My interview with Elisabeth

Neil has a thing going, where one blogger interviews another, the second interviews the third, and a great human chain is created. I was lucky enough to get to interview Elisabeth, a very interesting and intelligent person, and with Delaware ties to boot. So here goes:


What an interesting CV you have. Your choice of college majors intrigues me. Why political science? Are you a political activist, or would you describe yourself as an observer?

I actually started my post-secondary studies in France, by attending the Classes PrÈparatoires aux Grandes …coles, at the LycÈe Faidherbe in Lille, for two years. There, my major was English. I was not particularly great at it – my aural/oral skills were abysmal – but I was in love with the language and with American popular culture which, in retrospect, I barely knew. The atmosphere in the Classes PrÈparatoires aux Grandes …coles, especially during my second year there, was rotten to the core – things were way too competitive – and I went into a state of pretty deep depression (and having a depressive boyfriend did not help either.) I did not do terribly well during that second year, and that’s when I decided to go spend a year in the U.S.A. I basically never went back to school in France after that, except that, after my one year in the U.S., my father “forced” me to attend a nine-month, government-sponsored program, during which I was trained as a bilingual secretary (to this day, I am still a bit resentful that he made me do this, but I did acquire decent typing skills.)

In August 1975, I married an American whom I had met during my year in the U.S. He was a French teacher at a catholic high school in Wilmington, Delaware. I wanted to go back to school and get a B.A. very badly and, at first, I thought that I would major in French, so that I could teach that language at the high school level (and I did take a few French literature classes at the University of Delaware.) But my husband vehemently opposed that idea. He thought that I would not be able to find a job and that, if I did, I would not be happy with it. He would always tell me: “You do not want to teach high school.”

I began developing an interest in political science, and thought that, perhaps, I’d like to go to law school someday. It was the late 1970’s, and everyone was going to law school. I declared a major in political science and economics, but dropped the economics major after a bad experience with a totally inept professor in the economics department at the University of Delaware, and after I realized that I hated accounting, and would have to take two semesters of accounting to fulfill a requirement for the economics major. I did finish the B.A. in political science, though, by going to school part-time for the most part (I did go to school full-time for just one year), and graduated from the University of Delaware, Summa Cum Laude, in June, 1982.

I never went to law school. I started working as a translator and coordinator of translation services at The Franklin Mint (headquartered in Wawa, PA, between Wilmington, DE, and Philadelphia), and remained, in various capacities, with that company until August, 1988. In the meantime, my husband had started a PhD in applied linguistics at the University of Delaware, and we did not have any money to pay for law school for me. I am very glad that those plans never materialized, because I think that I would have been incredibly unhappy as a lawyer (there is not a single attorney that I have ever met whom I have liked, in fact, I have found every lawyer that I have ever met insufferable.)
To answer the second part of your question, no, I am not a political activist by any means and, frankly, I do feel a tad guilty about that, but there is really no time for political activism in my life. I follow U.S. politics very closely, and French politics a bit more loosely (but enough to know what’s going on.) I faithfully watch Meet the Press, and This Week with George Stephanopoulos on Sunday mornings, and I have followed attentively most of the presidential debates. I am a heart-bleeding liberal and, since I became a U.S. citizen in 1993, I have always voted democrat. Even though I really like both Obama and Clinton, I am a tad more inclined to support Hillary than Barack – I think it has more to do with the fact that I have liked and admired her for a very long time, and that I feel a bit less connected to him. But I would basically be happy with either as the democratic nominee. I despise John McCain, and it scares the hell out of me that he might end up being the republican nominee, and I would not be one bit happy if he were to win the 2008 presidential election (I am a tad scared of Mitt Romney as well, but my belief is that, if Romney gets nominated, we have a greater chance of ending up with a democrat as president.)

By the way, I avoid like the plague discussing politics on my blog, because this type of discussion only brings out the worst in people in the blogosphere. But I have great admiration for those who do, and one of my favorite blogs to read is Major Conflict (http://majorconflict.blogspot.com/). I occasionally discuss some social issues, but not terribly often.

Interestingly, about four years ago, I made an attempt at becoming involved with the democratic party in my little town (which is overwhelmingly republican.) I thought that this would help me meet townies who were not connected to the university where I teach. This proved to be a bust, because the people involved in the democratic party in my town form a tight-knit clique that was not really into opening itself to newcomers (it does not help that I usually find myself being a little shy among people whom I do not know.) I am not sure that I will ever try this again.

You describe your childhood as a series of moves. Would you say your
childhood was a happy one?

This is a very tough question to answer honestly, because I think that one always romanticizes one’s past – either to paint it much darker, or much rosier than it really was.

I frankly believe that my childhood, although not thoroughly unhappy, was not exactly a very happy one, and here are the reasons why:
- My father was a depressive hypochondriac, who was extremely controlling, and spent his entire life trying to prove himself (why he was that way is another story, which I cannot really tell here.) He would sometime get into fits of rage that were very scary. He was never physically abusive to my mother or to my brother and me, but I could probably claim that he was mentally abusive to us at times.
- My mother was morally rigid (my father’s oldest brother, who was a catholic bishop, claimed that there was a Jansenist streak in her family!), incredibly strict, and I spent my entire childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood being afraid of her (I still have lots of issues dealing with her – she is now 86, and I am 55!). She was never physically abusive to my brother and me either, but it seems that she took some sort of evil pleasure in torturing us mentally. I often think that I ended up settling permanently in the U.S. to escape my parents.
- My parents put me in boarding school when I was nine years old. I remained at that school until I was 12. This was one of the most painful experiences of my entire life. I realize that they did this because, at the time, we lived in a small town where there was no good school, but, after they moved back to a more urban area, they immediately took my brother out of boarding school, while I stayed at my boarding school for another two years.
- I always felt that my parents could not care less about my future – what did it matter, since I was going to get married to a man who would support me financially! – and that they were only preoccupied with my brother’s. Remember my father thinking that the best I could ever achieve, career-wise, was becoming a bilingual secretary. Hell, I wanted to be the boss!
- My parents always complained about monetary issues. My brother and I were told, throughout our entire childhood and adolescence, that we were “poor.” But, frankly, we never lacked for anything. We did not live in the lap of luxury but things were fine.

