Job-Hunting in Maine

In an ongoing effort to "give back" to the community, not to mention get out of the house once in awhile lest I forget how to conduct myself in the presence of others, I have once again scheduled a meeting with an organization that is looking for volunteers.  This one seems right up my alley, as they want people who can teach youngsters ages 6 to 18 how to write. Let's face it, I can write, and I do have years of teaching experience. SO WHAT COULD GO WRONG?  Just a few possibilities follow, based on my past experiences as an interviewee in the great state of Maine. (Parenthesis indicate the actual organization where the thing really happened.)

1. I will get to the appointment on time but nobody will be there and the place will be locked up tight. (Portland Magazine)

2. I will get to the appointment on time, be kept waiting for half an hour, get pissed off and leave before I ever see anyone. (Estabrook's Garden Center)

3. I will arrive on time and find that the interviewer is not ready for me and asks me to wait. I will then be ushered into a hallway where there is no chair for me to sit on. The interviewer's 6-year-old granddaughter will remain for the duration of the interview and complain that she is bored. (Wilbur's Chocolates)

4. I will be interviewed with a group of seven other people by two women simultaneously and asked to "role play" a variety of scenarios, like being trapped on a desert island with the other people, causing me to sigh audibly, roll my eyes and not get the job. (L.L. Bean Retail Store) 

5. I will be asked to do something demeaning and unnecessary, as when I was ordered to push a candy cart around and around the pediatric wing of a hospital, stopping to offer a variety of fun-sized candies to the doctors and nurses, for three hours. (Barbara Bush Children's Hospital, Maine Medical Center)

6. I will be asked to do something annoying and stupid, like when I walked around a hospital knocking on the doors of sick people and asking if they liked the food. (Mid-Coast Hospital, Brunswick) 

7. The interviewer will take one look at me and decide I am just too old to be of any use. (Brunswick Food Pantry) 

8. The interviewer will take one look at me and decide I am just too Jewish to have around. (Casco Bay YMCA, Freeport)

Finger's crossed that today will work out better!

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Today I had a frank discussion with a friend about something rarely talked about in polite, or even impolite, society: The total and complete lack of libido in women past a certain age. For those who don't speak Latin, that means they don't want to have sex -- anytime, anywhere, and with anyone. I was delighted to learn that I'm not the only one suffering from this humiliating affliction that our culture considers a deal-killer when it comes to being an attractive or desirable person. The only possible fix is to take estrogen in tablets, cream or injections, but since that can give you breast and/or cervical cancer, it's not very popular. Quick, what would you choose: Orgasms and cancer or no orgasms and no cancer?

Still, a lack of libido is not something women like to broadcast. Nobody is going to make a GoFundMe page to raise money for their estrogen-related chemotherapy treatments. Admitting to a lack of sex drive is as unpopular as being a brown-skinned leper in a sea of white missionaries. (Worldwide prevalence of leprosy is reported to be around 5.5 million, with 80% of these cases in India, Indonesia, Myanmar, Brazil and Nigeria.) It might be worse, since married lepers are surely not told by their spouses, "It's all in your mind." 

I assumed my problem was due to my husband being eleven years my junior, but my friend's significant other is a dozen years older than she is, making him exactly my age, so there goes that theory. Here's the solution she shared with me, something tested and re-tested in her home: The Fleshlight, a 100% polyester lifelike vagina discreetly packaged inside what looks like an ordinary household flashlight. I won't describe it further since most of the men and all of the women reading this are probably already Googling it, and a picture is worth a thousand words. Bear in mind, The Fleshlight needs a thorough cleaning after each use and must be replaced annually, or more often depending on how vigorous your man is. 

So that's my yuletide tip for today. At least someone on your gift list will have a Merry Christmas!

Stop Yelling, and Learn to Swim

It's odd that people don't get along better when we're all in the same boat, the boat being Life and certain Death, unrelenting Anxiety that muddles our thinking, and constant Aggression that causes us to lash out at one another even though we're all we've got. Few of us understand, or if we do still we don't try to help, that stress and turmoil in any part of the boat is likely to shake up the whole damn vessel, ultimately dumping everyone overboard.

