I'm So Stoopid

Anonymous has accused me of never admitting my shortcomings and instead mocking those of others, and adds that it is tiresome to read my blog because of that. To counter that accusation, I will continue, from time to time, to shed light on my own faults.

Following is a list--the tip of the iceberg I might add--of things I don't understand or know nothing about, despite having lived a long time, graduated from a good university and worked within several reputable corporations and more than a few giants of the publishing industry:

1. The difference between World War I and World War II
2. Electricity
3. The Electoral College
4. Why Justin Bieber is famous
5. Why, with all the words available, some truffles are mushrooms and some truffles are chocolate
6. How people still become Catholics despite the widespread child molestation by priests
7. Who fought in the Korean War
8. How Puerto Rico relates to America
9. How if we evolved from apes there are still apes
10. Salsa dancing and salsa that you eat: ?
11. Why Shakespeare is considered great
12. Who carved Mt. Rushmore and why, and how long it took to complete
13. Who and what is the president pro tempore
14. Football
15. Taxes

Saint Andrea's Faults

Aerial view of the San Andreas Fault

This morning I got pissed off and declared that I would no longer be writing this blog. The post in which I declared that has been deleted--by me--because I can. I can write a new one saying the same thing, then I can delete that one too. That's the great thing about a blog, you can do whatever the hell you want and nobody can stop you! It's quite cool.

Anyway, I heard from some of my dear friends who said they actually do read my blog and would miss it, and that made me feel better and think perhaps I would continue. There was also a comment from that sneaky old coward, Anonymous, who said the trouble with my blog is that I don't see all the things that are wrong with me and that "it gets tiresome." Who knew? I always feel as if I am quite self-deprecating on a regular basis, but apparently not enough to please some folks. So, following is a list of my faults; feel free to point out anything I omitted:

1. I am very judgmental about people. I really hate anyone who is stupid, has a limited vocabulary, talks incessantly without checking if you are interested or even listening, does not keep up with the news, watches reality TV seriously and not as a hoot, goes to every movie as soon as it is released thinking that makes them cool, and believes what they read in the paper.
2. I use food as a drug and eat not only when I am hungry but when I am sad or angry too. Fortunately this is not too often so I am not too fat.
3. I am unabashedly disdainful of the obese. This comes from a childhood of mental and physical abuse by a morbidly obese person, my older sister. I spent many years in therapy dealing with this problem, but then my shrink died and I still hate very fat people.
4. I do not see addictions as a disease and so I am harshly unsympathetic towards alcoholics, drug addicts and cigarette smokers. I smoked for 40 years myself and never once thought I had a disease, I thought I liked to smoke.
5. I get bored easily and so lose interest in projects and people sooner than might be expected or desired.
6. I hate small talk and bullshit and thus am frightening to many people who are afraid to hear anything close to the truth about life, death, and especially death.
7. I hate parties that aren't fun. If you throw a party, then you'd better serve good food, adjust the lighting, provide good music and invite interesting guests. I don't want to drive over just to eat your chips and dip and sit around in a deadly silent room making small talk with boring people who never ask me one question because they are either too meek or too self-absorbed to wonder about anyone else.
8. I talk too loudly in public and don't care what strangers think of me. (My son hates this.)

Hoodies Don't Kill People, Guns Kill People

So the kid was three inches taller than six feet, and not a kid at all but 17. And it was night and he was wearing a so-called "hoodie," which apparently is a signal in some circles that a crime might occur, or might have already occurred, or occurred on TV or in some surveillance tapes somewhere--whatever. The point is, I'm not going out at night in one, although I could because I am a white woman with a senior discount card in my wallet and besides, my own personal hoodie is pink and says Life Is Good across the front. As for TV news personality Geraldo Rivera having to apologize for speaking the truth about the dangers inherent in this article of clothing, that is just another example of political correctness gone haywire. And to whom did he apologize, one wonders.