But my childhood and adolescence also had an extremely happy side, and here are the reasons why:
- My brother and I were close in age (he is 14 months older than me) and very tight, and I am still incredibly grateful that I got to grow up close to such an exceptional human being – he is amazingly smart, funny, creative, and he has a very good heart. Being so close to him helped take the edge off from having such crazy parents. We also always had great fun together.
- If there is one childhood/adolescence memory that I cherish, it is that of our yearly, one-month vacation in Talloires, a resort on lake Annecy, in the Alps. My uncle was the bishop of Annecy, and he let us stay at his “country” house (not anything luxurious by any means, but a very cool place nevertheless.) That’s the only way that my family could afford this yearly vacation. It was amazing. One of my dreams is to take my daughter to Annecy someday, just because that place holds so many great memories for me, and also because, to me, it is the most beautiful place on earth.
- We always ate superbly well, especially during those years when my father worked as a chef. I still miss some of the wonderful dishes that he would prepare.
- I had some amazing relatives who, I always felt, were connected to me much better than my parents ever were: My godmother, who was my mother’s cousin, was an amazing lady who taught me to appreciate the arts. My uncle Jean (the bishop) loved me to death, and always let me know that he did, and my uncle Michel (another one of my father’s siblings), who was a Christian Brother and a great intellect, always let me know that I had the capacity and ability to become anything that I ever wanted to be. I did not see those folks very often, because they lived at some distance from us, but I cherished every single moment that I was able to spend with them.

I know you are a devotee of museums. Is music important to you, and if so,
what sort do you like?

Music does matter a great deal to me. Actually, I have written in my blog before that music is the only art form that can bring tears to my eyes, or chills down my spine.

I wish that I could state here that I am a real connoisseur and aficionado of classical music (as you are, Miriam), but I am not, and I am extremely ashamed of this. In fact, a fairly short-term goal of mine is to build a solid, basic classical music collection, and to educate myself about classical music (going a bit beyond that music appreciation class that I took in college, back in 1979!). I would especially like to become more knowledgeable about opera, because I am quite fond of opera, and I have an unbounded admiration for those who have a great operatic voice.

So – what kind of music do I like? Well, when I was 11, I heard the Beatles’ “I Want To Hold Your Hand,” and that was the start of my life-long love affair with rock & roll. In my adolescence, I became a huge fan of the Beatles, as well as of the Rolling Stones (although I could not care less about anything that they put out after 1975 or so.) There were many other “classic rock” bands that I liked a lot. Later on, I became a huge fan of Bruce Springsteen, who I still think is the best live rock performer in the world.

In the late 1970’s, I discovered The Clash, Elvis Costello, and The Talking Heads, all within a very brief time-span. I am still a huge fan of Elvis Costello (whom I have seen in concert twice within the past three years – he is phenomenal, much better in his fifties than he ever was in his twenties) and of David Byrne (who was the lead singer of The Talking Heads) who, I also think, is phenomenal live. I also adore Patti Smith, whom I finally got to see in concert this past summer – she is one hell of a cool woman!

I am also connected to current “indie” music and, to name only a few, at this very moment, I like to listen to The New Pornographers, The National, Belle and Sebastian, Feist, the Decemberists, and M. Ward.

Of course, I also like French music. My idol is a French singer named BÈnabar, because he writes great, well-crafted, and incredibly clever songs.

I am also quite fond of World music, especially north African and African music. My favorite African musician is, by far, Salif Keita.

I do not care much for jazz – I am not turned off by it, but it’s not my favorite kind of music. American rap leaves me cold, but I kind of like French rap.

What do you enjoy doing in your spare time?

By far, hanging out with my boyfriend (who, unfortunately, moved away today to start a dream job in another city, located about six hours away from where I live, on February 4) and with my daughter or with my friends. I also like to travel, something that I have started doing more and more since I landed the university teaching job that I have now. I also enjoy reading (I recently went on a kick, reading a bunch of books having to do with food), and watching good movies.

What was the best day in your life, so far?

I have written about that day in my blog before (unfortunately, I can’t remember the exact date when I wrote about it), it was probably the day of my 16th birthday.
Other days that could qualify:
The day I defended my doctoral dissertation (I think that it was November 1999.)
The day that I found out that I had ranked first among the candidates for promotion to the rank of Associate Professor at my school (it was in April, 2006.)
I do feel a bit guilty that I did not answer: “The day my daughter was born.” Yes, it was a happy day, that’s for sure, but giving birth is nothing fun, so I cannot claim that September 12, 1986, was the “best” day in my life. But, and by far, it was the most important day in my life.

What would you secretly like to do, if you dared?

This is a tough one, because I am not a daring person, by any means. I will answer this: Driving cross-country – only because I suffer from an acute case of driving phobia, especially when it comes to driving on highways. This is my own shameful secret (only a handful of my friends know about it), and I would love to be able to overcome this phobia some day.

Why did you start blogging, and what did you want to accomplish? Has your
blog changed emphasis as you went along? (Mine did.)

I have written about this a number of times over the past three and a half years or so since I started my blog, because, every so often, I question the usefulness of blogging. I started totally by accident. I am on FLTEACH, a list-serve for foreign language teachers and, sometime in June, 2004, someone on that list-serve mentioned something about blogs. I was pretty much unaware of what blogs were at the time – except that I knew that my daughter and many of her high school friends had a LiveJournal (which, by the way, I did not know was a blog.) I was intrigued, looked at the blog that this person had created, and decided to start a personal blog.

I was not really sure what I wanted to accomplish with it, except perhaps to keep a record of events in my daily life, and of issues and matters that made me tick. I had never really kept a journal (for fear, when I was a teenager, that my mother would find it and read it – she was always snooping in my personal belongings, but I think that snooping in their kids’ stuff is something that all mothers do), except during the year that I had spent in the U.S., back in 1973-74 (that journal was destroyed, but I would pretty much use a lot of its content in the weekly letters that I sent to my family during that year and I believe that my mother still has those letters – I will ask them next time I visit her.) The whole idea of keeping some sort of an online journal intrigued me.

One important function that I see my blog fulfilling is that of being a link between me and my relatives and friends who live far away from me. I know that they read my blog faithfully, and appreciate the fact that I keep it. This is the #1 reason why I continue blogging. I can also say that I have met some cool folks through blogging, and that the few faithful readers that I have keep me going.

I cannot really say that my blog has changed emphasis since I started it. My posts alternate among accounts of my daily life (I make a concerted effort of writing about such mundanities regularly, if only to keep a record of what’s been going on in my life), brief “essays” about issues that matter to me or about quirky things in life. I occasionally write reviews of books, CDs, or movies. I have written a number of long posts about my childhood, my youth, my past, and my relatives. I do write about highly personal matters, but the core of my private life remains very private – I would find it repulsive to write about my bedroom antics, for example - that is nobody’s business but mine and, to boot, my daughter reads my blog. I think that, through blogging about my past and my life concerns, I have been able to cast a light on a number of things, and to understand myself better.

