Roto-Rouda

Call Me Crazy

2010-07-03T10:18:00.000-07:00

My husband thinks I need an antidepressant because I don't like picnics. This being the Independence Day holiday weekend, naturally the subject has come up, since for some reason Americans like to celebrate the birth of our nation by eating outdoors and tossing around Frisbees.

Personally I think picnics are highly overrated, as are antidepressants and, for that matter, husbands. There are always bugs, which is a drag when food is concerned unless you are a native of Thailand or Mozambique where they are considered a delicacy. Otherwise, all the ants and mosquitoes and bees and flies hovering overhead are a negative. Eventually one will swoop in and blatantly occupy your food. Trust me, bugs on your food is a bad situation wherein you must abandon the whole business and slowly back away, hungry, defeated and possibly already itchy.

Besides the bugs, which will ruin even the finest Merlot or Beaujolias by floating in your glass, weather is a constant concern: If it's hot it's likely too hot, if it's sunny you get sunburned, and if it's windy your napkins blow away. Rain is always possible, and that certainly dampens spirits. Worst case scenario: A tree could fall on you (see photo).

I say if you want to enjoy a meal, eat it in a place specifically designed for that purpose, like the couch in front of the 60" flat-screen plasma TV. If you absolutely must be uncomfortable outdoors in order to feel truly alive, like the people in those commercials for bladder control products, go camping.

Sometimes I Get Really Mad

2010-07-01T13:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I purchased a can of Planter's Mixed Nuts, the label of which promised less than 50% peanuts and plenty of almonds, cashews, Brazil nuts, hazelnuts and pecans. When my husband opened the can later, he shouted from the next room, "It's a lie, way more than half is peanuts!"

I ignored him, or at least tried to, but his grumbling made me well aware of his foraging for another snack. Because he is on some esoteric no-peanuts regimen, he rejected the nuts and opted for some blueberries. (Mitch is now one of those hyper-health-conscious eaters recently classified as "mentally ill," but that's another blog.)

Today I ventured into the same can of nuts and found it ridiculously full of peanuts and without one Brazil nut in there! I know this for a fact because my husband hates Brazil nuts and would not eat one if you paid him (unless you paid him a lot, but otherwise no way), and I love Brazil nuts--in fact, I would go so far as to say they are my favorite nut. Also, there were about three cashews in there, two hazelnuts and maybe twelve almonds, and the rest was all peanuts! (Any pecans surely were eaten by Mitch on sight.)

Being a spoiled American who has never been hungry for a second except maybe once on Yom Kippur many years ago, I was outraged and called the number printed on the label that invited customer's comments. I got a live person almost right away, which was good news, but the bad news was she was totally pissed off at me from the word go. Her tone was quite condescending, as if she could not believe that someone was pathetic enough to make this very phone call, and she gave me some spiel about how "the contents are machine-controlled" and it was "highly unlikely" that I was correct. Perhaps I had not assessed the situation accurately?

"Hey, I know a g-d Brazil nut when I see one!" I said, perhaps too loudly. She said there was no need for profanity. In the end she took my address and said they would mail me a rebate coupon. Then she asked for my email address so that "Mr. Peanut can see how you're doing in a few weeks."

Now that's nutty.

Please Don't Call Me

2010-06-30T10:59:00.000-07:00

This morning I went on a walk with a friend. Our common goal was exercise, but naturally we chatted on the way. Twice we were interrupted by her ringing cell phone; both times it was her mother, a lively 83-year-old, who wanted to consult about hair appointments and the like. My friend, devoted daughter that she is, took the call both times, slowing our pace and interrupting our conversation.

My own cell phone was stashed in my sweatshirt pocket in case we crossed paths with a crazed escaped convict, or if my husband or son needed me. (If my mother had called I'd be on Oprah tomorrow, since she died in 1983.) I hate to be without it these days. Stupidly, when I'm phone-less I feel more vulnerable to harm, as if just because I don't have it with me I will have a flat tire in the Middle of Nowhere. It's stupid because the Middle of Nowhere often lacks cell service.

Technology dominates my home life as well: my husband has an iPad, an iPhone and an iMac. (In fact, he's so Macced-out, I wonder why Steve Jobs hasn't had us over for dinner.) He insists he needs all these devices for his work, and while it's true he traffics in the Internet for a living, still I yearn for the old days--and I'm talking really old days now-- when we could throw a few things into a suitcase and be gone without having to turn around because one of us forgot the car charger for our phone, or the damn phone itself.

Would it be so terrible to travel without a phone? What's everyone gabbing about, anyway? More importantly, what really needs to be said? Unless you've dialed 9-1-1, that last phone call you made was likely dispensable. And now there is growing concern that holding the phone right up to your ear might really cause brain cancer.

Think about that the next time it rings: who is worth the risk?

Twitter is So Whack

2010-06-30T05:44:00.000-07:00

In my ongoing effort to avoid Dinosaur status I have embraced things I might privately consider to be somewhat ridiculous; thus Twitter is now part of my world. What spurs me to do so is my young son, who is only 22 as I write this. Becoming a mother later in life, I was spared the fate of many of my generation who have fallen by the wayside as Zack kept me informed on the latest in music, societal trends, fashion, etc. For example, I now know the following things:

1. Chillin' has nothing to do with temperature or little kids.
2. Texting is the only way to communicate.
3. Biking is the new driving.
4. "Whack" has many meanings, none of which has anything to do with hitting someone on the head. (I'm still learning.)

Beyond Blogging

2010-05-17T11:07:00.000-07:00

These days, bloggers are everywhere. How boring. I can remember when I first heard the word--it was so odd, almost extra-terrestrial. Same with the word Google. What could they possibly mean, those very strange words? How different, how exciting!

Now everyone is a blogger. (And most are blahgers, meaning blah blah blah. By the way, I put myself in that category.) Every job board is seeking bloggers to blog about all kinds of things, mostly having to do with green, social, sustainability and political issues. Another popular blogging request is about interior decorating. What's to say about that? Get a couch, get a few chairs, a dining room table, a bed, maybe a dresser...you're good to go.

Nobody is seeking bloggers on the subjects of death and dying, for example, something that happens to everyone, yet few people are prepared for it and nobody ever wants to talk about it!

Perhaps I will start a Death Blog. To make it palatable, maybe it should be about the funny side of death.

To be continued...

The Big Zero

2010-05-17T05:56:00.000-07:00

In the past two months I have written 24 articles, with accompanying photos, for a website called Portland Examiner. They have mostly been about food purveyors since my "beat" is grocery stores, and a couple are about people since I got a new beat called Everyday People. Now, when you Google my name they come up. For all this work, I have earned the sum total of: Zero.

This is the sorry state of freelance writing these days. Job boards that once ran ads for paying customers like magazines and associations have become the middle men for websites selling content and ad space. The writer gets "exposure" and a percentage of the take, which often comes out to: Zero.

Sites like Red Room and Suite 101 and Examiner and Demand Studios and Rafter JumpOn all exclaim excitedly, "Now you can make money from the comfort of your home by telecommuting!" And they pay you : Zero.