Anyway, I'm not here to suggest who was right or who was wrong or whether the shooter was really a racist murderer or the dead man was really a ne'er-do-well or an innocent, which by all accounts he was because after all, he was found with a bag of Skittles, and how could someone who eats Skittles be bad? What I am here to say is that anyone who does not believe that we have a big problem in this country regarding racial discrimination and hatred and tensions and rage should just read some of the comments that follow all the news stories about this situation on the Internet, and get back to me.
 

A Supreme Waste of Time

Finding something to do with yourself while you are alive can be quite challenging. Box office totals suggest that going to the movies is a popular activity, at least in America. In fact, watching other people live their lives and then discussing them with friends is a satisfying pursuit to many people, although to me it's just empty calories. And sightseeing in foreign countries, while amusing in short spurts, gets old quickly and offers little in the way of lasting value.

So this afternoon, in search of diversion, my friend Dagmar and I ventured downtown to see an exhibit of the works of Edgar Degas, the French artist known most for his gauzy paintings of ballerinas. Not being a fan of the ballet, or of Impressionism, I have never been a big Degas fan, but still, an artist living in Maine can't be too choosy about what to see or not see--after all, there is only one art museum here.

Several rooms of the Portland Museum of Art were hung with the artist's works on paper: etchings, watercolors, pastels, monoprints, pen and ink drawings, drypoint and aquatints. Seeing so many images from one man's imagination made me understand anew that artists pass their time on earth by covering pieces of paper (or canvases or walls) with images transferred from inside their brains. That's just what they do. It was reassuring, since I always feel like I should be doing something "better" than painting or drawing, but I've yet to find anything that is. And now that the Supreme Court might just overturn the whole Obamacare thing, a.k.a. the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act, which so many people spent so much time creating, it's clear that even important people waste their time, maybe more than artists do. At least we have something tangible to look at, clear evidence of our labors, after we're done, whereas all those senators and congressmen will have nothing at all. (Unless you count money as something.)

Stuff Jewish Mothers Don't Like

I ran across a website this morning called "Stuff Black People Don't Like." Naturally, it is jam-packed with all the egregious errors that dumb, unthinking, unfeeling, boorish, bigoted and racist white assholes do on a daily basis that piss black people off. What I have to say to them is, "Boo-fucking-hoo, you're not the only group that is mistreated!" I belong to another one, and I'm here to tell you I'm sick of it.

Anytime I help someone, or even suggest helping, I am accused of being a "Jewish mother."  This is quite annoying, not to mention racist and sexist and possibly ageist, and I am currently considering who I can sue, what government agency I should contact, and how to blame Rush Limbaugh.

Mike Myers as "verklempt" Jewess on SNL.

Yesterday I gave a worker in my home a Band-Aid, which he asked for in case you wondered, and suggested he wash the cut on his hand before applying it. He said, "Okay, Mom. Are you Jewish?" (That was simply because he did not know for sure and did not want to go out on that particular shaky limb.) If someone has a cold and I offer a tissue rather than watch their snot drip onto my furniture, they take it while saying, "You are such a Jewish mother." When friends stop by and I offer them coffee or water or a beverage or ask if they are hungry, I am immediately told I am "being such a Jewish mother." When our son is sick or his allergies are acting up and I suggest he take an antihistamine, my very own husband quickly points out, "she can't help herself, she's a Jewish mother."

This racial profiling is being fed by the publishing industry, which prints books on the subject under the guise of humor while perpetuating the stereotypes. Some titles:  Jewish Mother Goose, Secrets of a Jewish Mother, How to Be a Jewish Mother, Yiddeshe Mamas, The Jewish Mother Book, 25 Questions for a Jewish Mother, The Portable Jewish Mother, A History of the Jewish Mother, and the very now, very today, very up-to-the-minute, Modern Jewish Mom. Well, guess what-- I am a Jew and I do have a kid, so I guess that makes me a card-carrying you-know-what. But I am sick of hearing this, and from now on you can all starve, or bleed on the carpet, or drop dead for all I care--I will not offer succor. This Jewish mother is closing down the whole business. Next time you visit me, eat before you come.