Maybe, because of one very nasty experience that I had with an individual who took pleasure in insulting me on my blog and in the comment section of another person’s blog (which I promptly stopped reading), I have stopped entirely writing negative things about anyone else’s blog (that “feud” had started with a post I had written in reaction to an entry this guy had written, in which he expounded, in a derogatory tone of voice, on the classic stereotype of the prevalence of body odor among the French.) Let’s say that I stay away from any sort of controversial topic much more than I did when I first started my blog.

What's your favorite foreign country? And why?

I would have to say France, if only because it is my native country, and there are so many things about it that I still miss immensely. (interviewer note: Me, too.)

Frankly, I have not traveled to very many foreign countries, and I hope to remedy this in the years to come. I went to Turkey last spring, and fell in love with that country and its people. I would return to Istanbul at the drop of a hat – it is a magnificent and incredibly vibrant city, and I like it as much as I love Paris. I saw my trip to Istanbul as my very first baby step into the “exotic,” and I definitely want more. I am considering going to Morocco this coming spring, and plan on going to Thailand within the next couple of years (I hope that my not-so-ex-husband, who has traveled to that country many times and adores it, will be my guide.)

Which would you rather do--listen to your favorite music alone, or take a walk with a friend?

This is a really tough choice, because I am a bit of a loner – in that sense that I am not a naturally social person, and I relish my “alone” time. So, as much as I love my boyfriend and my friends, I would answer that I would rather listen to my favorite music alone than taking a walk with a friend. But to be honest, not by much, and I think that my decision to do one or the other would depend on my mood at the moment when I would have to make that choice.

Beer or wine? Or neither?

Beer, by all means. I come for northern France, the land of beer.

What would you like to improve about yourself?

The way I dress, I think – I’d like to be more stylish and to wear skirts (on any given day, I always wear pants, and I find that fairly pathetic) and sexier clothes.
I also need to lose about 10 to 15 pounds, and to reconnect with the concept of physical fitness.

What do you most value about yourself?

Probably the fact that I am a very nice and easygoing individual, and that I am incredibly tolerant of others (except of assholes and of people who are homophobic or racist.)

What would your ideal friend be like?

It would be someone who can provide sound advice without passing harsh judgments on me, someone who is a great listener and whom I can trust and count on 100%. It would have to be someone with whom I can have a special bond, a great deal of complicity, and with whom I could feel very comfortable and laugh a lot. I am lucky to count a few friends who fit that bill. Only one of them lives close to me, though, and that would be my very dear friend, Mary-Jo.

Many thanks, Elisabeth. I enjoyed your answers very much--they were thoughtful and entertaining, and I plan to add you to my blogroll and keep up with your blog in the future.

Oracle makes a bid for Delaware

Why not?

Wilmington, DE - Oracle CEO Larry Ellison today announced his intention to purchase the state of Delaware for $300 million in cash and Oracle stock. The move comes on the heels of Oracle's bid for rival software firm PeopleSoft, and is the first time that an offer has been made to buy a U.S. territory.

Delaware governor Ruth Ann Minner responded to the bid with shock and seemed certain that the hostile takeover could be avoided.

"Oracle's bid comes as a big surprise to the government and people of Delaware", said Minner at a press conference. "At this point, we are checking into whether or not a company, such as Oracle, can buy a state, and whether or not Delaware is actually for sale."

As one who has driven over Delaware's toll roads and bridges, I see the State as a real source of revenue if handled rightly. I'm just surprised that Warren Buffett didn't see the possibilities first.

Little apartment of doom

When my kids were little, Mr Charm determined to finish his PhD, which meant we had to move back to New York City. I made the foolish mistake of trusting him with the task of finding an apartment. He found one out in the far reaches of Far Rockaway. It was Farthest Rockaway, because it cost two subway tokens to get there.

It was hard to believe you were still in New York City--it was about as un-urban as it could get, without being in any way rural.

Our apartment was on the second floor. As we drove up, we caught an unwelcome glimpse of the downstairs neighbors. Mom was an enormous slattern, one son looked like a thug, and another was clearly a little bit wanting in the upper storey. They were arranged all over the front of the house, wearing wife-beater T-shirts (Mom wore a stained housedress), drinking beer, and playing the radio at a deafening pitch. Apparently the first floor apartments in this neighborhood were very difficult to rent as they were prone to flooding, and so attracted undesirables. We nicknamed these folks the Jukes family, but they could as easily have been the Kallikaks.

In all but the worst weather, the Jukes held court in front of the house, playing music, eating, and throwing food wrappers all over the sidewalk. We got to consider them something of a conversation piece after a while.

After meeting the Jukes, we had another surprise in store, but that one had to wait until we went to bed. I was exhausted, and dreamed that a railroad train was running over me. It wasn't a train--we were directly under the landing approach for Kennedy Airport. Every night, all summer long, planes flew directly over our heads, making television watching, conversation, and for the matter of that, coherent thought, impossible.

George Orwell communicates from beyond the grave...

and he still makes more sense than the current British government, who are still alive. Only their brains are dead.

My family members decline to be amusing...

so I am borrowing people from other families, for the time being, until they get their act together.

A friend of mine worried about her parents, who were living atop a steep hill in Vermont. When it snowed it became impossible for them to get out or for anyone else to get in. This would not have been a big problem except he was 90 and she was 86.

Apparently they had been engaged in a power struggle for about 65 years. She got her way in one respect, choosing to live on a remote inaccessible hilltop which had once been her family's farm, even though he despised the country and wanted a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights. On everything else, he bullied her until he got his way.

For instance, he hated cigarette smoke, so he made her quit smoking. He made life unpleasant for visitors, including their three children. But most important, he refused to have a heating system installed. They relied on a wood stove. If she insisted on living on her hilltop, she had to chop wood, and did.

Well, at last he died, at about 92. Almost immediately after the funeral, she had a heating system installed and resumed smoking cigarettes--after a 60-year-long hiatus. The last I heard, she was still on her hilltop.

I guess the person who stays in the game the longest wins.

Welcome to Changeville

I just heard one of Barack Obama's speeches on television. He promised, if elected, to unite the people of the United States and to restore peace and prosperity to everyone on the planet. The only promise he forgot was that the lion would lie down with the lamb; maybe he's saving that one for Super Tuesday.

I gather he's going to reason with our enemies. Undoubtedly, when he points out their faults to the Iranian Mullocracy, they will acknowledge the error of their ways and get with the program. Just a little misunderstanding, fellows--I'm glad we were able to straighten things out.

Gosh, if all this were so easy, I wonder why Bush didn't do it when he had a chance? Unity at home and world peace would be really nice! The Daily Kos could invite Rush Limbaugh to be the featured speaker at their next convention. Sean Hannity would become Barbra Streisand's new best friend and George Soros would give a large donation to the Republican Party and finance a memorial statue to Ronald Reagan. Ahmedinnerjacket and Christopher Hitchens would take a fishing trip together.

