at the front door, sighing audibly or muttering under his breath (but I can hear him anyway), "This sucks," or even worse, "She sucks."

Pet ownership is the closest thing to slavery that is still legal. Besides subjecting them to long periods of solitary confinement, we deny them the joys of procreation, decide who their friends are, when and what they eat, how often and where they relieve themselves, and in the very worst cases, what clothes they wear. That last thing is beyond horrific and should truly be outlawed, although I confess to putting a sweater on our last dog, a miniature Schnauzer, whenever I walked him in frigid temperatures. (He was always mortified, despite my explaining it was for his own good.)

If only cats could read, winter could be a time of great learning for Lurch. Instead, the seemingly interminable months of boredom dampen his natural curiosity. I've tried leaving the TV on for him but he barely lifts an eyebrow, and who could blame him? The truth is I would do almost anything to make him happy, but I've drawn the line at stocking our house with birds and mice.

Bigger Boobs and Butts

Actress Sarah Jessica Parker shows off her new friends. But hey, no touching!

Women in Hollywood, many of them actresses, models and TV news anchors, as well as ordinary folk who are not in the entertainment world, are freaking out over the fact that men (the pigs!) treat them as sex objects. But take a look at some of the following statistics for cosmetic plastic surgery procedures from 2015, and it's surely only gotten more popular since then.

According to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, 2015 was "The Year of the Rear," with thousands of women rushing out to get their sagging bottoms up to speed. Buttock implants were the fastest growing type of cosmetic surgery, with a buttock procedure just about every 30 minutes of every day. These included Buttock Augmentations (14,705 procedures), Buttock Lifts (4,767 procedures) and Buttock Implants (2,540 procedures). Meanwhile, Breast Lifts were also popular in 2015, with 99,614 procedures done nationwide.

Let's face it, surgery is scary business. So why do women go under the knife, risking strokes, nerve damage and even death, for so many elective surgeries? Is it so they are more comfy sitting on those fannies filled with fake fat? Do their bigger breasts keep them warmer in frigid temperatures? What could the reasons be, since apparently none of them want to look sexier and all of them despise the unwanted glances and sexist comments from men? It's a real head-scratcher.

A Mixed Bag

More and more, the average young person is consumed by capitalism, spending his (or her or their) precious time shopping at Amazon by day and hanging out in trendy beer parlors and tapas bars at night. I find these activities abhorrent. Yes, you heard me, abhorrent (from the Latin abhorrere, to shudder away in horror), especially those tapas bars where every interesting morsel arrives drowning in some sort of interesting oil, and thousands of interesting calories slide down your gullet but you're still hungry when you're finished.

To avoid becoming one of those old people who is out of touch with modern times I try to keep up, it's just that lately there is little of value to keep up with. Besides, it may be too late for me already. I started falling behind years ago when I eschewed a twitter account, or is it Twitter? Who knew then it would get to be so big, with even world leaders communicating on it? But still I resist; I have no intention of limiting myself to 140 characters unless I'm getting paid to do so. It's so dystopian! What a lock on creativity; can you imagine Virginia Woolf on twitter (Twitter)?

Then too, I still cannot wrap my mind around the whole "hashtag" thing. My son has valiantly tried to explain it to me many times, but just like football, I don't understand what the hell it does for anyone. Ditto Pinterest. You found something you like? Why not jot it down in a notebook, or tear a page out of a magazine? Why does everyone with access to the Internet need to learn about your personal taste in throw pillows or dog beds or, in fact, anything?

I guess it's just an unavoidable part of aging. To me the good old days really were better, and that's what all old people say. On the other hand, I have taken to blogging just like a millennial, or whatever the new ones are called now, so I suppose all is not lost. Even though I carry a Medicare card, life is good: I survived a heart attack and am now in better shape than before it! I love my wonderful son, who grows more interesting every day! And my husband, who might someday retire and actually spend time with me, I should live so long!

Still, I miss Michael Jackson, Gregory Hines, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, James Gandolfini, my dear friend Noreen Welle, my Uncle Melvin, my parents and grandparents, my shrink and every one of  my dead pets. And last night, while watching "It's A Wonderful Life" on TV, it hit me hard that nobody has ever replaced Jimmy Stewart and likely never will. (I wonder, can #Jimmy Stewart bring him back?)