Birth of a Bad Mood

Several weeks ago, I ordered window shades for the most exposed areas of our living space. After three years of living in a fishbowl, this will be nice. Especially at night when darkness descends and the surrounding woods fill up with escaped convicts, their night-vision binoculars trained on me inside, alone, without even a dog giving the illusion of protection. The camera pans in.....

Steered in the right direction by a friend, I called The Curtainshop in Portland. The saleswoman, Janet, and the scheduler, Joyce, were both very pleasant. An appointment made within days for the measuring of our windows went off without a hitch. Things were then ordered on our behalf. The second appointment was made for the installation of shades and curtains--two separate treatments for two separate situations--and the installer, John, came today. He was supposed to come at 12:30, but then I got a call back a few days ago changing it to 1:30 and was that okay, and I said yes. Then he called today at 10:30 this morning and said he was nearby, could he come now, and so I said sure, even though it was sort of inconvenient and I had to change my schedule to accommodate his, which kind of sucked. But hey, whatever works.

John arrived and got right to work, but within minutes he requested a band-aid for a cut finger. Naturally I administered first aid, and soon enough he was back on the job. He then announced that he was missing the correct number of curtain rods necessary to complete the job. "One window will have to remain undone," he declared, "until I can get back here."  Considering his busy schedule it might be a couple of weeks. Will that be alright, he asked. No it will not, I already waited quite a long time and paid handsomely for these damn shades and the whole situation sucks, is what I thought, but I said, "Sure, no problem."

Then John, being nice, called The Curtainshop and explained that he lacked the right number of rods, which he was handed in a big package by someone at the warehouse, and could somebody bring them over. The lady on the phone said she was too busy to talk with him, and hung up. John said he will try to get back here next week but doubts he can, so how about the week after. Annoyed, I said no problem. Having by then installed all the shades, John hung two of the sheer curtains for which he was missing the rods, and they were hideous and clearly unacceptable. Not even close. "Those are not sheers," I tell John, "those are crappy polyester trash!" He said Janet is on vacation this week and he will have her call me next week. He left with half the job done, and there are holes in the window trim where the curtains were that John put up before I made him take them down.

Honestly, I'm not even all that crazy about the shades. Plus, I have skin cancer and the biopsy is not back yet so how do I know it is the good kind? And then my son called asking for help with his taxes and I said that's what accountants are for. And now as far as I'm concerned, everything sucks, even though when I woke up this morning, everything was fine.

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

First thing this morning, my husband reportedly was "bummed out" by reading the following statement at the top of his Facebook news stream, posted by a cousin of his: "Fuck you, Monday." That dire message received 17 "likes." That's pretty bad, but even worse, it was followed immediately by a comment from the unhappy young woman's own mother: "Couldn't agree more." While one wonders what could have happened to her already by 8 AM to fuel that sentiment, it's no wonder she talks that way; her mother spews curse words like a truck-driving, Mafia boss fishwife. And let's remember, Mommy does set the tone.

This point was driven home to me when my own son was about four. Stuck in our tiny coach seats seemingly forever, on the tarmac somewhere waiting for something or other to be fixed, I was reading him the same three books over and over, trying to keep him amused. I was about to sail into "Where the Wild Things Are" for like the third time, when Zack yelled, "I don't want to read that fucking book!" Mortified, I turned slowly to see if anyone had overheard his little outburst. The man seated directly behind me said, "Hey, don't look at me---I didn't teach him to say that."

It's way too late for my husband's cousins to become more prudent with their speech, and for me and my son as well, but I offer this cautionary tale to help anyone with little kids or grandchildren. Watch it.

Queen for a Day

My husband and I have had a long-running argument over whether money buys happiness. He says no, and in fact asserts that the poor, living in hovels though they may, have stronger family ties and closer friendships than the rich, and thus ultimately are happier overall. I usually take the opposite point of view just for fun, but never being rich, I have had no way of knowing for sure. Now I know.