So I might just as well write on my own blog where I can say whatever I want, have just as few --or just as many--readers, and earn the same amount: Zero.

Do Ya Think She's Jewish?

2010-05-11T16:17:00.000-07:00

There's all this debate about whether Elena Kagan, Obama's pick for the Supreme Court, is or is not gay. All I have to say is --please.

The fact that she refuses to divulge her sexual preference, and that the White House also won't talk about it, makes me sick! Have they never heard about being gay and proud? What the heck is going on in this country? Everyone and their mother is gay these days, and here is this brilliant woman who is allegedly gay-- many of her friends have admitted it-- and yet it is an issue they will not go near during the upcoming hearings that will determine whether or not Kagan becomes the 112th justice of the court.

What I'm wondering is if she's transgender. Lose the earrings and it's John Goodman.

Smarty Pants

2010-05-10T13:13:00.000-07:00

Is it just me or has anyone else noticed how cliches are overtaking our language, culture, and thinking? No matter where you are or who you're talking to, words like "sustainable," "green," and "organic" fly out of people's mouths like watermelon pits at a picnic.

And suddenly everyone who is anyone is savvy. So far today--and it's only lunchtime-- I heard a "savvy young writer" being interviewed on the radio, read a Q & A with a "savvy broadcaster" in the newspaper, saw a "savvy chef" on one of those moronic morning TV shows, and just now, came across a review of a book by yet another savvy writer, although this one is also "up-and-coming," online.

Ditto for Elena Kagan, the woman just nominated by Obama to be the newest justice of the US Supreme Court. Were I fixing her up with a friend for a blind date, I would describe her as short, smart, fat, and dykey-looking with bad hair (oh relax, she is NOT reading this!), but according to today's Portland Press Herald, Kagan is "sharp and politically savvy."

Just to be sure, since I thought maybe I'd missed something, I checked the dictionary and confirmed that savvy means someone who years ago would have been called "a regular Einstein." But in today's hectic, fast-paced world, it isn't enough to be just knowledgeable, or even smart or brilliant; these days, you gotta be savvy.

I'm not sure, but I think I might be too old to be savvy since everyone who is seems to also be young. Even fat Elena Kagan, who at 50 would be the youngest justice on the court, is a mere baby while I am suddenly "a woman of a certain age." Which makes you wonder: why are there no men of a certain age?

Imagine Waking Up Here

2010-05-10T06:01:00.000-07:00

I stole this photograph from another blog! It's so beautiful, I wanted to share it with whoever stumbles upon my page. That's one of the good things about the Internet.

Eat Before You Go

2010-04-22T18:12:00.000-07:00

I read recently that Cirque du Soleil, the innovative Canadian acrobatics troupe, is planning to join the posthumous Michael Jackson business with two shows based on his music. Fine and dandy, certainly everyone agrees that Jackson's music was great. But the article went on to say that the show, scheduled for the Las Vegas casino, MGM's Mirage, would be "more akin to a theme park attraction" and would include a "nightclub and restaurant with a Michael Jackson theme." Got me wondering just what would be on that menu...

Let's see, after years of getting beaten by his evil father who used him as a cash cow from the age of three, Jackson spent his childhood on stage, in buses, on trains and planes. As an adult (sort of but not really), he was repeatedly accused of child molestation, causing his music to be banned from the radio and him to be blackballed by the entertainment community and his former fans for the last ten years of his life. He took powerful drugs to lighten his skin, turning himself into a close approximation of a white woman through so many plastic surgery procedures that his nose all but fell off. Ultimately he died at the fairly young age of 50 from an overdose of prescription drugs.

There was more: The fantasy compound he built for himself and named Neverland, complete with giraffes and amusement park rides on the property; his thwarted attempt to purchase the remains of the Elephant Man; his odd relationships that resulted in three children he essentially bought from their mothers who posed briefly as marital partners.

So now let's all take a moment to imagine that nightclub and restaurant with "a Michael Jackson theme." I'll tell you right now, when I'm in Vegas, I am not eating there.

Living the Dream

2010-04-21T06:05:00.000-07:00

My dear friends in New York, D.C. and a couple in Florida have worried that there is little to do here in Maine, culturally speaking. To them, I offer the following proof that their fears are unfounded:

Today's Portland Press Herald lists two events taking place at the same time in two different locations, forcing me to choose only one. A lecture on "What Solitary Woodchucks Can Teach Us About Family Dynamics" will be held in South Portland, while a seminar entitled "Overview of the Natural History of Common Loons" will take place half an hour later in Freeport, at least a twenty-five minute drive from the woodchuck lecture. Add to this the ongoing blood drives, bean suppers and firearm demonstrations and you'll have some idea of what I'm dealing with.

Anyway, since I've always wondered--and who among us hasn't?-- how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood, I'm heading to South Portland.

Beyond Comprehension

2010-04-20T19:37:00.000-07:00

I just watched a train wreck and I didn't even have to leave home to see it. It appeared in the form of a movie called "Beyond the Sea," which I passed on when it was playing in the theaters because I suspected it sucked, but rented on the strength of two strong endorsements. (Remind me next time never to doubt my instincts.)

The movie was a biopic of the life--and death-- of Bobby Darin, a truly great singer who I worshiped from afar as a teenager. He was a pop singer with tremendous talent who "crossed over" to win fans from all generations back in the 1960s. The tragedy was that he died at the age of 37 of a heart attack from an underlying heart disease. An even bigger tragedy is that this movie, written by Kevin Spacey and produced by Kevin Spacey, starred Kevin Spacey as Bobby Darin. Hey, Kevin Spacey passed 37 a long time ago, yet here he was trying to pass himself off as a 20-something heartthrob.

We got to see Kevin Spacey singing and Kevin Spacey dancing. (How embarrassing.) Oh, and Kevin Spacey acting, although you never for a minute bought that it was anyone but Kevin Spacey, certainly not Bobby Darin. In fact, I had to stop the movie halfway through and go watch some real Bobby Darin videos on YouTube to remember how cool and great he was. I finished the movie only to find out how he died, since I never really knew.

Long, boring fantasy dance numbers never made any sense. This was no "Thriller," which it was trying to be. It was also no "All That Jazz," a similar but million-times-better movie about dancer Bob Fosse that I might have to watch again just to get this bad movie out of my head. Making matters even worse, if that was possible, was a really obnoxious, unattractive and talentless child cast as the young Bobby Darin.

I'm sure you weren't planning to, but do not rent this movie. In fact, don't even watch it for free. It was such a mess that I ate almost a whole bag of Milanos, and I'm on a diet.

An Alternate Universe

2010-04-18T11:10:00.001-07:00

Last night I played bridge. As the only one in our foursome who reached adulthood without learning this card game, I was at a distinct disadvantage. It’s sort of like being abducted by aliens and waking up on another planet where they all speak the same language and you don’t even know how to ask, “Where’s the bathroom?”