I eagerly await President Obama's first hundred days. After he fulfills all his promises, we can relax. Nothing bad will ever happen again.

Welcome, readers of Carnival of the Insanities!

Brewing your own beer

In an effort to economize, we decided to try to make our own beer.

Our neighbors, penniless graduate students, taught us how to get started. This involved buying hops, yeast, and malted barley--yes, they sold this in the supermarket--, a bottle capper, bottles--we washed out used ones--and bottle caps. Mr Charm handled the technical aspects of the process.

I don't remember all the ins and outs of it, but I do remember the five-gallon crock that sat in the corner of the kitchen, where the beer was fermenting. An occasional but somewhat sinister glug came out once in a while, as though a monster were trapped in the crock and trying to get out. After fermenting, we bottled it, using a funnel.

It actually looked and tasted like beer, but with two inches of sediment at the bottom of the bottle. You had to pour carefully. I don't know the octane, but this stuff, while drinkable, had the kick of a mule. Two of these and you were out for the night. As he had classes to prepare for the next day, my husband couldn't drink the stuff. Since one regular beer makes me giddy, I couldn't either.

As it happened, we were living in an old mansion that was broken up into apartments. The other apartments housed old ladies with loud excitable dogs.

Anything that was being discarded had to be hauled up a steep driveway in the trunk of a car. Of course, the old ladies couldn't do it. So we did, not being old ladies.

But there was plenty of room in the attic. So when we regretfully decided we couldn't drink the beer, we put the full bottles up there, rather than hauling them to the street. Every once in a while a loud pop would come from the attic, but we ignored it. Once in a while, we cleaned up the shattered glass.

We left it there when we moved out, and I like to think of the occasional loud pop spooking the old ladies and causing the excitable little dogs to bark wildly. It's a nice thought.

(Recycled post)

Britain plans to curb obesity

Obesity is the root cause of many problems in the troubled British Health System. But a plan is afoot to prevent the British people from becoming obese and to get the obese to slim down.

A

t the heart of the programme will be 250,000 outreach counsellors who will patrol supermarket aisles looking for 'inappropriate choicemakers'.

Once they have identified a target the uniformed counsellors will approach the shopper and scream: "PUT IT DOWN FATTY! PUT IT DOWN!"[]...


The counsellors will also have the power to force fat people to strip down to their underpants and run around the car park for 20 minutes.

Gormless in Gaza

The New York Times compassion mode is in overdrive:

The neglect and mistreatment of the 1.5 million Palestinians trapped in the Gaza Strip is a disgrace, and a very dangerous one. They are pawns in the struggle among Hamas, which controls Gaza and uses the territory to bombard Israel daily; its rivals in the Fatah movement that run the Palestinian Authority and the West Bank; and Israel. If something isn’t done quickly to address the Gazans’ plight, President Bush’s Annapolis peace process could implode.

Is the population of Gaza composed entirely of children, who have to be wards of somebody? And is Israel their mommy and daddy? In the United States, we have a quaint old custom: it's called w-o-r-k and is done in exchange for a paycheck. With the proceeds of said paycheck, one can buy cigarettes, gasoline, and bullets, which seem to be the commodities most sought by the adherents of the religion of peace.

As for the Annapolis "peace process," it has as much chance of accomplishing anything as I have of becoming Miss Universe--that is, none at all.

In my opinion, they ought to encourage as many Palestinians as possible to get into Egypt, and then replace the fence to keep them there. Yeah, that'll work.

Is our children learning math?

A math teacher who attends my gym told me she is teaching seventh and eighth graders math which they should have learned in third and fourth grade. These kids don't know multiplication tables--in fact, multiplication is unknown to them. She cited an example of one boy who was told to multiply 12 by 9. He wrote the number 12 nine times and attempted to add the nine columns up. He at least understood the concept.

Why are our schools so obdurate about avoiding teaching our children anything? They seem to have an absolute aversion to allowing learning to take place. Let me put it another way--why can't the children learn? Their parents learned to add, subtract, multiply and divide, so it's not genetic, because we are dealing with the same gene pool. Our children have not been stolen away and replaced by dolts.

I am far from being a math whiz, but I learned to add and subtract in first or second grade, followed the next year by multiplication, division, and--wait for it!--fractions! Yes, fractions were introduced into my muddled little brain when I was a child of tender years and appeared not to harm my psyche. I memorized the multiplication tables because we were made to. I can't say it was an enlightening experience, but I can multiply 12 by 9 even at my advanced age.

I do despair of our country's future when I witness this. Why is it children can learn to read, write and calculate in third world countries, and ours can't? Why does Iran, a repressive hellhole, have a better educational system than we do?

What are they doing in school all day, playing volleyball?

Welcome, Carnival of Insanities readers!

Color me blue

Here I am in Delaware--a perfectly nice state--but it's not my home. In fact, I don't have a home. I don't belong anywhere. I actually thought of going back to my native soil, in Ohio, but what for? All my relatives are getting older, and unless I want to live somewhere convenient to the Columbus Jewish Cemetery, so I won't have to travel far to attend funerals, there seems to be no purpose to living there.

I seem to have left my self in New Jersey; but when I go back, it's not there either. People there have Moved On, as people do. I haven't. We particularly thought Delaware would be a nice place for our out-of-town friends to visit, what with all the gardens, etc. I thought I would be besieged with visitors; so far two couples have come to visit us, an average of one couple a year. I don't know what I'll do, if this mad round of pleasure keeps up.

I don't know anyone here. Yes, I've met people, so I have people to say hello to, if I run into them in the drugstore, but I don't have any friends. If disaster struck, there would be no-one to call, except Ron the Limousine Driver, Mike the Handyman, or the Other Ron, who are, respectively, the limo driver who took me to the Philly Airport, the handyman who put up shelves for me, and my auto mechanic.

I've joined loads of organizations, and I attend their functions, where I drift lonely as a cloud while everyone else is glad-handing their old buddies. People are nice, and friendly, but they're not my friends and I feel depressed.

Who would come to my funeral if I died tomorrow? It would be a mighty small group. The rabbi would be there, but that's his job.

Now that I've cheered everybody up, I will go and eat lunch.

AARP gives "Inspire Award" to ugly, nasty old b--tch

This inspires me to throw up.

No one will ever accuse Helen Thomas of being intimidated by the power of the presidency. During 39 years covering the White House for United Press International (UPI), the iconic newswoman became a formidable figure in her front-row seat at White House news conferences... Thomas’s questions were anything but genteel. Acerbic and oppositional, she grilled and sometimes angered nine presidents—asking Ronald Reagan why he had opposed every piece of civil rights legislation and delivering this challenge to George W. Bush on Iraq: “Why did you really want to go to war?” Says Thomas unapologetically: “I didn’t go into this business to be loved or even popular. No man is above the law, not even the president.”

