Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Why Hillary Should Be Our Next President

In case you, like me, are wondering why the heck Hillary Clinton should be elected our next president, seeing as she has done almost nothing of note, I checked around and found the following reasons from a host of Internet sources:

"Being the fodder for numerous internet memes may seem like the most ephemeral of achievements, but Clinton's ascendancy in the world of pop culture must be counted as a victory for a politician who was once widely viewed as calculating and heartless."-- Ryu Spaeth, Deputy Editor, THE WEEK

"Perhaps Hillary’s greatest accomplishment occurred during the absurd attack by the Clinton Conspiracy wing of the conservative resurgence on Willy’s private parts.... Her simple refusal to respond as a stereotypical appendage to a male patriarch, more than anything else, cemented her reputation as an independent free-thinker and elevated the status of women in America to an irrefutable position of equality."  -Daily Kos

"I really see my role as secretary, and, in fact, leadership in general in a democracy, as a relay race. You run the best race you can run, you hand off the baton."--Hillary Clinton

"I am certain that those who were here at the time, who worked hard on that effort, could point out one."  --Jen Psaki, spokesperson for Clinton, when asked to name one accomplishement of Hillary as Secretary of State.

"She has been a strong advocate for a revamping of society morally, stating we were suffering from a 'sleeping sickness of the soul.'"- Anonymous 

"Her star power and ability to capture the imagination of individuals around the world is one noteworthy aspect of her success."--Eli Sugarman

Pete Souza/ Getty Images
"Clinton was not intimately involved in the clandestine operation to kill Osama bin Laden in 2011, but she will be indelibly linked to the moment, thanks to a photograph showing her real-time response to the operation in the White House Situation Room."--THE WEEK

I must say, Hillary's placement of her hand over her mouth in the photo above tells me all I need to know about her leadership abilities. I feel a lot better now.

Things You Need to Know

Yesterday was Earth Day and I forgot. I did not do one thing for the Earth, and today I am filled with remorse. Is there such a thing as a Belated Earth Day? Was yesterday the only day to behave well, or can I still recycle, compost and not pollute today too?

I blame myself, of course, for this oversight. If I had only tuned in to CNN early yesterday morning, I would have caught their news feature entitled, "5 Things You Need to Know for Your Day." Good thing I saw it this morning and found out that:
1. The missing Malaysian plane is still missing
2. They pulled up 156 dead bodies from that sunken Korean ferry
3. Obama is going on a 4-day trip starting in Japan

I missed numbers 4 and 5, dammit, because I got bored and left the room, and now I'll just be out of the loop all day long, I guess. That CNN is a godsend!

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

All the News They Choose to Print

Typical up-to-speed Maine family gathered around the local paper.
There is a so-called community newspaper printed here in Maine called The Forecaster. It's filled with the usual Mom and Pop advertisements, listings for church bean suppers and yard sales and blurry black & white photos of older ladies volunteering at the local thrift shop and the local champion lacrosse and tennis players getting their trophies. It is also filled with sad columns by bad writers masquerading as "down home" humor and/or political commentary. Once in a great while there is actually something worth reading, but that's rare, as the Editor would not recognize decent journalism if it came up and bit him on the ass. I was engaged in talks pertaining to writing for him until I came to my senses, fortunately in the nick of time.

Over the past five years I have posted comments to The Forecaster online responding to articles that contained particularly egregious errors. The last time was many months ago, perhaps a year or more. Today I tried to do so again, but instead I received the notice:"YOU HAVE BEEN BLOCKED BY THE FORECASTER FROM LEAVING COMMENTS."

And there you have Maine in a nutshell: No dissenting opinions allowed in this "community," especially not from snooty former Washington Post writers who grew up in New York. To them they say, "Just shut up and eat yer lobster!"

Saturday, April 19, 2014


I had a "smart" phone for the last two days, and I hated myself. During that time, I felt dumber and believe I actually was dumber. For example, I could never answer it when it rang. I kept swiping the damn thing as instructed, but to no avail. I took a few pictures with it and they were all blurry. I did, however, always know the temperature in Freeport, Maine, something I could find out by simply stepping outside, or looking at the thermometer on the back porch, or checking the newspaper, or turning on the TV.