In fact, if you’re playing bridge, “Where's the bathroom?” might actually mean, “I have five hearts and the ace of spades.” But only if you play that way. If you play another way, it could mean, “I have many clubs and no diamonds,” or maybe even, “Where's the kitchen?” That’s the thing with bridge: Nothing means what it sounds like it means. (Of course, if you’ve spent your formative years indoors playing bridge, the ins and out of this private world are second nature to you. You can easily spot those people by their pallor.)

For example, I thought bidding “one club” was the way to tell my partner that I had pretty good clubs in my hand. But no! In bridge talk, I was unwittingly asking if my partner had hearts or spades, and had nothing at all to do with clubs! Of course, if you play “preferential diamonds,” a bid of “one diamond” means the same thing. But that’s a big If, and the only way to know is to....ask them. You can do this in regular English, unlike the rest of the game when you have to talk in Bridge.

Silly me, I didn't ask, and naturally I was the evening's Biggest Loser. And to make matters worse, before I lost I was very, very vulnerable! Which doesn’t mean what you think it means, but has something to do with rubbers and scoring tricks and being either above or below "the line."

For me, playing bridge is similar to, but more confusing than, arguing over abortion in Corsican. I’ll explain: I understand French, but in Corsica they speak a unique language, part French, part Italian. Many years ago, I was in Corsica and spent an evening with a group of people who were arguing over abortion, naturally in Corsican. It was all very complicated, but every once in a while I would hear a word or a phrase that allowed me to make some sense of it all.

I was more confused last night playing bridge with my husband and friends in my own home right here in America. Which may actually be my way of saying, I love that game and can’t wait to play again.

Honk If You've Heard of Rhadamanthus

2010-04-14T15:28:00.000-07:00

I try to be straightforward in my writing, which is why it makes me mad when others are not. A friend of mine, a fellow blogger and writer too, commented on Facebook that a friend of his was so great, "She's Rhadamanthus." I immediately thought, she's whatahoosis? Naturally I Googled and found out that Rhadamanthus was some big deal in Greek mythology, the wise son of a king whose opinion mattered, or something along those lines.

The whole thing got me wondering: Just what the heck did we all do before Google? And how much dumber are we now because we have it? Why read, why learn, when you can just go and Google it?

A few days ago I got into a conversation with a sales clerk who reminded me of the actress Helen Mirren. When I told her that, she confided that she always wanted to look like Sandra Dee. I said, "Well, at least you're still alive." She was shocked, and said, "Oh no, when did she die?" Meanwhile my husband, who never even heard of Sandra Dee because he was a mere tot when I was a teen and Sandra ruled at the box office, got his Google on and within seconds delivered the gory details of her death, her disease, her broken marriage, her bitter end, and every movie she ever made. End of conversation.

Mitch is the fastest draw around these parts when it comes to his iPhone. On the one hand, he's good to have around during the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. On the other, he's always right.

Anyway, I'd rather be called Acca Larentia instead of Rhadamanthus any day. At least she was a girl.

The End of Wonderful

2010-04-12T12:51:00.000-07:00

(Spoiler alert: The following article is not funny...at all.)

Just two days after moving here from Washington, D.C. last March, I met a local artist who urged me to attend a meeting of a group called Freeport Creative Artists to be held the next evening. My husband and I did so eagerly, thrilled at the opportunity to meet some of our fellow artists so soon!

When we arrived the meeting was already in progress and we were greeted with silence. Odder still, when we finally blurted out our plans to open an art gallery and asked if there were any interest among the membership, we received only stony stares and a few mumblings along the lines of “No, not really.” We left thinking we had mistakenly stumbled into a meeting of Psychotics Anonymous.

Only later did we learn that the owner of a rival pseudo-gallery just two doors away from my location was the president of that very group, and in attendance at that meeting! Instead of welcoming us and collaborating on a "Friday Night Art Walk," which might have increased business for both of our establishments while enhancing the town’s reputation, she blackballed my gallery and refused even to acknowledge me in public on many occasions. To this day we have never exchanged one word.

As for press coverage, try as I might I could never get a write-up in the local paper, despite the fact that a new gallery opening right on Main Street in downtown Freeport was certainly news worth celebrating by both the art and business communities.

In desperation after many months of slower and slower sales, and after hearing from several other gallery owners that marketing was important to our eventual success, we hired a marketing professional, or so we thought. Our $1,000 check got us nothing more than the suggestion that we “have plenty of paper plates and plastic cups on hand for art openings.” Our hired pro couldn’t figure out how to do an e-mail blast for an upcoming opening, something allegedly included in the fee; eventually we did it ourselves. We also learned that the mailing list she gave us was pirated from another gallery in the very next town! Funny thing is, she quit after our complaining, and kept all the money. (Ouch.)

Finally, last month, we got the newspaper art review we had sought for so long and it was a bad one, poorly written by a freelancer who himself had suffered his own failed art gallery last year. His negative review was the final nail in our coffin. I thought, if this was the "press coverage" we so desperately needed, what could possibly help us now?

And so, because life is short and getting shorter every day, I have decided to stop wasting my husband's hard-earned money and shield myself from the cold hard fact that running an art gallery in Freeport is like throwing a bar mitzvah in Auschwitz: Who's coming?

Instead I plan to spend my days making beautiful art, enjoying the glories of Maine beyond my gallery's four walls, and writing my funny stories. (This isn't one of them, but then I told you that right up front.)

The Bottom Line

2010-04-09T10:26:00.000-07:00

There's a photo of Tiger Woods on the front page of today's Wall Street Journal. He's playing golf, and the caption says he's "back following a sex scandal." His picture is also on the front of the sports section of my local paper, the Portland Press Herald, under the headline, "Tiger's back, looking as good as ever."

Making me wonder: Why did they make such a fuss last Christmas when it surfaced that Tiger is a sexual predator, raking him and his countless mistresses over the coals for five months, only to decide it's no big deal after all? Could it have been to sell newspapers, perhaps? Even NIKE has taken Tiger back, using him once again as a spokesman and role model for young people.

Is this a great country or what? (Sometimes I think America deserves Sarah Palin...oops, I mean Governor Palin!)

MJF Seeks BLJ's for a Good Time

2010-04-06T16:00:00.000-07:00

I’m from New York, and let’s face it, that’s a tough act to follow. But the truth is, after living here one year, I guess I’m sort of sick of this place.

It’s too white. No soul. All the people wear L.L. Bean clothing, which if you’ve seen any you know lacks style, fits poorly, and what the hay, is all made in China anyway.

If Mainers were food, they’d be bologna on white bread. And not just any white bread, Wonder bread: soft, pasty, and with no flavor other than from the mayonnaise applied liberally at every opportunity. (In case you’re wondering, I can say whatever I want here since after more than a year, I have no Maine friends who read this blog, or maybe even who read.)

Maybe it's because they're too busy scraping barnacles off their boat bottoms to do any learning, but I don't think these folks are all that smart. Think about it: there has not been one president who hails from Maine. The best they’ve got is a few actors (TV, not movies), a couple of poets and Ed Muskie. Of course there’s Marsden Hartley (Marswho Whatley?), a great painter you probably never heard of unless you majored in art.