The Magic of Hollywood

Keaton, Fonda and Bergen: Their combined age is 221.

I recently heard about "Book Club," a new movie scheduled for release in 2018. It tells the story of a group of lifelong friends in their sixties who read Fifty Shades of Grey for their monthly book club selection and it changes their lives forever.

The comedy stars Diane Keaton, Jane Fonda, Candice Bergen, Craig T. Nelson, Richard Dreyfuss and Wallace Shawn. Here's the funny part: Diane Keaton is 71, Jane Fonda is 79, Candice Bergen is 71, Craig T. Nelson is 73, Richard Dreyfuss is 70 and Wallace Shawn is 74, but somehow through the miracle of Hollywood they are all portraying people a decade younger! This I gotta see.

I am 71, and while nothing could get me to read Fifty Shades of Grey, I am considering moving to Hollywood.

Naked Husbands: The Untold Story

Like the apparently brainless woman who willingly had sex with Dustin Hoffman in his hotel room years ago but is now saying, when asked if the sex was consensual, "I don't know," I can't be silent any longer. My story is similar except the man in question isn't famous, although I did meet Hoffman when he was just starting out and he never did anything weirder than insisting, "Call me Dusty." (I hated it, but I complied.)

Thirty-one years ago I married, and since then have shared my bed with a man who sleeps totally nude right next to me! I find this offensive since I wear pajamas, and in winter, socks and gloves and maybe a neck scarf. (I have even been know to pull on a woolen cap on particularly frigid nights.) Still, Mitch is right next to me with nary a stitch on. This irks me because I know what it means: He is trying to get me to have sex with him. Oh sure, he pretends to be sleeping by snoring intermittently, but still, he is naked. And sometimes without even a blanket over him. What am I, an idiot?

Okay, sure, I have had sex with him, probably several thousands of times. But were all those times consensual? I can honestly say "I don't know!" And did he ever take advantage of me when I was in a weakened state? Well, since after one glass of wine I am no longer capable of good judgement I'd have to say yes, and certainly on every New Year's Eve after I've had some champagne, which everyone knows makes you drunker. (Scientists have declared since the 1920s that bubbles intoxicate you faster than a flat beverage does.)

Wait, there's more. Like this morning, Mitch was "reading the paper" in his bathrobe and it fell open and revealed that he had nothing on underneath. (Again with the nakedness!) He exposed himself to me while I, fully clothed, was eating my heart-healthy breakfast of whole wheat toast, a scrambled egg and a serving of blueberries. (Studies have shown that eating more than three servings of blueberries a week lowers the risk of heart attack in women by 32%.) Yet there he was, supposedly educating himself about net neutrality, and all the while I could distinctly see his entire penis!

When I pointed it out he quickly covered himself, coming up with some cockamamie story about going in the hot tub, which was ridiculous since it's zero degrees outside this morning. (To spite me he actually did go in the hot tub and of course did so completely naked, his favorite thing, whereas I always wear a bathing suit. After all, we do have neighbors.)

I have tolerated this behavior because Mitch has many fine qualities, and also he earns all the money in our family, which kind of makes me a victim of sexual exploitation. So, in the interest of helping other women who may be similarly trapped, I feel it only right to share my story. It's time for every wife to rise up and say in unison, "Put some clothes on, honey!"

The Media Won

The Top Dog at one of our local newspapers, The Northern Forecaster, has banned me from even submitting a letter to the editor, forget writing any articles for them. I'm pretty sure the fact that I moved here from D.C. where I worked for the Washington Post turned him off. (Also my habit of using big words he had to look up.) Anyway, instead of hiring talented people with original ideas he prints columns by Maine's indigenous peoples, the women describing family vacations or how messy their kitchen junk drawer always is, and the men rehashing the failings of POTUS or detailing their latest fishing trip. Since that paper is published weekly, those subjects get old pretty fast.