I personally consider her questions insulting and insolent, of the "Have you stopped beating your wife" variety. Her questions are not designed to shed light on public events or to elicit information, but to embarass. She is nakedly partisan. I might ask her: How did you really get so ugly, Helen?

Helen Thomas is a disgrace to her profession.

Sculpture, the Sculpture Garden, Delaware Art Museum

 

I'm sick of doctors

Something is definitely wrong with the medical system in this country. Example: Mr Charm has had difficulty walking. Of course, he doesn't mention this to any of the doctors who see him at least four times a year. They are supposed to guess.

My six-year-old grandson, however, has noticed that grandpa walks funny. He is, as I say, bright. But he never went to medical school, as he has not yet completed first grade, which is one of the requirements for admission.

I guess Mr Charm thinks the doctors should have sense enough to notice something wrong with him, and they would, if they ever saw him walk into a room or attempt to sit in a chair. But they don't have time. So he sits there, in his tasteful gown that ties in the back, they don't notice anything, and he gets worse and worse.

My Uncle Doc would have noticed. He didn't have the armentarium of drugs and treatments that modern physicians have, but he did have eyes, which he used to look at patients.

My aunt, Uncle Doc's wife, had a friend who told me this story. She was a young woman, not married very long and pregnant. She was new in town and didn't know anybody. Uncle Doc asked her how she felt, as doctors do, and she burst out in tears; she was so lonely. Uncle Doc looked at her and said, "I'll have my wife call you."

He did, and my aunt called her; they became lifelong friends.

Uncle Doc would have noticed how a patient walked into a room.

Statue of Garfield, Wilmington, DE

 

I've driven past this statue many times, but never knew who it represented. Since I've been taking pictures of stuff around Wilmington, particularly monuments, I parked the car and took a look. The statue is labeled "Garfield," and I assume it is James Garfield, president of the United States, and not Garfield the cat.

Why Garfield? Why Wilmington? I don't know.

It's not generally known...

but there are three former slaves in New Jersey.

After 160 years of stubborn denial, New Jersey is just now getting around to admitting that slavery was wrong and has officially apologized for it. This is fantastic news for former slaves who have been sitting around all this time patiently waiting for some sort of mea culpa. However, there is still no word from any former slaves as to whether the apology will be accepted. In fact, they have remained strangely silent for decades.

They keep a low profile. Heck, they have to, as they had to have been born before 1865 and so are pretty darn old.

Old Fred lives in a humble mud shack in Lawrenceville, and likes to play bingo. His favorite television show is American Idol.

Grandma Myrtle lives with her great-great-great grandchildren in a housing project in Newark. She doesn't get out much. Due to the constant gunfire in the neighborhood, she has lost her hearing, but still likes to water her potted plants.
Bad Bart is serving three life sentences plus 99 years in Ramapo State Prison. No-one can remember what he was sentenced for.

The three held a joint press conference, fervently thanking the legislators. Old Fred, as spokesperson, is quoted as saying, "I never thought I would live to see the day."

A short history of the United States

...as taught in American schools.

Colonial period. Pilgrims, oppressed by George III, come to New England, land at Plymouth Rock, a rock at Plymouth, MA; nearly starve to death until helped out by friendly Indians. When they stop starving and build those cute white churches they start oppressing Indians. Meanwhile, some other Brits come to Virginia, start importing slaves from Africa and oppressing them. Pocahontas is an Indian girl who is in there somewhere. Dutch land in New York, and some other people land in other places and start colonies, oppress Indians. Some French are in there somewhere--they founded Canada, eventually. Anyway, they sell Louisiana to Jefferson.

Federal period. A bunch of dead white guys get together in Philadelphia and write the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. George Washington beats the tar out of the British. Washington becomes president, never does anything wrong, and dies, to be followed by Jefferson, Monroe, John Adams and a bunch of other guys, to be followed by...

Civil War. Lincoln is president, no-one ever criticizes him, and he wins the war practically immediately without setbacks. This is due largely to Grant, who beats everybody. Gen Sherman marches through Georgia, burning everything, but that's okay because he is only upsetting white guys. Lincoln assassinated while visiting Gettysburg. Lincoln frees slaves.


Discovery of gold in California and western expansion by colonists. More Indians exploited and oppressed, but the peace-loving Indians massacre Custer at Little Big Horn. Or was it Wounded Knee? Both were important places. Colonists ride in covered wagons, which are very picturesque.


World War I, fought and won by Woodrow Wilson, who wanted to join the League of Nations, but the Republicans wouldn't let him, which led directly to...


World War II during which we bombed Dresden, imprisoned loyal Japanese-Americans, and let loose the Atom bomb on Japan. Despite these flaws, it was a good thing we won, because President Roosevelt was a good guy who ended the Depression.

The Cold War. Everyone carried on about the Russians, until the Soviet Union fell, after which everything was hunky-dory. Oh, yes, and President Kennedy was assassinated, so the Republicans insisted on going to war in Vietnam for no apparent reason.

9/11. That was pretty rotten, and we got mad, but they haven't done anything since, have they? Why hold grudges? Nevertheless, the warmonger Bush goes to war in Afghanistan and Iraq. The war in Iraq lasts longer than World War II, which lasted for just the optimum amount of time a war should last. No war should be allowed to last longer, it's not fair.

My favorite candidates

The world has been waiting to see who I endorse for President in '08. Okay, here we go, Repubs first:

1. Rudy. Pro: He is aware of the importance of the war on terror. Likes opera. Con: The press and Dems will savage his private life, and he's touchy.

2. McCain. Pro: Aware of the importance of the war on terror. War hero. Con: I'm still mad at him for McCain-Feingold.

3. Romney. Ho hum. Might do in a pinch.

As for Huckabee, he might be a likable guy, but I don't like his politics. I'm against Southerners on principle, after living through Jimmy Carter. The rest of the Republican field are out of the question.

For the Dems:

1. Hillary Clinton. I think she's the smartest and the only one with any ideas. Even if her ideas are wrong, she is capable of harboring an idea. Negative: she keeps changing her position.

There is no second place. Obama's enthusiastic crowds remind me of attendees at a faith healing service who are desperate for a miracle. They want to touch the hem of his garment or kiss his ring. They seek a savior rather than a president. Get control of yourselves, people! You're not here to choose a knight in shining armor!

As for Edwards, his rabble-rousing class warfare rhetoric is repulsive. I doubt he believes it. He's too intelligent to believe it. I doubt he believes anything. PS. I don't care for Elizabeth either. I don't wish her dead of cancer, but I don't like her.

