Be Nice to Your Insides

Shown in red: The adorable little adrenal glands!

Desiring nothing as much as to avoid sinking into the quicksand of Trump's meeting with Kim, I will instead write about a subject that few people ever talk about: our fabulous internal organs. They go about their business with little appreciation and hardly any mention at all, until they stop working right. Then we hear that this one had a heart attack, that one's got pancreatic cancer, and the other one had his gall bladder removed. Meanwhile, that poor drunk slumped over the bar has cirrhosis of the liver. But really, can any of us say what each of those organs do when they are in good working order? I certainly couldn't. Not until recently, when I spent a good part of the weekend reading a book called The Fast Metabolism Diet, which I then embarked on and committed to following for the next 28 days.

It all started when I met a friend for lunch last week. I hadn't seen her in a couple of months, and the last time we met she was looking haggard and grey, and a bit puffy. So I was stunned to see her all aglow and much thinner, looking like she had just returned from a month on a Greek island where servants fed her peeled grapes as she languished in the sun with nary a care in the world. Turns out she had been going to her job every day as usual, but had been on the aforementioned diet. With her enhanced health as an endorsement, I got the book.

Now I am up to speed on my adrenal glands, which I never thought about once in my entire life but it turns out they are responsible for almost all of my bad moods, high anxiety, runaway blood pressure, and tons of other crap I've been dealing with for the last ten years. FYI, "Your adrenals are small glands that lie on top of your kidneys in your lower back, and they secrete hormones that regulate your body's response to stress of all types: physical, emotional, environmental, and mental," writes author Haylie Pomroy. Eating the wrong foods can cause adrenal exhaustion, which comes from your body secreting stress hormones that should be saved for emergencies, only it's happening all the time, causing your metabolism to slow way down.

There's much more to it, but let it suffice that your mistreatment of your adrenals might be why you are fatigued and/or depressed! I decided to start being nicer to all of my insides, including my liver, my pancreas, my pituitary gland and my thyroid, and to thank me, I lost a pound and a half the very first day. Only 27 days to go....

All the News That's Fit to Distort

The New York Times is so slanted, I have to lie in a diagonal position with my neck twisted in a funny way just to read it. Of course this is very uncomfortable, which is why I don't do it very often. Today I glanced at the front page and saw the photo, which was captioned: "President Trump arrived late for a discussion on gender equality at the G-7 meeting, which he left early for talks with North Korea."  Like that's a bad thing? I'd much rather our government focus on avoiding nuclear war with a crazy foreign leader instead of pontificating on where people should be allowed to pee or whether we must call a "he" a "she" or a "she" a "he."

Despite disliking the president, I can still applaud him for arranging a meeting with Rocket Man, and so should the Times! Instead, they are committed to never writing one good thing about the guy, just as they were committed to never saying one bad thing about Obama. It's painfully obvious that the head honchos at the Times have lost their ability to report the straight news without "spinning" it first.

Also in today's paper, a front page article disses Trump for being "the first president since 1942 not to name a science advisor." You know -- those guys who say the sea levels are rising except for where they're falling, or that eating fat is bad for you, oh wait -- actually fat is good for you, or circumcision is a mandatory health procedure, oh no, circumcision is quite harmful to babies.

That's why I stick to doing the crossword puzzle in that prestigious paper's magazine section and use the rest as fire-starter when we grill. But sometimes even that pisses me off. Like in today's puzzle, there was a rather distasteful clue in light of recent events: "Rope used for strangulation." The answer was GARROTE. But did we really need to see that this particular week? I'm telling you, they could use some new editors over there.

It's a Jungle Out There

I made a personal promise not to hang myself from a doorknob no matter how depressed I get, but more and more that's a hard promise to keep if you read the news. Besides learning about people who have done that recently, all the horror stories floating around the Internet and infecting my brain make it hard to stay upbeat, try as I might.

A recent one concerns a woman in Florida who has been missing for days, last seen while walking her two pit bulls. Then, a few days later, a human arm was found inside an alligator in a neighborhood pond, and authorities are putting two and two together. (Well, not two and two since they just found the one arm, but you know what I mean.) Anyway, I was surprised that people would walk anywhere near a pond in Florida since that toddler got eaten in Disneyland awhile back, and even more surprised that they still get pit bulls.