So I write my own column in this very spot and am free to say anything since I have no boss, don't get paid, and most importantly, have so few readers that the likelihood of my being arrested for hate speech is minimal. Still, I keep my darkest thoughts to myself. Usually. But today I am throwing caution to the wind and saying I'm sorry the Other Guy won in Alabama. His victory was clearly a result of mainstream media meddling with the facts, as usual seeking to make Trump look bad.

Here's what I think: Whatever Roy Moore did 40 years ago couldn't have been too bad since not one of his "victims" said anything about it at the time, or anytime in the following four decades. The winner and new Alabama senator will be voting on all sorts of things, and is on record as being in favor of partial-birth abortions. If you ask me, that's worse than Moore "making sexual advances to young girls," even if he was old enough to be their older brother.

When I was 16, a 26-year-old friend of my sister made a "sexual advance" towards me. He invited me to dinner, which I accepted. Another time we went dancing. He was a perfect gentleman both times and explained that he "enjoyed being with young people." I decided he was too old for me and that was that. At no time did I think he was a pervert.

Yin and Yang

A note tucked inside a Christmas card I received in today's mail disclosed the recent death of an old friend. Knowing Janet had been fighting an increasingly debilitating disease for the past several years, the news wasn't completely out of the blue, still it caught me off guard and plummeted me into sadness: Another of the good ones gone. Her newspaper obituary was enclosed; she was exactly my age!

Half an hour later, while I was still wallowing in despair over the death of my friend, I received a series of texts from another friend eager to share the exciting news of the birth of her fourth grandchild. How fabulous! A brand new life, let's all celebrate!!! Several pictures of the wrinkly-faced baby nestled in the arms of the glowing new mom followed. That perked me up a bit.

Today it's snowing where I live, so I'll have to miss my final cardiac rehab "graduation" class since there's no way I'm driving 24 miles in a whiteout. But I've got plenty of blueberries, and new research shows that women who eat more than three servings per week of blueberries lower their risk of a heart attack by 32%, so it all works out.

Up and down, always up and down; no wonder I have labile hypertension.* I'm just surprised that everyone doesn't.

 *Sudden and ongoing changes in blood pressure that fluctuate far more than usual.

A Trans Rant

I was just reading a movie review in today's Wall Street Journal that described the female lead as "an actor of great talent." That got me scratching my head wondering why she couldn't be called an "actress." Since when is being identified as female a bad thing?

So I Googled the word "actress" and landed at the Wikipedia entry for "actor," wherein it was stated that an actor plays a role on a stage or in a movie, blah, blah, blah, and that female actors are called "actresses." There was a quote from Whoopi Goldberg (who I always thought was neither) saying, "An actress can only play a woman. I'm an actor – I can play anything." Well Whoopi, here's a question for you: Can you play a thin Caucasian person with decent taste in clothes and non-clownish hair who doesn't have a big mouth that constantly utters insults and instead coos sweet nothings? Try it sometime.

The iconic drag queen RuPaul.

This whole transgender thing is ridiculous bullshit. News flash for all you people hoping to change teams: Women menstruate! Once a month, for anywhere from three to eight days, they bleed from their vaginas! Can you do that, even with that make-believe one the doctors create for you out of God-knows-what? And there's more: In addition to wearing nail polish and makeup and high heels, females give birth to babies that have grown inside their uteruses for nine months. Can you do that? What's that, you have no uterus? Oh, sorry. Well then, you are a man. A male. A male member of the species.

Get over it. In fact, embrace it! Love yourself! Be happy that when you go camping you can pee standing up and not have to squat in the bushes and possibly have bugs crawl up inside that very vagina you don't have. There are other perks too, like going topless anywhere you want on a hot day, but that peeing-standing-up thing is definitely high on the list. And BTW, you can still wear the makeup and the nail polish and the high heels whenever the mood strikes, just ask RuPaul:

"RuPaul is noted among drag queens for his indifference toward the gender-specific pronouns used to address him—both "he" and "she" have been deemed acceptable, as stated in his autobiography: 'You can call me he. You can call me she. You can call me Regis and Kathie Lee; I don't care! Just as long as you call me.' RuPaul has also played men in a number of roles, and makes public appearances both in and out of drag."