This might be a giant leap, and an obnoxious one at that (I said right up front I'm a New Yorker), but I think what they need here is a few hundred thousand blacks, some Latinos and maybe a couple more Jews.

Any takers? It's very pretty.

I'm Verklempt!

2010-04-04T16:21:00.000-07:00

Today Mitch wanted to grill something for dinner, it being a beautiful Easter Sunday and us being Jews with nothing special to do like pray, hunt for colored eggs, or in any way celebrate the rising of Christ from the ground.

He went to the store for three items and three items only: charcoal, meat to put on the charcoal, and a vegetable to go with the meat that went on the charcoal. He returned with the meat, two bananas, a bottle of wine, a tomato, a dog cookie, a yellow squash and some rather tired looking Brussels sprouts, but no charcoal.

Discuss.

Just Keep Your Mouth Shut!

2010-03-30T07:01:00.000-07:00

In my continuing series on the stupidity of mankind, I present to you the following fact as reported in this morning’s Portland Press Herald : The federal government will give the city of Portland $1.8 million for projects aimed at reducing obesity. According to surveys, 62% of the adults in Maine are overweight.

The article goes on to say that "for years, Portland city officials have brainstormed ways to combat obesity among children and adults.” Following are some of the ideas they have come up with and can now implement, thanks to the federal grant:
1. Installing salad bars in schools
2. Encouraging children to walk to school
3. Hiring a nutritionist to analyze meals served at local restaurants
4. Installing 80 bicycle racks around the city
5. Adopting policies to increase physical activity
6. Labeling healthy foods in school cafeterias
7. Creating a bicycle lane, possibly, on a section of Congress Street

You see where I’m going with this: How ridiculous! I especially like Idea #2, and wonder how much of the grant money that will use up. As for the encouragement, I can hear it now: “Please honey, just walk to school every day this week and I'll take you to McDonald’s this weekend!”

Nowhere does it say anything about outlawing the following: Fritos, Cheetos, Doritos, Pizza Hut, Cinnabon, Dunkin’ Donuts, Arby’s, Wendy’s, Burger King, McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Mrs. Field’s cookies, Sara Lee’s cheesecake, Little Debbie’s everything, Ben & Jerry’s, Baskin Robbins, Pepperidge Farm, Frosted Mini Wheats, Lucky Charms, Dove Bars, Butterfingers, Snickers, Almond Joy, granola, the frozen foods section of the supermarket, hot dog eating contests (see photo), Hershey’s Chocolate, Kentucky Fried Chicken, or the latest Starbucks concoction of whipped cream, sugar and, oh yeah, coffee.

I guess that nutritionist in Idea #3 has her work cut out for her.

I See Dead People

2010-03-29T15:51:00.000-07:00

Time was, there were 25 or 30 folks jockeying for position at my grandmother’s Seder on the first night of Passover. It was always held at my parents’ house, since my grandparents lived in a 1-bedroom apartment in Queens.

People flew across country to attend. There was food like nothing seen before or since, and nowhere else: roast turkey, brisket, salads and potatoes and vegetables and gefilte fish and matzo ball soup and matzo meal pancakes and matzo kugel and macaroons afterwards, and those brightly colored kosher jelly candies that I could eat a whole box of right now.

There were aunts and uncles and cousins and my parents of course, and my sister and even invisible spirits like Elianovah or Elijah or Eliahu, depending on where in Russia or Poland your grandparents were from.

There was Manishewitz and Mogen David wine even if you were only 11 or 12, leading to the famous note my mother wrote when I was in the 7th grade: “Dear ----, Andrea did not do her homework last night because she got drunk at dinner and slid under the table, where she remained until this morning.”

And now, here it is again and I am alone. My husband’s in Philly on business, our son is in Burlington and most probably—no, most definitely--doesn't even know it’s Passover, and everyone who was anyone in that particular circle is dead. I will celebrate by having my dinner and watching reruns of “Everyone Loves Raymond” on TV.

Let's face it: The longer you live, the more ghosts surround you.

That's Adorable!

2010-03-09T06:31:00.001-08:00

Let me start by saying my husband is very smart, graduated from a really good university that I will not name-drop here for fear of being accused of name-dropping, and is quite successful in his profession. That said, I must ask: How come he’s so dumb?

A few days ago Mitch offered to go to the grocery store to pick up a few things we needed for dinner. Inwardly I groaned, remembering his past solo shopping expeditions, but outwardly I accepted the offer since I didn’t want to go myself. Naturally he said what all men say before they go off to buy food for the family: “Make me a list.” This irks me no end, since he spends an hour every night before bed making detailed To-Do lists for work the next day, but when it comes to food, he can’t make a list. (Hey, open the fridge, buy what isn’t there, how hard is that?)

Moving on, I made a short list; we needed a very few things. Minutes later Mitch called from the store to say he had left the list at home on the kitchen counter. Adept at multi-tasking, I read the list to him over the phone while simultaneously elevating my blood pressure, then hung up and took an extra pill.

Mitch arrived home. Instead of cole slaw to accompany our barbecued chicken, he had purchased salmon salad. “Why this?” I asked. He thought it was cole slaw, apparently in his world the two are indistinguishable.

“But there' s a label right on the top of the clear plastic container that says salmon salad, and it costs five times as much! Didn’t you notice, besides the fact that the stuff inside is not greenish shredded cabbage but pinkish chopped fish, that this little bit of what you believed to be cole slaw cost you $8.75?”

“I thought it was pretty expensive.”

Mitch hopes I will eventually find things like this endearing. In the interest of my blood pressure, I am trying.

Two On the Aisle

2010-02-18T17:30:00.000-08:00

In just three days I will voluntarily enter, along with about a hundred other people, a small metal tube with an outer skin no thicker than aluminum foil, stuff myself into an uncomfortable seat for five hours or more, invite the possibility of a blood clot in one or both legs going straight to my heart and killing me, and if absolutely necessary, use a toilet that is more like a toddler's potty seat.

I'd like to believe my husband will be sitting at my side if the worst happens, but if history is my teacher he forgot to get seat assignments and I'll be clutching some stranger's hand in my final moments. Making matters worse, I have paid handsomely to engage in this horror show I call "My Flight to Seattle."

I hate flying, but not just for all the appropriate reasons everyone else does; I earned my stripes during a bad experience years ago. My first flight, when I was 22, ended with a downward spiral into an emergency landing in an open field near Frederick, Maryland. Eastern Shuttle, New York to DC, down and out the emergency chute, FBI agents swarming the site, bomb squad spraying foam. (I have told this story so many times, this is all I can manage anymore.)

Anyway, if all goes well on Sunday I will spend the week visiting with one of my very best friends who I have not seen in ten years. Otherwise, I leave this note to my son: Our will is on the desk in the guest room. Please feed the cats. Rufus is at the kennel. Love you, xxxx, Mom.

