Call Me Crazy

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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.