Right now the SS Humanity is taking on water at an alarming rate and several of the engine rooms are flooded. This is not at all surprising when you consider the people at the helm. I am not one of them; generally I stay off the bridge and hang out below deck. I admit this is cowardly but I simply don't have the  stamina to take responsibility for too many of the other passengers; I pretty much limit my care-taking to my immediate family and a few close friends. And myself, naturally.

The alarming fact is that there is no other boat! This realization causes me great anxiety and is the reason I begin each day by swallowing a mouthful of pills that the ship's doctors hand out freely to anyone with a problem. Most days the pills help, or else it's the oatmeal with walnuts and turmeric -- I always feel better right after that. But so many others onboard are eating badly, sickened from consuming too much sugar, salt and dead animals, it's little wonder there's so much conflict.

But never fear! In case you do fall overboard, remember the popular Buddhist saying: "If you know you're the ocean, you're not afraid of the waves." Still, a few swimming lessons couldn't hurt.

Bad Jokes for A Rainy Day

This particular day is more than half over and I have done nothing that qualifies as special, memorable or fun, unless you count doing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle which my husband and I do every weekend and today's was a drag. Boring and stupid, with of course the usual clue about Supreme Court justice Kagan (Answer: ELENA).  Some days are like that. But then you read these books about how you are supposed to make every minute count, and that just makes you feel worse.

My husband says perhaps I could make every minute count by enjoying things that are not traditionally enjoyable, like today's cold, driving winter rain falling on piles of dirty snow with not a hint of sunshine. I find his suggestion sick and twisted. Come on, admit it: It's hard to stay upbeat all the time.

One remedy is to pull out the bad jokes. The ones below come from "A Prairie Home Companion Pretty Good Joke Book," with an introduction by Garrison Keillor written before he was accused of being a sexual predator. It says right on the cover, "Delight your friends and become the envy of your social circle," and who doesn't want that? So go for it.

Why was Cinderella so lousy at baseball?
She ran away from the ball and she had a pumpkin for a coach.

What do you say to a hitchhiker with one leg?
Hop in.

What do you call cheese that doesn't belong to you?
Nacho cheese.

Why are you scratching yourself?
I'm the only one who knows where it itches.

Patient: Doc, I'm suicidal, what should I do?
Doctor: Pay in advance. 

What's the best thing about having a woman for president?
We wouldn't have to pay her as much. 

What do you use to fix a broken tomato?
Tomato paste.

Wife: Honey, pack your bags-- I just won the lottery! 
Husband: Wow! That's great! Should I pack for the ocean, the mountains, or where?
Wife: It doesn't matter -- just get the hell out.

My company put me up in a low-class hotel. I called the concierge and said, "I've got a leak in my sink."
She said, "Go ahead."

Film Review: THREE IDENTICAL STRANGERS

The brothers, happily reunited.

A mind-blowing documentary that will have you questioning everything you think you know about yourself, Three Identical Strangers opens a door into the unwittingly nefarious nature of scientific advancement, complete with evil villains and innocent lambs. It's a true story which makes it even better and, at the same time worse, about identical triplets who were separated not at birth but at six months, and how they accidentally meet one another at the age of 19.

As New York Times critic Manohla Dargis wisely wrote in her review, this is a film that is "best watched knowing as little as possible about its specifics." I agree so will say no more. But I urge you to find it and watch it; it will entertain you and make you smarter. Besides, the film is shot beautifully in truly living color and includes historic footage of New York City in the 1980s, an exciting era before AIDS and terrorists ruined all the fun.

Battle of the Ages

I recently came across  an article online called "20 Things Millennials Hate About Baby Boomers," or something like that. Being a so-called Boomer myself, naturally I was interested. But soon enough I was appalled, not just by the poor writing but by the audacity of the writer. Among the things that were called out as truly offensive to the younger generation were Crocs -- the shoe, not the reptile. They were deemed "ugly"  and simply "have to go."