You Never Know

2009-12-15T07:58:00.001-08:00

Many years ago my grandfather-- his real name was Irving but everyone called him Itchy-- developed a nagging backache. It grew in intensity until finally he went to a doctor; the diagnosis was lung cancer. Still an optimist at 78, Itchy wasn’t bitter but he was perplexed; as he put it, “How did I get lung cancer? The only thing I ever smoked was salmon.”

Since his illness was not aggressive, Itchy was able to live life as usual for quite a while, and his only complaint was that my grandmother’s snoring kept him awake. (Of course, to hear her tell it, she hadn’t closed her eyes for a minute the whole night.) When his worsening condition required a short-term hospital stay, Itchy gave it a positive spin, reasoning, “What could be bad? At least I’ll get some sleep.”

Finances dictated a semi-private room. Despite the drawn curtain between the room’s two beds, one fact concerning his roommate quickly became apparent: the guy had the hiccups. In fact, the elderly man had been hospitalized because he had been hiccupping non-stop for several weeks. The annoying sound came at regular and short intervals, and continued round-the-clock.

After his first sleepless night, my grandfather said, “I have cancer, and they put me in with hiccups? What, they don’t have someone with a bad heart, or maybe a brain tumor? Where am I, the comedy ward?”

My grandmother was outraged, and let everyone within earshot know it. She paraded around the hospital corridor grousing, “How can they do this to him? He’s got Cancer! He should be with someone who’s also very sick, not someone with the hiccups!”

Despite vowing years earlier to disagree with my grandmother at all costs, I secretly felt the same way. After all, one time as a teenager I had had the hiccups for five straight hours, and it was no big deal. It seemed unfair that my grandfather, in the hospital for some horrid procedure to drain fluid that had collected in his lungs, was sleep-deprived because of this Hiccup Man!

It was not a good situation, and I begged my parents to fix it. My father said, it’s not possible, he’ll be out in a few days, he’ll get used to it. My mother said, what can we do, they have no place to move him, just leave it alone. But being brash and 21, I went to the nurse’s station and requested a change be made. “I mean, he has cancer! Don’t you have any other cancer patients he could be with? Maybe you could substitute someone with a more serious, quieter disease?”

The next day I arrived during visiting hours to find Itchy eating breakfast, the Hiccup Man absent and the room blessedly silent. Aha, it had worked! I fixed it! Feeling quite proud of myself, I said, “So, I see they moved your annoying neighbor.”

“He died. I’ve got cancer, and I’m sitting here with orange juice and scrambled eggs. He had the hiccups, and he’s gone. Like I always say, you never know.”

Itchy lived another year, plenty of time to tell that story many times.

Withering Woodstockers

2009-12-15T07:37:00.001-08:00

Despite weighing more than ever, thus naturally occupying more space, I am now almost completely invisible. You’d think that would qualify me as a bona fide super heroine, but actually quite the opposite is true: I am an ordinary female, age 62, but just like that witch in the “The Wizard of Oz,” I’m melting. Not really, but even if I were nobody would raise an eyebrow.

I started noticing this lack-of-being noticed phenomenon about ten years ago, but it wasn’t complete until I hit 60. Then zap, I was gone. Since then, I truly believe I could publicly disrobe and turn very few heads, except in winter, when I might get on the news for braving the elements.

I am still visible to people who want to sell me something or need a favor. For example, my dog still sees me, as do both my cats, especially first thing in the morning when I am hands-down the most popular person in the house. The mailman starts to smile and wave a lot beginning around the 10th of December. And naturally my banker always gives me a hug with each new deposit, but that’s completely understandable in today’s volatile financial environment.

I do not feel personally persecuted; after all, women my age who are a whole lot better-looking than I am are disappearing like flies. A good indicator of this trend is People magazine, where young actresses you’ve never heard of display their latest tattoos and designer duds and divulge their fabulous diet and makeup secrets, but you never catch a glimpse of Diane Keaton or Bette Midler or Cher or Sally Field or Goldie Hawn or all those other formerly-fabulous women who are exactly my age.

Why is this? I have reduced it to an easy-to-comprehend mathematical formula: Fear of Death (X) + Love of Money(Y) = Sex Sells. From the moment you get up in the morning, talk of sex dominates, and I don’t just mean around my house. According to the media, it’s all anyone thinks about, cares about, talks about, writes about and makes movies about. With the temporary exception of the hottest political superstar of the week, naked bodies and pierced belly buttons scream out at you from the TV, Internet, or newsstand, along with those ads for Viagra and Cialis and my personal favorite, Extenz, a penis-enhancement product “guaranteed to grow several inches on a certain male member.” (Hmm, which member I wonder, could it be? Harry Reid?)

Some of my friends are fighting this inevitable invisibility. For example, one just had injections of some “plumping liquid” that will allegedly stimulate collagen growth so her wrinkles will fill out. Several have had facelifts, making it difficult to determine how they really feel about aging. But despite their smooth faces, the neon signs above their heads that says, “Don’t hate me for being menopausal” makes them invisible too.

You may wonder, what’s the big deal? Well, while I’m not an aging movie queen clinging to an adoring public, it would be nice to command a waiter’s attention without having to stand on a chair and wave, or have a salesperson offer help or even just take my money, or get a response to a job application. (My age on paper makes me invisible as well.) During my heyday I was regarded as a witty conversationalist and somewhat off-the wall artiste, popular in fact with all sexes and genders. But as I age, I notice fewer and fewer offers coming from more and more people. And this is even with coloring my hair; God only knows what life is like for all those gray-haired ladies.

To his credit, my husband always sees me, at least when he is in town, off the phone, not checking his email or Googling something, and is hungry. I suppose if I had grandchildren they would adore me, since I would shower them with gifts and affection, but that doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon.

There are a lot of women out there who have great ideas, wonderful insights, and to-die-for recipes to be handed down for future generations. Please don’t shut them out just because they’ve lost their sparkle.

High School Daze

2009-12-15T06:23:00.000-08:00

By the time you’re my age—lets just say I’m a baby boomer and leave it at that—high school is a dim memory, if and when you think about it at all. Still, if you’re like me, random moments pop into your head, and when you trace them back they lead you to something that happened in the 9th or 10th grade, or thereabouts.

I experience those pop-ups from time to time, and they get me wondering about some of my former classmates: did they actually grow up to lead productive lives? For example, I wonder about Lois S., a ditzy girl who was also confused about so many things. While we were studying sea life in science class, Lois couldn’t quite grasp that sponges are living creatures. She wondered--should she be feeding the ones they had at home? That aside, the real sticking point for her was the fact that the ones her mother had in the kitchen were pink and yellow and green and blue, and didn’t seem to move at all, but the ones we saw in science class were all spiny brownish blobs. Later that same year Lois was confused about sexual reproduction. When asked what species reproduces through asexual binary fission (that’s splitting in half, in case you’ve forgotten), Lois responded after careful thought, “Could it be us?”

Actually, many girls were in the dark about sexuality back then. In the eighth grade it was mandatory for us to attend a weekly “health” class, sexually segregated since back then, nice boys and girls discussed the ‘facts of life” apart from one another. (This was in the 1960s, when the word “virgin” did not automatically bring to mind an airline.) Lynn R., cheerleader and head “popular” girl, was always going steady with someone, so I assumed she was super-sophisticated in the ways of the world. But in the first class, in response to the teacher’s asking if we had any questions, Lynn ventured: “If a girl and boy each take a bite from opposite ends of the same banana at the same time, you get pregnant, right?” (Grammar was also not her forte.)

