Stump Yourself

Lately I have taken to playing a new game of my own invention. It's free and does not require being plugged into anything so I can play anywhere, anytime. It is called Guessing the Meaning of Words I Think I Know Before Checking the Dictionary Definition. True, this is a long and cumbersome name and I am working on a shorter one, but anyway you get the idea.

All you do is open the dictionary to a random page and look at any word, then close your eyes and try to come up with how you would define it if you were writing it, then open your eyes and check. You will be amazed at how hard it is and how wrong you can be. Last night I sort of got "protocol" right, but then who knew there are three different definitions for that word?

The best thing is you can play in the bathtub without fear of being electrocuted, which is what happened to my paternal grandfather when an electric shaver gave him a heart attack. (It's a long story.)

Twitter Is for the Birds

These guys tweet. You shouldn't.

As of yesterday, Twitter stocks are soaring. This is good news for people who own Twitter stock but bad news for the species. On the bright side, despite yesterday's surge in the market, Twitter use has fallen over the past few years as more and more people flock--no pun intended but it's a good one don't you think--to Facebook.

The very existence of Twitter has always given me the willies. I never go there, but I know for a fact that Obama and all the other nitwit political leaders we have elected do, and lord knows why. What can one say of any value in 140 characters? Tolstoy's "War and Peace" has 587,287 words, so one can only imagine the number of characters. Not that I am suggesting that everyone has a novel within, but really, if you've got something meaningful to say, why limit yourself?

Do your part and avoid tweeting. It is literally for the birds.

FILM REVIEW: And So It Goes

Some movies defy description. This is not one of them. Directed by the usually astute Rob Reiner, And So It Goes is about as sappy as it gets, which might have made a better title. It stars Michael Douglas and Diane Keaton, two pedigreed professionals who we might expect could be choosy about their vehicles. Not so, I guess, based on this treacly debacle.

Too bad Douglas didn't shoot the director before this scene.

Keaton plays Annie Hall (not her real name), only now she's in her 60s, childless and widowed, still singing those warbly lounge tunes at every opportunity. Sadly, this film gives her too many opportunities. Douglas is Oren Little, a rakish, rich real estate agent who lives in the next apartment and hurls insults at all the tenants, which they tolerate since he owns the building.

Oren's been a mean old bastard since his wife died two years earlier, turning his heart to ice. But we understand all too soon that it will be melted and that he and Keaton will live happily ever after. The melting is accomplished by an adorable 9-year-old, Oren's surprise granddaughter by his estranged, heroin-addicted son who drops her off with Gramps on the way to serving a 9-month prison sentence.

She--her name escapes me-- wins the hearts of all the neighbors, including the requisite fabulous black couple whose baby is born with the help of Oren. Of course she bonds with Keaton, dubbing her "Grandma" on sight. They all end up having a wonderful time in Little Shangri-La, which is the name of the apartment complex where they live. (Get it? Oren Little, Little Shangri-La?)

Yes, it is as nauseating as it sounds. The worst moment is when Rob Reiner directs himself to fall into a kiddie "Slip and Slide", making him look even more foolish than his bad toupee or this whole stupid movie. To be fair, I laughed out loud four times, mostly at Douglas' wry delivery of his predictable dialogue. Despite everything, his innate talent just wouldn't stay away.

Who Knows What to Think

Moments ago I learned that one of my friends needs back surgery to end his "excruciating pain,' while another got an "iffy biopsy" and must have something removed ASAP. A third is in the hospital awaiting his appendix removal, while a fourth is deeply depressed because his lover dumped him. There are also junked automobiles, bad bosses, and no jobs being bandied about as reasons for moods ranging from disgruntlement to severe depression.

On the other hand, today one of my dear friends who has spent the last few months in chemotherapy hell, plummeting to the depths of despair and clawing her way back, much thinner, wiser and balder now, feels well enough to go see a movie with me this afternoon, and for that I am supremely grateful.

Dragged Kicking and Screaming Into the Modern Age

This is a dark day for me. I probably should be celebrating, like any normal nitwit, but instead I am filled with trepidation. Yesterday I got an iPhone, and I can already tell I'm dumber.

For example, I am not sure I got the right color. Or maybe it's the protective case that's wrong. See, I got the blue phone, but when I put the pink case over it you can hardly see the blue, except for on the back where it's pink with blue dots. It's even got a name: The Peek-A-Boo. This bugs me. See, I wasn't thinking clearly already!

In my own defense, I didn't actually buy it, my husband got it for me, saying I MUST have one now that I have an art gallery and need to be able to run credit cards on something called a Square, on my new phone. It's all very technical, but it seemed to make sense at the time. Although now less so, and I have only had it for one day.

Anyway, I saw Invasion of the Body Snatchers years ago--both versions-- and I think this is how they are invading our brains circa 2014.