At last, a British royal shows some class

It's not who you think.

Ever since she became Royal Colonel of 4th Battalion, The Rifles, the Duchess of Cornwall has taken a close personal interest in the welfare of the 650 men who have just returned from a gruelling tour of Iraq.

She has, I can reveal, sent a handwritten letter to every wounded soldier — and there have been 62 of them — as well as a £50 bottle of whisky or a hamper of food. Camilla has also written to the families of the battalion's 11 dead soldiers — not just to the widows but the fiancees of unmarried riflemen.

Some relatives have even been invited to her home for tea. This remarkable insight into a very private side of the Duchess has been revealed by the servicemen themselves, who have spoken of her unstinting support.

All in all, a very gracious lady.

"She's so busy yet finds time to hand write all those letters to our wounded and families," says one soldier.

Pennsylvania Senator Goes to Syria to Make a Fool of Himself

as if he didn't have enough opportunities to do so here in the good old USA.

Sen. Arlen Specter has fallen into a trap that makes him look silly and damages U.S. interests as well as the cause of peace and democracy in the Middle East. Mr. Specter may have been fooled by real professionals, but given the example of so many others who went before - including his own experience - he should have known better.

After all, this was his 17th visit to Syria since 1984, none of which has produced anything. By this time how could he retain such an innocent attitude toward that country's dictatorship?

The beneficiary here has been Syrian dictator Bashar al-Assad.

Specter's companion in folly was Cong Patrick Kennedy, not the sharpest knife in the drawer even if everything else in said drawer is a spoon.

Oy! Words fail me. Read the whole article.

Ht to Austin Bay.

Couragous protestors disappearated

Brian Boyko points out how dissidents have suffered in the good old USA under Bush. The poor chap lives in fear:

Over the past three years there have been more and more crackdowns on civil rights, more arbitrary arrests and detentions in the United States....[W]hile my desire to leave the U.S. had started in anger, it had slowly changed into fear. Fear of being arrested for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time. We Americans joke about Gitmo here in our gallows humor way while admitting that there just isn’t room in Cuba for everyone who’s ever cracked a joke at Bush’s expense, but even a simple “civil disobedience” arrest from the local cop who is having a bad day can cause you to lose your job, your home, and possibly your family, if you’re unlucky enough - and that’s not a rare enough occurrence to joke about.

It's about time someone mentioned those whose civil liberties have been destroyed: Jane Fonda, who mysteriously disappeared without a trace after sitting on enemy cannons in North Vietnam; the Dixie Chicks, tried for sedition, sentenced and executed; the Plame-Wilson pair, kept in a dungeon and fed a diet of bread and water; Cindy Sheehan, who has been stoned to death; Susan Sarandon, Johnny Depp, George Clooney, and others too numerous to mention, now permanently immured in underground cells and sentenced to hard labor.

What's that? You say these nuisances are still running free, inflicting themselves on the public? George W Bush is simply not performing the duties for which we right-wing fanatics placed him in office. Get out there and dismantle civil liberties, George! Inaugurate the reign of terror ASAP!

via Tim Blair.

Linked at Carnival of the Insanities. Thanks, Pat!

Who's my candidate?

John McCain shares a 86% similarity with your beliefs
Register to Vote: Rock the Vote, powered by Working Assets Wireless
Iraq and Foreign Policy very similar find out why
Taxes and Budget very similar find out why
Civil Liberties and Domestic Security very similar find out why
Crime and Punishment very similar find out why
Trade and Economics very similar find out why
Social Security similar find out why

I would have thought Rudy G would be my candidate. He's tough as nails.

A new washing machine

My washer dropped dead last week, fortunately after all the visitors had gone, but before I had washed their soiled sheets. Naturally, I bought another. It doesn't pay to have a repairman come to the house, not that they would come this week, of course. If past experience is any guide, they would set up an appointment on the 21st, keep me waiting all day, declare the washer beyond repair, and charge me $79.95 for the consultation.

When the dishwasher went, I had hopes of fixing it and called a repairman. Several days later, the repairman came, pulled the dishwasher out of its niche, and declared it not worth fixing, $79.95 please. He then kindly pushed it back into its spot under the counter. For the food disposer, rinse and repeat.

So when the washer went, I skipped the intermediate step and ordered a new one, which was not as easy as it sounds. Costco had one I liked, but they do not deliver. They deliver if you order online, but do not install, and as for getting rid of your old machine, you're on your own. Sears had one in stock, if I wanted to go and get it. I didn't.

Mother would have been appalled at the casual way I treated this old appliance. This was not her way. She once had a perfectly good washer, except it didn't work. But she had confidence that it could be repaired. After all, it had worked for five years, hadn't it? Mr Snyder, one of her clients who happened to be an appliance repairman, told her it needed an expensive new part, a transmission maybe. She told him to go ahead and put one in. He said he would have to order it from the manufacturer as they were not making that model any more. She told him to go ahead and do it. He said it might take weeks. That was okay with her.

My brother, who was living at home at the time, wanted to do his laundry, so he ordered a new washer without her knowledge. When it arrived, she refused delivery. This went on for a while, with dirty clothes piling up on the basement floor, until the manufacturer informed all concerned that they could not supply the part. The new part, if it could be obtained, would cost $100, plus labor. A new washer at the time sold for about $200.

Mother, who had grown up dirt poor, abhorred waste. She wasn't stingy; she was actually very generous. But her cars were of the same vintage as the washer, held together (by a client who was an auto mechanic) with spit and baling wire. I remember getting into one of her cars and putting my foot down all the way to the road surface. The bottom had rotted out of the car. But it was a perfectly good car. It ran. Buy a new car? Oysgevarfene gelt!

Mother really hated to get rid of anything. She had an enclosed sun room which she converted into a downstairs bedroom and bath (she had a client who was a contractor) when my grandmother grew ill and came to live with her. After bubbe died, it became a repository for everything that needed a bit of work but might come in handy one day. Three-legged chairs, a sofa that was losing its stuffing, a crib without slats, a vase with a crack in it, all these and more found a home there. Dead potted plants were added to the mix. A few old magazines. A shoebox full of papers someone should really sort someday. We called this room the Batcave. It got so crowded we couldn't get in to use the bathroom.

I was waterboarded, except for the board

By this I mean, I actually thought I was drowning. I was closer to it than most waterboardees are, because I was in danger.

What happened is this: I was a kid, about 8 years old and learning to dive. Showing off, actually. I dived into about 8 feet of water, went straight to the bottom, moved my arms to my sides, and clunked my head on the bottom of the pool. Of course, I opened my mouth to take a deep breath so I could howl, and breathed in, oh, about half a swimming pool of chlorinated water.