My husband, being an avowed Early Adopter, naturally has an iPhone; I think he got it on the first day they existed. He is embarrassed to be seen in public with me when I use my little AT&T flip-phone, so when it finally broke and I needed a new one, he browbeat me into submission with name-calling: "Dinosaur" was the one that finally made me cave.

The thing is, I don't want to check the weather or my email or hear music or take pictures or play games or write messages or look at Facebook or do any of the things everyone is always doing in restaurants on my phone. I just want to talk on it. So I returned that stupid smart phone this morning, opting for a new old-fashioned dumb phone.

I feel good about myself again.

Friday, April 18, 2014

Fat Jokes

                       Gordon Studer
Having readers is a blessing and a curse: A blessing because I might connect with someone out there who agrees with me, or is made to reconsider a previously held view, or just gets a good laugh, and a curse when mean-spirited people leave nasty comments.

But even more than the nasty comments, the curse of having readers involves not being able to write what I wish for fear of offending someone, most likely a family member. Or perhaps some misguided soul out there --probably a liberal--who actually believes that this or her personal political view means a damn thing to anyone, and so, if I were to go off on our big-eared doofus of a president, would get all hot and bothered.

So I carefully pick and choose subjects that won't offend but still let me vent. After all, blogging is easier than therapy, I can do it any time of day or night, and it's free. As for my penchant for insulting fat people, you simply cannot say enough bad stuff to them or about them, because any one of those teeny insults might just be what it takes to wake them up and save their one and only life from being a wasted joke.

What Flavor Are You?

I was glad to spot a 6-pack of certified organic jumbo duck eggs at my local trendy, all-natural, politically correct, smug food market yesterday, and quickly snatched them up. They're not always available, and I was looking forward to their extra-creamy, buttery, better-than-chicken-eggs flavor. As I was waited to check out, a Chinese woman behind me asked, "What do you do with duck eggs?"

"Eat them," I replied, wondering what else one might do with duck eggs. The lady flashed a look of surprise, then explained that she had eaten them often as a child in her native country but had always found them to taste "too fishy." I know ducks hang out in the water and eat a lot of fish, but I've never found duck eggs to taste like anything but eggs. Heck, they don't even taste like duck.

That got me wondering if humans from the New England area would also taste too fishy, if people from New Jersey would taste like pizza, and so on. After considerable thought, I decided that I would taste like coffee and Chianti, not a bad combo if you think about it.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

You're Only As Old as You Look

Yesterday morning, as I was strapped onto a gurney and wheeled into the very special room for my very special procedure, the nurse pushing my bed offered, "Your husband is quite a youthful-looking fellow." Mitch had just gone off in search of breakfast in the hospital cafeteria, armed with one of those restaurant gizmos that flash red lights when your table is ready, only in this instance I was the table.

"That's because he's 11 years younger than me," I said, sorry to burst her bubble that somewhere a Fountain of Youth actually did exist.

"Wow, good for you for scoring a younger man," she said with a big smile. Then she added, "Personally, I go for older men myself--even the ones my own age are still so immature." I readily agreed, partly because it's true and everyone knows it and partly because whatever was dripping from an IV bag into my arm made me feel quite agreeable. Still, people are constantly--and I mean constantly--remarking on how lucky I am, or sexy, adventurous, or who-knows-what, that a younger man was attracted to me and still is. This is offensive to say the least. Our age difference is something Mitch and I have had to overcome, believe me.

For instance, Mitch does not have any memory of Ricky Nelson, and I can still recall exactly where I was when I heard the sad news about his plane crash. My husband, the father of my only child, was a six-year-old first-grader when JFK was killed, while I was senior in high school and had to drive my mother to the hospital after the stitches from her hysterectomy a week earlier ripped apart due to her non-stop sobbing. Mitch was at home watching inane sitcoms like Flipper and Gilligan's Island when I was already in college and busy being sophisticated. Weirdest of all, I'm pretty sure his bar mitvah was on the same day I married my first husband, or close to it.

Anyway, that nurse still found our union somewhat titillating, and as I left the hospital on Mitch's arm, she said with a wink, "I'm sure he'll take good care of you!" On the flip side, the other night at the movies the ticket taker said, "That'll be $14.00," charging us both the "senior" discounted fee, two dollars less than full price, without missing a beat. Go figure.