Perhaps most famous in the annals of our high school’s memories involved our biology teacher, Mr. Gizzy, whose frequent spot quizzes struck fear in everyone hoping for a passing grade. One day, after a particularly tough quiz left us all groaning, Mr. Gizzy said, “Come on kids, that was nothing, it was just one of my little quizzies.” A boy in the back, I believe his name was Ricky but I can’t be sure, said, “Well, if that was one of your quizzies, I’d hate to see one of your testes!” Silence ensued, while the unintended meaning of his words registered, and was followed by deafening laughter. Mr. Gizzy’s wife, another teacher at our school, took a lot of ribbing over that one for years.

And so, sometimes I wonder: Did Lois learn that the pink and blue sponges do not require feeding? Did Lynn ever have children, and if so, was fruit involved? Are the Gizzies alive today, and do they still laugh over his “little testes”? And most of all I wonder, if you said “testes” in a classroom of ninth-graders today, would they even notice?

Blah Blah Blah

2009-12-15T05:19:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I blah blah blah-ed in the morning, and then yada yada yada, doop-de-dooped all afternoon. Blahdety blah, gab gab, me me me. I then did this and that, not to mention the other! Me, mine, ours yours, I'm on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter and iPhone.

People are so caught up with their own lives. It's always, "Me, what happened to me, I did this and then I did that." Ever notice how few people ask you questions? And then there are the blogs! So many blogs, so little time. Obama this Obama that. What about Tiger Woods? So many mistresses, so little time. Can you believe that he did this and she did that? Love love.

Of course, have a nice day.

Boys will be boys......

2009-12-06T08:50:00.000-08:00

Last night we had our first true snowfall since moving to Maine. Our house is surrounded by trees, and we woke to a virtual wonderland this morning: lacy filigree hung from all manner of pine trees, decorative shrubs and varied bushes. The peacefulness was astounding...or at least it was for the first hour of the day, before my husband decided to fire up his favorite new toy: Enter the snow blower.

So now, in addition to the piercing sound of the chain-saw when we are visiting our rural home in New York's serene Hudson Valley, we have the noxious gas fumes and insistent whirring of the snow blower here in Maine.

I am hopeful that at the upcoming climate summit in Copenhagen, they will outlaw Mitch Rouda.

"Funny People" Ain't

2009-12-06T07:40:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched a movie I had been waiting for with great expectations: "Funny People" received raves from all critics, and was hailed as a "HILARIOUS" comedy by Rolling Stone magazine. And you figure if those stoners liked it, there must be a few good laughs.

Wrong. In fact, it was seriously depressing, the make you want to go to bed without dinner, cry into a pillow kind of depressing. The protagonist, played by Adan Sandler (who usually cracks me up even just standing still) plays a famous comedian who learns he is DYING of LEUKEMIA. He has NO FRIENDS, in fact not one human connection. No pets, either, just a foreign maid who appears in one brief scene and seems not even to know him. Ha, ha?

We are forced to watch his miserable empty life get worse by the minute. Exploiting his medical condition, he has sex with his ex-girlfriend who is now married to someone she hates. All the supporting characters--other comedians who are also not funny-- have miserable lives too. Ha, ha ha?

Besides death and disease and loneliness, the dialogue centers around one thing and one thing only: Sandler's penis, a.k.a. dick, cock, schlong, and how big, thick and long it is. (Goes to show you, guys, that penis size does not equal happiness.)

Movie critics need to get real, or get paid more, or get paid less by the movie distributors, or something! Bottom line: If you are considering suicide and need something to get you to jump off that ledge or pull that trigger, this movie is it!

P.S. He lives.

It's so O.J.

2009-12-02T19:07:00.000-08:00

Oh dear, yet another celebrity icon has been revealed as human! This latest one is Tiger Woods, the golf guy. Until now, I thought the most interesting thing about him was his name. I mean, for a black guy he sure is white bread.

But now we learn several new pieces of information that have made him more like the rest of us, even though he earns a million dollars a week or some figure just as ridiculous. (I forget what it is, but I remember that, hearing it on the news, I gasped.)

I am not at all curious about his marital infidelity, which is no longer shocking to most Americans because it is so common, but rather about his wife, who is apparently a tad unstable; no wonder he's been cheating! She smashed the windows of his Cadillac with a golf club? Freud would have a field day with that one. Poor dear, she probably got sick of it being "golf, golf, golf," 24 hours a day; I know I would. But still, it wasn't the car's fault! (I tend to anthropomorphize.)

Nevertheless, I for one hope they do everyone a favor and get divorced, and the sooner the better. The country cannot survive another "beloved black sports figure married to a beautiful white woman with occasional violent marital spats" fiasco, and this one seems perilously close already.

Meanwhile, who knew golfers even have sex?

One Man's Ceiling...

2009-11-23T11:46:00.000-08:00

Michael Jackson, although still quite dead, made the news today. While living, he wore a rhinestone-studded golf glove on TV, and it quickly became his trademark. This past Saturday that very glove was auctioned off for $350,000. Including taxes and fees, the new owner, a Chinese fellow from Hong Kong, paid $420,000 for the item.

I learned this from today's Wall Street Journal, just across the page from a story detailing the increase in suicides in our country in 2008. "Financial pressures outpace depression" as the main reason for the rise in suicides, according to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline director.

Things sure are screwy here, and by here I mean on our planet, not just the good old USA. Friends say I am too negative, they ask why must I dwell on bad things, why don't I ever look at the bright side?

Okay, fine. The new owner of that glove must have a lot of money! And now Michael Jackson's parents and children will have more money too! I imagine the auction house that handled the deal made out quite well, so I guess things really are good here after all. What recession?

As for those suicidal folks, I have some advice that my ex-husband always offered up when I was down in the dumps: "Cheer up!" (Ultimately I followed his advice, which is how he got to be my ex-husband.)

Here We Go Again

2009-11-16T12:39:00.000-08:00

Christmas is coming, and once again everyday life is turning red and green. Just this morning I saw a TV commercial that claimed eating a bowl of Campbell's soup would bring the festive air of the holidays right into my home! (I tried it at lunch today, but nothing happened, which is odd, since when they made the soup on TV, Santa came down the chimney and right into the living room fireplace.)

As far as I can tell, the only thing vaguely Christian or Godlike about Xmas is the "religious" postage stamp offered by the US Postal Service. As always, they offer two versions: the cutesy reindeer/Christmas tree/ribbony-wrapped gifty-one, or the Virgin-Mother-cradling-baby-Jesus. Other than that, it's the same old merry-go-round: Shop early, hurry in for discounts, two-for one, lowest price, 'tis the season, happy spending, open early until midnight, holiday savings on must-have gifts, more values mean more Christmas.