I was in much worse shape than those terrorist suspects.

However, my father, noticing that I had failed to surface, after a decent interval dived into the water and fished me out.

All that was missing was the board. Still, I can claim to have survived this horrendous experience without physical or mental harm. Except that I do not like to dive to this day.

Happy New Year

I would like to write a clever poem for the occasion, but nothing comes to mind. So have a happy new year all the same.

A slight miscalculation

It turns out China's GDP is 40 percent less than was previously thought.

Who compiles these figures? The CIA?

Hmmm...

The Recipe For Miriam

3 parts Humor 2 parts Playfulness 1 part Giddiness Splash of Allure Shake vigorously

What's the Recipe for Your Personality?

Bush suffers from Israeli Derangement Syndrome

Also known as Peace Process Delusion.

The incubation period for this disease appears to be seven years.

More about watches

I'm sure no-one wants to hear any more about my family's watch problems, but I can't help it. I promise this will be the last watch reference. For a long, long time.

So--I usually buy my watches at Rite-Aid (40 percent off this week only) and throw them out when they stop working. I find it doesn't make sense to replace the battery in a $15 watch.

Also, my watches are liable to end up God knows where. The kitchen counter. The bathroom sink. The bathtub. Once I found one in the clothes dryer. It was still ticking, but alas, had no minute hand--it had come off during the spin cycle.

So you know I am not a fit custodian of a really, really expensive watch. But that's what I've got, thanks to a very generous relative. It's wasted on me. As bubbe would have said, it's like giving a chazar haven, chazar being a pig and haven being oats. Oats being too good for pigs, who prefer slop.

I am now the proud owner of a Movado Museum Watch. Must remember to keep it out of the washer and drier. Also off the kitchen counter when I'm cleaning up.

Does Mitt Romney remind anyone else...

of Dudley Do-right?

Global warmenist can't read maps

Flunks geography.
The area that will by completely inundated by the rising ocean—and not in a century but in the lifetime of my two cats—are the American southeast, including the most populated area of Texas.

My 6-year-old grandson can do a better job.

But then, he's smart.

New Jersey governor mugged by reality

This hardly ever happens.

Gov. Jon S. Corzine said finding health insurance for the 1.4 million New Jerseyans who lack it ranks among New Jersey's top problems, but he doesn't expect to solve the plight in 2008.

He said the state -- facing a projected $3 billion budget deficit for next year -- cannot afford it.

"We have relatively finite resources," the Democratic governor said. "As a matter of fact, I don't even think we have resources."

Warren Buffett endorses Hillary

wants higher taxes.

Buffett, having shoveled in filthy lucre with both hands for most of his 70 odd years, feels the grim reaper getting closer and wants to store up virtue in heaven by doing more for the poor. But, being a shrewd investor, he wants to do more for them the only sensible way, with your money. In other words, higher taxes. On you. And me. We can spare the money, unless we are blinded by our greed and selfishness and don't care about the common good.

Warren has looked into matters and has decided that he can pony up more money for the tax collector without feeling the pinch. And so can you, or else.

Merry Christmas, or what you will

I am coriander?

If you say so.

Your Score: Coriander

You scored 50% intoxication, 50% hotness, 50% complexity, and 75% craziness!

You are Coriander! You're subtle. So subtle that people often forget about you. You are refreshingly clean and rather odd. You're often misunderstood. Your key word is "latent;" all your potential is wrapped up tightly until "BOOM," one day you're cilantro. Funky.

Link: The Which Spice Are You Test written by jodiesattva on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

Are presidential libraries a waste of money?

I believe they are.

The article itself is a lengthy discussion of foreign contributions to the Clinton library, many of them from unsavory characters. The same holds true of other presidential libraries in large measure. According to one of the commentors:

I am less disgusted by where the money came from, than what the money bought. Presidential libraries are a waste and a boondogle. The money would be better spent on REAL libraries, or on a work that benefits real people.

Presidential libraries are enormous PR machines, dedicated not to the pursuit of truth but to the preservation of said president's "legacy." It reminds me uncomfortably of the Roman custom of making gods of emperors, even while they are still alive. Material critical of the holy one's career is supressed or de-emphasized. How can you objectively criticize a god, which is apparently what these ex-presidents think they are? (Exhibit A: Jimmy Carter) You can't--it would be heresy.

Better to have the national archives preserve presidential papers--isn't that what they are for?

Ht to Roger L Simon.

Royalties!

I actually got a check from my publisher for royalties! The checks keep getting smaller, but they are such an unexpected treat!

I've been getting them for 5 or 6 years now. I've generally spent the money on electronics. The first check was enough to buy me my first computer. Later, I purchased a digital camera. The latest check might cover a couple of printer cartridges. I note with interest, however, that the book now sells for $81 new.

A history game

It's tough to be king.

Family story

This (reprised)story is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

When my Uncle Doc got out of medical school and finally had two pennies to rub together, he bought his mother a fancy watch. I believe it was a Patek Philippe. None of us ever saw her wearing or consulting the watch, which really didn't go with Bubbe's style, which was that she didn't have any.

Bubbe was of the old school which believed that when a woman got old she was, for all ornamental purposes, dead. She had long grey hair parted in the middle and pulled into a bun in back. Her closet contained three dresses, one black and two navy blue. One of the navy ones had little flowers on it.

She had a couple of housedresses for daily wear. Housedresses are to dresses as paper plates are to bone china. She owned a cardigan sweater, navy blue. Sturdy shoes with one inch heels that laced up completed the ensemble, along with some industrial strength underwear. Her stockings were made of something called lisle. With this wardrobe, Bubbe was good to go to anything from a bar mitzvah to a coronation.

So anyway, she had this fancy Swiss watch, which no one knew about but Uncle Doc. It was too good to use.

Picture a calendar with pages falling from it, indicating that thirty years have passed. Bubbe dies. My mother, who owned her mother's house, was in no hurry to clean it out, sort everything, etc. So eventually Aunt Rose decided to go over there and see what was what.

At that point, Patek Philippe re-entered our lives. Seems Aunt Rose discovered the watch and gave it to her daughter, Esther. Without even consulting Uncle Doc!

Esther even took the watch back to Pittsburgh, where she was living. And when burglars broke into her house and stole the watch, Esther put in a claim to the insurance company.

Uncle Doc told me this story in a tone of high dudgeon. Apparently he felt a bond to this timepiece which not even death could sever. He considered the watch a permanent loan. You know, like when a rich person gives something to a museum to display but keeps title to it. Apparently he thought the watch should have reverted to him and felt ill used.