Last night, through a stroke of luck involving a close friend with connections, Mitch and I were able to stay in an exclusive suite at an exclusive private club in New York City, for a price much lower than any hotel. (Such a deal!) Situated on a high floor in mid-town Manhattan, our home away from home has fabulous views, a huge outdoor deck, an original De Kooning, flat screen TVs all over the place, luxurious silk robes, sheets with a high thread count--not sure what that means, but they feel good-- sleek furnishings, a towel warmer in the bathroom, the strongest water pressure-- thus the best shower--outside of Niagara Falls, a fitness club with steam and sauna, blah blah blah. It's quite the place. But what makes it really special is the coffee wall. It's an appliance of course, built in so it looks like it's in the wall, and all you do is put your cup where it's supposed to go and press a button and coffee--very good coffee--comes out within seconds. You don't have to mess with filters or even a little pod of coffee, you just press a button and this fabulous, rich, delicious, brewed-to-perfection coffee comes out, steaming hot. I am on my second cup as I write this and I may have a third if I feel like it.

Based on this new information, I am going to go out on a limb and say that yes, money does buy happiness. And while I am still bummed out over my diagnosis of skin cancer two days ago--apparently it's not the bad kind, as if there is good cancer--that I will have to deal with in the coming days, feeling pampered makes it easier somehow. If I won the lottery and had infinite wealth to share, I would arrange for the poor to have coffee-dispensing units in their hovels. It's much better than a television, and everyone already has one of those. FYI: We went to the Museum of Modern Art yesterday afternoon and found out for sure that the De Kooning in our suite is not the original. (Unless they have the fake.)

A New Low for Me

I am writing and posting this from the passenger seat of my car, going west on the Mass Pike. My husband is driving, which is pretty scary all the time, but even scarier now since I am not watching his every move and keeping us from certain death, but instead looking down at my computer, which is in my lap. Pretty wild, although you sort of wonder why it just isn't part of the dashboard already.

I am hooked to the Internet via some gadget called a "wireless air card." I guess this is about the most technologically advanced I have ever gotten, which is a good thing but somehow I feel bad about it. But not too bad, since I am telling the world.

Anyway, we are driving to New York and have two hours to go, so if you want to play Words With Friends, I am up for it. Hope we don't crash.....Mitch is going 80!

Running for Office

I read this morning that somebody donated $1 million to Rick Santorum's campaign yesterday, to be spent on an ad blitz telling us all how despicable the other candidates are and how great Rick Santorum is. Then last night I saw Fred Thompson on television in Law & Order, and remembered how in 2008 the former senator from Tennessee was "the next big thing" who would surely revolutionize politics. Then I remembered my Perot button.

Too Sexy for the White House?

Last week I heard a conservative radio talk show host--one of the Rush Limbaugh wannabes--trashing Mitt Romney for his inability to connect with the people. "Come on, this guy never ate an Egg McMuffin in his life," Howie Carr railed. He then went on to explain/complain that, according to reliable sources, Mitt eats the cheese off his pizza and throws away the crust. This apparently means he is not a man of the people, who as we know eat the whole pizza and perhaps an order of fries on the side. Not that Mitt, though--he watches his calories. How elitist!

You'd think the fact that he is so trim and in such good shape at age 65 would win him favor, but it doesn't. Ditto his successful business career, his term as Governor of Massachusetts, his 43-year marriage to his high-school sweetheart and his 16 grandchildren. Plus, if I may go out on a limb and say that while he is not my type (too goyish), he is  handsome--dashing, even--with a fabulous smile and quite a set of shoulders.

For all these reasons, Mitt is despised by the liberals and intensely disliked by many in his own party. (I refuse to believe it has anything to do with his religion; after all, our current president comes from a murky background at best, and nobody is quite sure what his beliefs are.) Mitt is just too damn flawless--that's his problem. After all, if we want "a man of the people" to lead us, he'd better be a complete and total mess, just like us.