At every turn we are urged to participate in "the joy of giving," to "give the gifts that impress for less," and, my personal favorite which I saw today in a Sears ad, "charge it and enjoy 18 months of no interest." Imagine, you can still be paying off this Christmas long after next Christmas!

As I've said before and will no doubt say again, this is the time of year when I most appreciate being a Jew.

Taken by a Photograph

2009-11-15T13:23:00.000-08:00

I am somebody's mother. I certainly didn't stop being me when I had a child, and I am now more me than ever, since he has grown and lives on his own.

Which brings to mind my own parents, whose lives are now over. Regrettably, I never regarded them as anyone but my parents. Surely once in a while I realized they had friends and did things with other people that had nothing to do with me, but for the most part it was how they related to me that mattered the most. I rarely considered the lives they led before I got here.

Then there is this photograph. That's my father sitting on the hood of the car. Behind him, my mother leans against the car like some gangster's moll, smoking a cigarette. Almost jarring and thus intriguing, there is a bottle of milk on the running board. For some reason, it looks like a Sunday afternoon.

And that other guy, my father's best friend, who I remember always being around as I was growing up. I called him Uncle Jack, even though there was no blood tie. Something in this photo makes me wonder about his relationship with my mother.

If ever there was a photograph like the one Jackson Browne "found inside a drawer" in his haunting song, "Fountain of Sorrow," this one is it for me. The people in it fascinate: They look interesting and alluring and alive, I wish I could hang out with them for awhile. Sadly, they're all dead now, hopefully together and listening to jazz somewhere in another dimension.

I hope your kids--and mine-- don't miss finding out who we are before it's too late!

Is This a Great Country or What?

2009-11-10T08:27:00.000-08:00

I heard an ad on TV this morning that said Sarah Palin has electrified America! Her new book has not even been released yet and it's already a best-seller! One question immediately popped into my mind: Sarah Palin can write?

All kidding aside, I happen to be very well-connected to someone who once was at a party with someone who used to work in publishing, and she gave me an advance copy of her book's Table of Contents. I am happy to share it with you here:

Chapter 1/ Dressing for Success: How to Look Cute After 40
Chapter 2/ Newspapers, Magazines and Periodicals: Who Needs 'Em?
Chapter 3/ "Aw, Shucks" and "Back Atcha": Using Country Expressions for Personal Gain
Chapter 4/ Finding the Silver Lining: Showing Off Your Retarded Child
Chapter 5/ Toddlers to Teens: Birth Control Tips for Every Age
Chapter 6/ Heavens Above: Russian Skies Are Right Over Me!
Chapter 7/ Decorating Odd-shaped Rooms: That Tricky Oval Office
Chapter 8/ Health Care: Guys Do Make Passes at Girls Who Wear Glasses!
Chapter 9/ Giant Career Boost: Tina Fey Owes Me Bigtime!
Chapter 10/ Old Grizzlies Never Die: The Real John McCain

I can't wait to get a copy myself. I'm guessing it will be in the Humor section of your local bookstore soon.

Memorable Movie Moments

2009-11-09T19:26:00.000-08:00

Remind me in my next life to become a dentist. These guys have it made! Sure, they have to put up with actually doing the work, which at best seems fairly disgusting, but they make tons of money doing it and they can basically say what they want and you gotta believe them. Sort of like car mechanics, they have access to the goods, and you need the goods to function.

Today I visited a periodontist--let's call him Doctor X- for the first time in my life, but he made it seem like I should have come years ago. Apparently I have a dire situation that threatens my very existence, and if I don't act very soon it could lead to an infection that could go to my eye or my BRAIN! (Okay, Doc, where do I sign?)

So for $1,400 he will fix this bad situation. What really sucks big time is that this particular situation is in a tooth that has already cost upwards of $4,000, paid out to other dentists who had their own turns with it, and now Doctor X is going to pull it and throw it in the trash! Did I mention he is German and I am Jewish? So what, you say? Did you see "Marathon Man"?

After I stopped sobbing I called my husband, out of town in Chicago on business, and he said this is not worth killing myself over, which I mentioned as being a possible course of action. Next I called my son to cheer me up, since he is one of the few people on Earth who can, but he was too busy to talk to me--there was loud music in the background. He said he would call back. He has not.

The worst part is that I will undergo this horrible torture, to be followed in three months by more of the same involving bone grafts and sinus lifts, and I will get over it, and I will die anyway, sooner or later, dental implants and all.

I sure could have used that phone call from my son. Kids!

How to Sell Newspapers

2009-10-04T09:55:00.000-07:00

Lately the "news" is full of old stuff. Isn't that directly the opposite of news? I mean, isn't news supposed to be NEW, as in "this just in" and "hot off the press?"

Instead, today's purveyors of news are all aflutter over Roman Polanski's alleged crime of rape that took place 30 years ago; even the victim is bored to death hearing about it. Then actress Mackenzie Phillips, the talentless offspring of former head "Papa" John Phillips, is running off at the mouth and in print about her 10-year-long rape by her dead dad we barely remember. Larry King gave her an hour on TV to exploit her own tragic past. (Grrrrrr, I'd like to snap his suspenders.....)

And now Elizabeth Smart, the sweet-faced Mormon child plucked from her sleeping family in 2002 (say what you will, but no weirdo got near my kid when I was around) is back in the "news," finally ready to thrill us with accounts of the "daily rape" she endured seven years ago, by the nut-job who took her.

This trend got me thinking: As everyone knows, shrinking newspapers are folding daily--ha ha, no pun intended--while unemployed reporters troll Craigslist.com in search of a livlihood. So to improve sales, why not start calling them "oldpapers" and print salacious stories from the bad old days? And FYI, if you want to sell papers, relax your standards a little!
Consider the possibilities: Imagine waking up to these headlines in tomorrow's Daily Olds:
OJ Kills Ex-Wife and Friend (Who Maybe Was Gay)!
Princess Di and Lover Dead: Was She Preggers?
Teddy Drowns Mary Jo: Oh Really, Is That All?
Jacko's Child Might Really Be His (and Could be Gay)!
Kirstie Alley Gains 50 Pounds, Possibly Oprah's!

Just remember, you read it here first.

As the World Turns...Against Us

2009-10-02T10:37:00.001-07:00

"I've never really had a disappointment like this," said Ken Rudd, a 33-year-old salesman from Evergreen Park. "This is one of the saddest things I've ever seen."

What could he be talking about? Did he just find out his wife gave birth to a stillborn infant? Were his parents murdered during a home invasion? Maybe it was that he got passed over for a promotion, or one of his kids was diagnosed with cancer? Uh, his dog had to be euthanized? His tax return caught fire before he had a chance to mail it in? No, it was...Chicago getting passed over for the 2016 Olympics!

WTF? Either this man has been blessed with a worry-free life or he is an idiot. Who cares where the Olympics are played, other than the participating athletes and of course, Barry and Michelle Obama and Oprah Winfrey?

That trio had visions of dollar signs in their heads already, enough to cause them to fly to Copenhagen (gee, I wonder who paid for that trip Air Force One, its double decoy plane, and the plane carrying Obama's bullet-proof limo made?) to make the pitch to the IOC.