Face it: It's a jungle out there. Best to stay home and paint pretty pictures. Shown below is one I'm working on at the moment that has nothing to do with suicide or depression or animals eating people. I like it, although it still needs something --  I may add a small pond in the distance outside the window, with an alligator looking guilty. Or a pit bull attacking a toddler. That would make it more relevant for sure. Who knows, it might even sell.

Another One Bites the Dust

Okay, what the heck is going on? Today another fabulously wealthy (net worth $16 million) person with a dream job (paid to travel the world, meet new people and learn about other cultures while eating interesting foods in wild and crazy restaurants) who could design his own project and get it funded ASAP by any and every TV network decided to hang it all up, pun intended, in a Paris hotel room. Celebrity chef and author Anthony Bourdain, 61, had the cheeky gall to end his own life less than a week after fashion designer Kate Spade did the very same thing in her New York City apartment.

First of all, copy cat! Next, didn't he realize how disheartening this would be for all of us (and his daughter) so soon after Kate's death? What, he couldn't have waited? Making matters worse, this morning the CDC issued a new report about the rising suicide rate in America, with 25 states recording increases of more than 30%.

I blame it all on cell phones and social media.

The lack of real connection is taking its toll on everyone, but don't let it get you. Starting today: No more texts! From now on, risk everything and make a call. Better yet, go visit. Feeling down? Stop looking at the Internet. Go for a walk, a run, a bike ride. Don't let your kids use computers except for doing their homework. Dare to be different.

#MeToo, Sort of

What if you have no goals? Then what? This has been my problem for most of my life. Sure, I've had small ones that I accomplish and move on, like finishing a painting or buying more cat food or graduating college. But none with a capital G -- no guiding star for my life, like curing cancer. Of course I would have loved to be the one who finds a cure for cancer, but I hated calculus, and besides, I never could use laboratory animals as test subjects.

So here I sit, alive and kicking and unemployed since my husband pays for everything. Often at a loss as to how to spend my time, I have volunteered at more organizations than I can remember and never felt the slightest bit of personal satisfaction from whatever task I was given to perform, primarily because anything important or meaningful in any organization is done by a staffer who gets paid. I did enjoy working in our community food bank dispensing food to the needy, until a snooty couple dressed to the nines came in and balked at the fact that we only had French's mustard and they far preferred Grey Poupon. After blurting out, "Beggars can't be choosers," I realized I had lost my heart for the job and resigned.

To fix my what-to-do problem, at least temporarily, I attended a job fair yesterday at Maine's only Whole Foods store, located in downtown Portland. The organic supermarket recently bought by Amazon is always bustling and full of good vibes, and it seemed like a few days a week there would balance out the solitary days spent at my easel. I was interviewed by three different employees, one who could have been my grandson and the other two my sons. They seemed to like me and made just a few references to my advanced age, pointing out that many "younger people" had also applied and that "younger people" were willing to work weekends and holidays and "younger people" could lift heavy things if necessary. I told one of them that I work out twice a week with a personal Crossfit trainer and he whistled, adding "Wow, that's amazing!" (I hope that didn't sound too boastful.)

I hope I get the job and will find out later today. But I'm sort of thinking if I don't get it for whatever reason, I could do what everyone else does these days and sue them, only for age discrimination instead of sexual harassment. (Although that one guy did whistle at me.) Anyway, the big boss is Jeff Bezos, the world's richest man. Those are some deep pockets.

Suicide May Be an Option, But It's a Dumb One

As my grandmother always said, and probably yours too, there's plenty of time to sleep in the cemetery. This was her way of saying, "Get out of bed you lazy so-and-so and do something with your life!" I remember that whenever I hear that someone has committed suicide, which by the way is now a politically incorrect thing to say. You have to say they "died by suicide," since saying "committed" implies a crime, which is not nice. Whatever -- they're dead, they did it, and that's that.

This is on my mind because of yesterday's sensational news that the insanely successful fashion designer Kate Spade took her own life at the age of 55. Found dead in her Park Avenue apartment by a housekeeper, she left behind a note for her only child, a 13-year old daughter: "Bea, I have always loved you! This is not your fault--ask Daddy!" How nice. So not only does Bea no longer have a mommy, she has a very bad daddy.

What is wrong with people? How can someone hurt themselves as well as the people they love and who love them, and in many cases rely on them for support, both emotional and financial? No matter how you slice it, it's at bottom an act of supreme rudeness, selfishness and self-absorption, of such magnitude that it almost makes you not feel sorry for the person.