Really? Are they as ugly as those nose rings that look like snot is dripping out of both nostrils, so popular with today's supermarket checkout girls? How about the half-shaven head, or the giant holes in the earlobe stuffed with rubber rings, for exactly what reason? Call me old-fashioned, or even just old, but I love my Crocs and I'm keeping them. (I even have two pairs.)

You Can't Fake Genius

There was only one Freddie Mercury; accept no substitutes.

Everyone is agog over the new movie, Bohemian Rhapsody, that pretends to tell the story of the rock group Queen, and especially its flamboyantly gay front man Freddie Mercury who had the voice of an angel implanted in him by God. As a hardcore fan who has heard every song on every album and knows the intakes and exhales of every breath Freddie takes on all the hit songs, it's a wonder to many of my friends why I have not yet seen the film. Here's why I haven't, and won't.

By all critical accounts of the people who know such things, it's a bullshit, sugar-coated, made for the masses, phony-baloney look at Mercury and the rise of the group, produced by the surviving band members running out of cash and eager to milk his memory for more money. Freddie has become, in death, a new industry! So many TV commercials use his songs these days, it's sickening. I cannot support this.

Instead I often watch the group perform live on YouTube, and listen to their music in my headphones when I go walking. I have read the outstanding biography of Freddie called, of course, "Mercury," and you should too. (Buy the book; link below) Therein lies the real scoop, not the sanitized version. After all, the man died of AIDS at the age of 46, and he certainly earned it. Find out how.

https://www.amazon.com/Mercury-Intimate-Biography-Freddie/dp/1451663951/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1543503155&sr=8-1&keywords=freddy+mercury+biography

Capitalism: Bah, Humbug!

On last night's televised reality show, "The Great Christmas Light Fight," contestants across the country (who apparently lost their minds years ago decorating their homes for Christmas) were judged, with one entry ultimately crowned the winner. Since I happened upon it while channel surfing during commercials on the news channels I didn't see much, but I saw enough. Too much, in fact, since I came away feeling depressed that four families had squandered many, many thousands of dollars on useless crap to surround their unspectacular, middle-American suburban homes with all the yuletide geegaws one can find in any Walmart, Michael's, Christmas Shoppe, Target and Home Depot. We are not talking designer stuff here.

Somebody's front lawn.

If they had donated all the money spent, or at least the $50,000 Grand Prize, to homeless shelters or Toys for Tots or area soup kitchens or their local hospital or any damn charity out there, then the original intent of "the Christmas spirit" might have been honored. But instead, the whole show was an ode to capitalism, and a sickening one at that.

There were acres and acres of of lights; one proud homeowner boasted his front-yard tree had 70,000 of them! Every house exhibited the same sad theme: A KITSCHY CHRISTMAS. There were rows and rows of inflated Santas lining specially built cement walkways, and robotic elves that moved up and down and from side to side, grinning that scary-puppet grin. A full complement of reindeer on the roof pulling Santa's sled showed up, as if it were so original. There were full-sized train cars decorated with giant candy canes, garlands of greens and oversized tree ornaments. As for trees, a few reached for the sky. Some were tall enough to require renting a cherry picker to decorate it. (I bet that wasn't cheap.)

On the religious end, lest we forget why we're all here, there were the usual mangers with the Baby Jesus and the Three Wise Men on camels. But mostly it was glitzy, glaring, tacky lighting of cartoonish depictions of everything Christmas. Oddly enough, or maybe not, all the contestant families responsible were without exception obese, which tells you something about their ongoing commitment to overindulgence.

Oh for a nation of ascetics who are all fit and in good health and spend their Christmas money giving to charity. That's my holiday dream, and a reality show I could seriously endorse.

Why They Hate Ivanka

Ivanka: What's not to hate?

Recently, First Daughter Ivanka Trump tweeted a photo of her adorable little boy and "the Internet" went berserk! How could she, they spewed, with immigrant children being tear-gassed at the border, by her father no less, post a photo of her very privileged child on a fishing trip? What nerve! Has that bitch not a shred of compassion?