If the city of Chicago had won, they might have had added some intriguing new sports:
1. Running from the Gangs
2. Running from the Police
3. Getting Tasered by the Police
4. Outing Sleazy Politicians
5. Finding a Decent Pizza

Congrats, Rio!

Pass It Forward...or Don't

2009-09-29T19:26:00.000-07:00

Like me, you probably get lots of unwanted email all the time. What I really hate are the lists of jokes, usually not funny and almost always from Democrats, with titles like "Ten Ways You Know You're In Menopause" or "How to Tell If Your Man is an Idiot." I always delete those unread.

Then there are the chain letters, telling you to add your name and send it to ten people you know in the next five minutes or you will contract a horrible disease or suffer some misfortune. Bravely, I ignore those too.

But tonight I got one of those chain letters from a close friend I like and respect, asking me quite sincerely to send it to 12 other women I like, and do so in 15 minutes. There was stuff about fulfilling dreams and life being a journey or some such sentiment; to be honest I didn't read it closely, but it said to make a wish first, and I thought in the off chance magic is real, and despite not knowing 12 women I like, I did it because Diana asked me to--and also, I need all the help I can get, wish-fulfillment-wise.

To those who received it and were offended, I am sorry--just hit delete. But please don't send me an email telling me you didn't do it because you "don't do that." (I already got one of those.) I do not care and I do not need to know.

Anyway, you're the one whose wish won't come true.

The Grim Reaper Strikes Again

2009-09-24T17:03:00.000-07:00

Today was a crappy day. I now know for sure that Freeport, where I live, is just another Disneyland but without any rides. For the first time since moving here I went shopping in town and saw that despite all the stores having different names, they are all selling the same thing, just like the Mickey Mouse stuff in the Magic Kingdom!

But what made the day crappy was that when I got home after many long hours in my art gallery, undistracted by customers, I discovered a dead chipmunk lying face up right next to our porch. He was so cute, and looked just like a cartoon character, stretched out with his little paws neatly folded across his chest. There were no signs of foul play, and since my cats had been inside all day I couldn't shout "J'accuse!" at either of them.

Had the little guy suffered a heart attack as he was running home to supper? Perhaps his family is wondering where he is even now, keeping his dinner warm, hours after my neighbor Bob helped me dispose of the body. (Okay, Bob did the disposing, I covered my eyes and held open the plastic bag.)

Goodbye Chip or Dale, I lift my glass to you.

Nos for News

2009-09-17T07:24:00.000-07:00

No two ways about it, the media sucks these days. It used to give the news, period. Now it gives the salacious news.

For example, concerning the recent (horrid) death of Annie Le, a 24-year old Yale graduate, in New Haven, Connecticut. Her body, we learned from every newspaper and every TV announcer and every Internet story, was found stuffed inside a wall.

Now that word is fraught with negatives. What's the first thing you think of stuffing? A turkey. So to say that is to diminish her even further, as if her being dead is not bad enough!

Other options they might have used do exist, such as saying her body was:
1. placed behind a wall
2. hidden behind a wall
3. inserted behind a wall
4. left behind a wall
5. found behind a wall

But none of those are as sickening as her being "stuffed inside a wall."

Note to self: Cancel all subscriptions and throw out TV.

Happy 9/11

2009-09-11T06:36:00.000-07:00

Today it rolled around again, like it does every year; September 11, a.k.a. "9/11." Through the magic of television we again saw the planes, the smoke, the falling bodies, the firemen. The survivors trotted out their stories. And still nothing has been built there, and everyone still says it's a shame.

What a holiday!

Facebook Quizzes: How Low Can You Go?

2009-08-23T06:06:00.000-07:00

Which dead Beatle are you?
What would be your redneck weight?
What kind of movie candy would you be?
What disease best fits your personality?
How good a singer would you be on another planet?
How would you commit suicide if only you had the nerve?
If you were a food, how many calories would you contain?
What movie star would you most like to see publicly flogged?
If you were a serial killer, how would you murder your victims?
How would you like to make Rachel Maddow and Keith Olbermann suffer?
If you didn't waste all your time on Facebook, what might you accomplish?

Mean People Suck

2009-01-25T15:53:00.000-08:00

When my son was about eight years old, he made a clay paperweight that I keep on my desk to this day. It's a bright yellow, three-dimensional "Smiley Face," with the words, "Mean People Suck" etched into it. (It is the one thing I would save, should my house catch on fire.)

It reminds me of two things:
1. My son was adorable once.
2. Mean people DO suck.

Sadly, the Internet is home to the meanest of the mean. Almost every news item that allows comments from the public is riddled with the most awful sentiments, written by your average Jane and Joe. Somebody died a horrific death? They say, "Good, they deserved it!" No matter what it is, the hateful public can always come up with unthinkable trash. The recent death of John Travolta's son was a perfect example. This wonderful actor who has given us so much pleasure over the years was targeted simply for having an autistic son that died.

The bottom line: bullies graduate from high school and go out in the world and procreate.
Be careful out there.........

Passing Middle Age

2007-08-30T12:42:00.000-07:00

I am now old enough to take two different medications every day, both very popular with us "aging baby boomers"-- Lipitor for high cholesterol and something else for high blood pressure. I take these because my doctor says I should. Who knows, maybe the first pill is the reason I need the second pill. Regardless, I take them because, despite being "over the hill" and sliding down the other side, I feel good, look reasonable, and definitely want to stay alive for the time being.

Since I'm here, I suppose I should know what to do with myself, but I don't. My college-age son is always questioning the Meaning of Life, and I keep telling him there isn't one; if there were, we'd have heard all about it by now. It would be BREAKING NEWS on CNN, Greta would do a show on it, Larry King would interview the experts who discovered it, and all the magazines would have it on the cover. So let's assume that nobody knows.

But since I am fairly old already--I was at Woodstock--I have learned some truths, and I'm happy to share the ones I am sure of:

1. Most people are idiots.
2. Having a dog is not as much fun as it's cracked up to be, especially when your kids move away and you're stuck with it in your otherwise empty nest, and you'd love to drop everything and fly off to Greece for awhile but alas, no pet sitter, etc.
3. Smoking cigarettes is just plain dumb. (See #1.)
4. Running every day for twenty years really will destroy your joints eventually.
5. Saran Wrap is better than all the other similar products.
6. Friendships are optional, so don't hang out with people who treat you badly.
7. Everyone is good at something. Find out what that is and do it as much as possible.
8. Watching a movie is not really doing anything; it's just watching people pretend to do things. Yet, millions of people attend movies all the time, thinking they are actually doing something! This is moronic. (See #1.)
9. Do what it takes for you to enjoy today, without hurting someone else of course, and then do it again every other day.
10. Avoid surgery when possible
11. Floss daily.

So, that's all I got. After college, years of working at many jobs (42), two marriages, and raising a child, that's it. As for meaning, I believe my cousin Brian put it best, when talking about the origins of life: "First there was nothing, and then it blew up."