"But Andrea," you're thinking, "they must have been in such terrible pain!" Okay, exactly how much pain? Enough to rob your only child of a halfway decent life? Sure, I've been down -- way, way down -- far down enough to have incredibly detailed and disturbing suicidal thoughts trample all over my muddled and befuddled brain. But I'm still here, mostly because A, I can't even remove a splinter from my pinky much less inflict pain on myself and B, I have a son. (Every study on the subject shows that parental suicide results in a greater risk for suicide attempts in offspring. Besides, watching him live his life and hoping all goes well for him is fun for me.)

And then there's C: Life is good and bad. There are upswings and downturns. One day it's rainy, the next day it's sunny. You get cancer, and a hellish year later you're cured. You get the point. Suicide  can't be undone, and anything permanent that you can't undo is a bad idea, which explains why God made divorce lawyers, moving vans and laser tattoo removal. Admit it, Kate had it all: Looks, personality, money, business success, a family. Now she's got nothing because she is nothing. I bet if we could get her back today and ask if she still wants to go through with it, she'd say no.

Some Things Never Change

You know the old saying, "They can put a man on the moon but they can't" do whatever crazy thing it is they can't do? Well, here's a good one for you: They can put a man on the moon but they still haven't come up with a colonoscopy prep that doesn't make you want to shoot yourself. (Sorry for the gun reference, I hope I didn't cause any PTSD flashbacks and no, I am not a member of the NRA. I also don't own a gun, am a total pacifist and won't even watch reruns of M*A*S*H on TV.)

Anyway, it's nearing time for me to undergo that nasty rigmarole again and I figured by now they'd surely come up with a modern way to prep for a look-see inside the colon. But no, it's still the same old Draconian formula of laxatives and gallons of putrid-tasting Gatorade they've been using since forever. (Each time I go through it I am reminded of Olympic skater Nancy Kerrigan wailing, "Why me?")

Tired of waiting to hear from the gastroenterology people about an appointment -- my doctor said they'd call -- I finally called them and asked why I hadn't yet been contacted. I was stunned by the response: "We receive 300 requests per day for colonoscopies, and it takes time to wade through all the information for each patient. We'll get back to you in about five or six weeks."

You'd think that with so many aging hippies clamoring for the procedure, some of our best minds would get on it and devise a prep involving Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia and a couple of Valium. And here's a tip for all the young doctors out there: If you're looking for a way to pay off your student loans, move to Maine and specialize in colonoscopies. Sure it's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it.

What's So Happy About Birthdays?

Imagine if we could behave how we feel, without "Act your age!" hanging over us.

Tomorrow is my birthday and I am not happy about it. I do not enjoy counting the rings. I wonder how old I'd think I am if nobody were keeping track, like the government and the Internet and every store I ever shopped at. For weeks now my mailbox has been crammed with birthday discount cards from places I forgot even existed, all wanting me to celebrate by buying something from them.

One positive thing about birthdays is the tradition of giving people gifts on the day they were born. (As if still being alive for another year isn't enough of a gift.) But too often they miss the mark and you've got to lie to your friends and family and say how much you love the thing before tossing it in a drawer or, worst-case scenario, the trash. (Yup, I've done that, except for anything from my son which has intrinsic Zack value.)

But this year I hit pay dirt. My husband surprised me with a new easel, without me even asking for one! My old one was cheap and rickety and, after countless years, caked with layers of paint. It hardly moved up and down anymore. The new one is a thousand times better: sturdy and solid, made of beautiful wood that seemingly demands one to create works of art worthy of its fine craftsmanship. It makes my being a year older a bit more palatable, although if you ask me it still sucks.

Often Overlooked Travel Dilemmas

Is it just me, or has everything been said already -- twice? It seems that every article I settle down to read tells me stuff I already know, and everyone else already knows too. For example, I just saw one that was called "How to Be a Travel Artist", promising to make your travel experiences fabulous and hassle-free. Naturally I clicked, since all of my travel experiences are fraught with unplanned problems I am ill-equipped to handle.

Tip # 1 was "Don't check your bag. This allows you to avoid the crowds at the baggage claim area and ensures your bag will not be lost." Oh really? Gee, I never thought of that before, right? Wrong -- who doesn't know that by the second grade? The rest of the tips were just as lame, like "Don't just take pictures on your iPhone -- instead, look around at the scenery." Again, thanks a lot.