Damn Cake

Today is my husband's birthday and for some reason I ended up eating a ridiculous amount of chocolate cake because he was born 57 years ago. FYI, it was from Whole Foods and one of the best cakes I have ever had--certainly among the top five--but still, I don't really like chocolate cake, it wasn't my birthday, and even if it were, what's cake got to do with it?

Even worse, this particular cake wasn't even for Mitch, it was given to his twin who brought it over for dinner with several slices missing from an earlier celebration of the same occasion. So I did my wifely duty and ate all those sugary empty calories from a cake that said "Happy Birthday Neil." And for what reason? Are we not all fat enough already that we have to run around eating cake just because someone was born? People are born every day--in fact 360,000 of them were born just today worldwide. Do they all need a cake every damn year? What's wrong with a little fruit cup or maybe a slice of cheese and an apple?

I looked up the origin of the tradition of eating cake to celebrate birthdays and it turned out to be the Germans who started it all. Ha! Figures.

Who Needs Therapy?

I just received an email that divulges "12 easy ways to get younger." I am pretty excited about it. One of the ways is to "think happy thoughts." Who knew? I am quitting my shrink today. Anyway, following are the lyrics to "Whistle a Happy Tune" from the Broadway musical, "The King and I." I print them here as a public service:

Whenever I feel afraid
I hold my head erect
And whistle a happy tune
So no one will suspect
I'm afraid.

While shivering in my shoes
I strike a careless pose
And whistle a happy tune
And no one ever knows
I'm afraid.

The result of this deception
Is very strange to tell
For when I fool the people
I fear I fool myself as well!

I whistle a happy tune
And every single time
The happiness in the tune
Convinces me that I'm not afraid.

Make believe you're brave
And the trick will take you far.
You may be as brave
As you make believe you are.

Movin' On Up

President Obama, who seems to have an amazing capacity for relaxation, is apparently tired from all his partying and golfing and so is once again going on vacation in Martha's Vineyard, this time for more than two weeks. 

According to ABC NEWS, "The first family will travel to the island from Aug. 9 to Aug. 24, making the 15-day getaway the longest summer vacation of Obama’s presidency. While the location of their vacation home was supposed to be under wraps, neighbors confirmed to the local newspaper that the Obamas will be staying at a luxurious home owned by Joanne Hubschman, whose late husband, Henry, was a former executive at General Electric. The 17-room house, worth an estimated $12 million, sits on a 10-acre lot and features an infinity pool, a dual tennis-basketball court, an indoor gym and views of the Vineyard Sound, according to the Martha’s Vineyard Times." 

Lord knows Michelle can use a break from her tough job too.

Googly Christmas

My husband, who until now wanted a motorcycle, now wants Google glasses. This news hit me harder than when he told me he was joining an exercise cult, since it essentially it spells the end of all contact between us, unless we shower together which we can't always because of our schedules.

If he goes forward with this foolhardy plan he will always be on the Internet and I will have to text all conversation. Since I am so bad at texting I've been doing some practice texts so I'll be ready by Christmas:

Pls get mlk on way home

IMHO I'm havng stroke, call 911

House burning, leave asap, LOL

There are more, but those cover the basics.

High School Scammers

One Sunday morning about six weeks ago, two attractive girls from the local high school knocked on our door. They were out selling cookie dough in a fundraising effort for a trip to the Dominican Republic. It was something to do with helping impoverished people get water, and we chatted for awhile about whether or not they should take malaria pills before the trip and how hot it would be there in July.

Buckets of the gooey stuff came in in a variety of flavors at 15 bucks a pop. I bought one, chocolate chip as a I recall, not only to help their cause but to actually make some cookies. The girls said to expect delivery in two weeks.

That was then. Nothing has arrived. I never saw either of those girls again. Three calls to Freeport High School have gone unanswered, the last one involving a long message left in the principal's voice mail.

As it happens I am happy the stuff never showed up as I have recently been trying to lose weight and have met with modest success, thanks to no cookies or anything remotely like cookies. But still, one wonders just what they are teaching kids in school these days.

Archie Kicks the Bucket

Something is wrong. The Earth may have slipped off its axis. Whatever the cause, people are going nuts. That is the only thing I can come up with to explain why the writers over at Archie comics have decided to kill him off. That's right, Archie is dead, or he will be soon, depending on whether or not you have read the last strip.

Apparently he does not die of natural causes but instead takes a bullet for a friend, a gay friend at that, just to be politically correct and relevant, although the friend should really have been Latino and transgender and in a wheelchair to make the point.

The whole thing seems unduly cruel. If Archie's creators were done with him, why couldn't they have simply moved the whole gang to Costa Rica like all the other other normal, middle-class American citizens of retirement age? A violent end for Archie is obscene and unbelievable, sort of like finding out Ron Howard is dealing heroin.