"The Internet" hates Ivanka, and not because of her father. They hate her for herself, and here's why:
1. She is beautiful
2. She is rich
3. She is thin
4. She is intelligent
5. She has perfect hair
6. She is married to a rich man

Ugly, fat, poor, dumb Americans with bad hair, married to similarly ugly, dumb fat spouses no doubt, simply cannot abide her.  I'm not saying that I can, but I certainly do not begrudge her being a proud mom of a cute little boy. As for the tear gas, oh grow up! I was tear-gassed once, at some protest or other, and it's nowhere near as bad as having to drink the prep for a colonoscopy.

Account Insecurity

Earlier today, wanting to write a post in this very space, I accidentally clicked the wrong thing on my computer and was locked out of my blog. It turned out to be worse than being locked out of my house, which has happened to me more than once. All I had to do in each of those instances was open a window, a simple task here in Maine since none of our windows have locks and any idiot can just slide them open and climb in. It was harder back in D.C. where I had to use a rock to break a pane of glass in a French door and then stick my hand inside to turn the doorknob. I got inside easily enough but immediately had to go to the ER because I had inadvertently slit my wrist doing so, requiring six stitches and a frantic drive to the hospital with my teenage son, unlicensed but with a learner's permit, at the wheel. Just for fun, God threw in a severe thunderstorm on the way. Still, despite all of that it was easier, though bloodier, than getting locked out of my blog this morning.

First I received a message saying I was no longer permitted access to this blog, but could win it back with my Google password. Which I entered but it was of course incorrect. Then came the barrage of  security questions. What was my favorite pet? Jesus, that changes on a daily basis! I tried "Tank," our adorable dead pug from years ago. Nope. Then I tried "Daisy," my feline soul mate, also deceased. No again. Okay, what city were you born in? I found out just today that Brooklyn is not a city, it's only a borough inside a city, that being New York City. Of course I knew that, who doesn't, but a card laid is a card played; there are no do-overs with a computer.

By then the Google people were suspicious and requested the phone number on the account. Only it was an old one from years ago that I couldn't remember. After entering the wrong phone number, all hell broke loose. In no time my email was flooded with messages from Google saying my account was "in peril." They sent me several sets of numbers to use to unlock it, but each time I also had to enter a password with it and it was never the right one, despite my having to create a new password each time. Finally came the message that I had tried too many times and I would have to wait until later, when "someone will contact you."

After much time passed and my frustration grew proportionally, with frantic emails to this account and that account, and numerous text messages to my cell phone sounding the alarm, I finally managed to get back in. Don't ask me how. All I know is that throwing a rock at my computer would have been so much easier.

Expert Advice

Sometimes I read my old blog posts just for fun and am amazed that I have come up with so many things to write about since I am not a bona fide expert in any field. However there is one area in which I possess undeniable expertise, and that's crossword puzzles. I do them for fun and also to keep my brain from dying, which some doctor told me years ago could happen if I stopped pushing all the cells around in there.

Being an expert in crosswords has its pluses and minuses. The good thing is I can always finish them, which brings its own sort of satisfaction. But the bad thing is that they pretty much all use the same clues, so it's gotten less challenging the older I get. For example, a wildly popular clue answer is AWL, which is a tool for punching holes in leather. I swear it's in just about every puzzle. Another one is EWE, often clued as "mom on the farm." And the following celebrities show up constantly, simply because the letters in their names play well with others. (Parenthetical italics show how they are typically clued.):

ELENA Kagan (Supreme justice)
AVA Gardner (actress once married to Sinatra)
ANI DiFranco (singer DiFranco)
Arthur ASHE (hero on the court)
Ed ASNER (newsroom boss)
NIA Vardalos (Greek film bride)
EVE (first female)
MIA Farrow (Woody's ex)

That's all the expertise I got. Certainly not enough to write a best-seller or get me on a talk show, but possibly enough to help you complete a crossword puzzle someday.