What I want are solid suggestions for how to handle the following scenarios, a few of which have happened to me and some of which very well might have:

1. What if 20 minutes after takeoff the pilot announces you will be making an emergency landing and orders everyone to slide down the rubber chute, first removing all shoes and eyeglasses. Should you actually remove your glasses if you are helpless without them, or risk permanent blindness if they break and puncture a cornea?

2. How do you remain sane during an eight-hour layover in a crummy airport like, to pick one at random, Newark or LaGuardia?

3. Supposing you suffer a surprise bout of bleeding hemorrhoids at the gate as they're starting to board your group. Do you get on or not? What if you're wearing white pants -- is the answer any different?

4. You just remembered there's half an ounce of pot in your carry-on bag while you're going through security and your bag is already on the conveyor belt. Should you run?

5. Say you notice in the waiting area that many of your fellow passengers are fat and ugly. Does this necessarily mean that all of you have been singled out for elimination from the gene pool and the plane will crash? Could it mean anything else?

6. You get to your hotel at 11 PM and learn that your room is right next to the elevator, there's a convention of video gamers going on, and the air-conditioning is broken and it's Phoenix in the summer. Do you check in or sleep in the park?

7. The 24-hour train from NY to Miami has left the station when it is announced there is no Dining Car and you'll have to get all your meals from vending machines at the stations where the train stops along the way. This includes Georgia. Is that the moment to take that cyanide tablet stashed in your bag in case of a nuclear holocaust?

8. What if just as you land in a low-lying area there's a tsunami?

These are the answers I'm looking for. Surely I'm not the only one.

The Glory Days of Testosterone

 Robert Mitchum exuding pathological machismo.

Here in the Maine Public Schools, a new curriculum called "Boys to Men" teaches boys how to stop being boys. Actually, it "retrains middle-and high-school boys away from pathological machismo." This of course goes hand in glove with the national discussion regarding gender, and how it's now unacceptable to apply labels like "girls" and "boys." Let's all just be fluid, i.e., "I'm feeling mannish today, so call me him." That sort of thing.

Fine, I sincerely don't care. What gender someone is or pretends to be bores me; I'm more interested in if they're funny and how much they give to charity, and do they have those dripping snot jewelry piercings coming out their nostrils and are they kind to animals. Beyond that, what someone does with their genitals is their business. But I do wonder how future generations will be produced if men stop being masculine, which for many of them is the only quality that attracts women to them in the first place. (I suppose cloning will be perfected.)

I'm glad I grew up when men were still allowed to be men, producing Hollywood box office bait like Bruce Willis, Harrison Ford, Robert Mitchum, Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, Clint Eastwood, Humphrey Bogart, Marlon Brando, James Caan and Al Pacino. Those were the glory days of testosterone.

Does Free Speech Include Saying Cunt?

Night before last, a second-string comic who is not even American and not even funny called Ivanka Trump, the president's gracious daughter and mother of three, "a cunt" on her national late-night TV show. And worse, she called her a feckless cunt, as if there are perfectly good cunts out there. (Feckless means worthless and irresponsible.)

She has since apologized. She was not fired, and in fact the very next day received an award for her show on the Turner cable network, unlike Roseanne Barr who was sent straight to bed without dinner and woke up to find all her toys gone and no friends to play with after she implied that a woman of African-American descent is either a Muslim or an ape, possibly both. The unequal treatment of the two comics is because the cunt-sayer, who goes by the name of Samantha Bee, is a liberal, and apparently anything They do or say is acceptable.

A liberal can get away with calling the president of our country an orangutan, the ape of choice used to describe him because of his supposedly "orange" hair, and many of them have, since most of them mimic whatever others of their ilk say and do. (To be a Democrat is to be a thoughtless clone, excepting for my son, my nephew Keith and my friends Ira, Mike, Patsy and Tony, all of whom actually think for themselves).

I'm wondering why all the reporting of this recent incident says that Ms. Bee used the "C-word" rather than writing out the word cunt, when she actually said the word on TV. I also wonder what size firestorm would have broken out had a conservative pundit, like say Ann Coulter, called Chelsea Clinton a cunt. (Oy, oy, oy -- just imagine!) But wait, there's more: A few weeks ago, another who-the-hell-is-she comic made ugly jabs at Sarah Huckabee Sanders, the president's press secretary, during a fancy dinner attended by members of the media, and she immediately became the darling of the CNN-MSNBC crowd.

Come on people, wake up and smell the inequality! And by the way, I like Sarah Sanders a lot, think she does a great job, and find her quite pretty in an offbeat way. So there.