When he told me this story, I suggested he should have told Rose, or Esther, that he wanted the watch. He was unwilling to come off his high horse, but started treating Esther with cold formality whenever he ran into her, which was often, since this branch of the family are in each other's pockets and scarcely a day goes by when they are not communicating with each other.

So Esther innocently started to wonder what she had done to make him mad. But she wouldn't ask, and he wouldn't have told her anyway. And so it went, until Alzheimer's took over Uncle Doc's memory and he mercifully forgot all about the watch, along with a lot of other things.

Non-committal holiday cards

I'm all tuckered out from sending out a few Christmas--oops--holiday cards. First I had to go to the Post Office early because they run out of Christmas--I mean holiday--stamps rather early. I scored some stamps (utterly inoffensive religiously). I can't remember what they had on them, frankly, because I put them away safely, never to be found again.

I prepared myself by purchasing cards free of baby Jesus (of course), holly, mistletoe, picturesque churches in the snow, picturesque houses in the snow with wreaths on the door (see holly and mistletoe, above), angels with trumpets, and other undesirable Christian symbols. Also notably absent were menorahs, six-pointed stars, Israeli flags, dreidels, and kiddush cups. I'm not giving away the secret of what pictures were on these cards; do your own research.

Not having the Christmas non-denominational stamps at hand, I had to make do with Ella Fitzgerald which I was saving because I like her singing. Then I remembered that Ella was only worth 39 cents while postage had gone up to 41 cents. So each Ella was accompanied by a Liberty Bell, just to be safe.

I printed up labels, then had to make choices: should I send greetings to the next-door neighbors? My old next-door neighbors? What about the former colleague who I haven't seen in about five years, but who always sends me a card? And the good friend who never sends cards anymore because she says her life is too dull to write about?

I decided to send cards definitely to those who send pictures of their cute, winsome children every year. I keep these in an album entitled "Other People's Children." When the children reach the age of 22, I stop keeping them, no matter how winsome.

With all these decisions behind me, I put all the cards out for the mailman. Done for this year, thank (God of your denomination or any deity you think deserves thanks). If you are a Unitarian and/or don't believe in God, I thank Mother Earth.

My own personal ice storm

It was a long, long time ago, and we were living in an out-of-the-way place in upstate New York. All afternoon glop poured out of the sky,looking like liquid ice or frozen rain, until the tree branches outside my window were covered with ice. It was very pretty, until night came and the power went off. Mr C got bundled up and was about to go outside to see what was going on when the phone rang. A neighbor informed us that there was a power line down right in front of my front door. Thank God he did not go.

Since the furnace required electricity to start, heat immediately stopped coming up. We put on all the clothes we could find and crawled into bed. The next day, it became clear we could not stay in the house, so we bundled up the kids and went to stay with a colleague of Mr C who kindly invited us. Their house was charming, but full of antiques and no place for two little kids aged 5 and 2.

Tree branches were falling all over the area, weighed down with heavy coatings of ice, destroying power lines. Roads were blocked as well. The local power company was overwhelmed. Crews had to be sent in from all over the state, and even so, power was not restored to everyone for eight days. We were one of the last to have our power restored. I said we were living in an out-of-the-way place, didn't I? The repair crews couldn't find us for a long, long time.

I ended up with a serious kidney infection and a hatred for living in the country, which persists to this day. i'm not too crazy about upstate New York either.

Reprise of a Yiddish lesson

I thought this bore repeating:

I have been reliably informed that there are people in this country who don't know what oy vey means.

True story: when I was in the hospital right after knee surgery, the woman in the next bed kept up a constant moaning of oy vey, or sometimes just oy, the lite version. When I mentioned this to my father, who came to visit me, he protested, "But she's black."

Nevertheless, I heard her say oy vey for about 18 hours. The other six of the 24 were given over to exhortations to Jesus.

My Swedish-Scotch-Irish-possibly German son-in-law says it in a midwestern accent.

Oy vey is the international language of woe. In fact, I believe it can be translated roughly as "Woe is me." It expresses misery, pain, dismay, the whole tragic view of life. Saying oy vey over and over is called "kvetching." But lets not get into that.

Who runs this country?

It should be the president:

The Constitution is the [social]Contract. It is the highest law of the land. Yet somehow we have allowed the Central Intelligence Agency and the State Department to become the fourth and fifth branches of government, respectively; the "Intelligence community" has been allowed to become a KGB-like government in and of itself, answerable to no one. It is time to bring these cowboys back down to Earth, and within the appropriate bounds of Constitutional authority....

The first step is to elect a leader who will take his oath to uphold the Constitution seriously, and who will be willing to take whatever steps necessary to wipe the slate clean in both agencies. The President is entitled to an Intelligence Community that serves solely at the whim of the Executive Branch, and answers to no one else. And in our Constitution, the President IS the Executive Branch, not the CIA or State Department, or any other agency within the Executive bureaucracy with a different agenda. This NIE fiasco, the leaks to the NY Times re: secret terror monitoring methods, the Plame/Wilson joke--all these are little more than bureaucrats trying to sabotage a President. But the threat is not only to the President's authority--during a time of War, the threat is to our very lives. If Iran or its agents detonate a nuke in the US or Isreal (sic)or Europe, and we did nothing to stop it beforehand, all because a ridiculous political NIE was allowed to surface, then whose hands will the blood of the tens of thousands of casualties be on? This is not a game: we are at War and it is our lives and the lives of millions of innocents which are being placed in harm's way by these partisan bureaucrats. Our Intelligence agencies are out of control. It is madness and it is suicidal; and quite frankly, it has to be stopped.

What is needed is to get a President that will "man up" and to do the difficult work of cleaning house in these bureaucracies, before they swallow whole the rest of us. We need to elect someone with the cojones and determination to take on these traitors within, even if it means tearing the agencies down to nothing and starting over again. Because when rogue operatives in our Intelligence community are permitted (and even encouraged by Democrats and the media...) to actively engage in sabotaging a President's ability to function as THE Executive Branch, we no longer have a functioning Executive Branch. And we no longer are living under the social contract of the Constitution.

If you have an Arab for a friend, you don't need any enemies

The Palis are double-crossed, again.

The Palestinian Authority had made a special arrangement with Israel to allow 2,000 Palestinians to leave Gaza in order to make the hajj, or pilgrimage to Mecca. These Gazans were to leave Israel by way of the Kerem Shalom crossing in Gaza and the Allenby Bridge crossing in the West Bank, their PA-organized travel meant to show the residents of Gaza that Mahmoud Abbas can make things happen for them — in contrast to Hamas. But Cairo and Riyadh had made their own special arrangement with Hamas.

Read the whole thing.

You call those property taxes?

Paul Smith thinks his property taxes in New Castle County are too high.

From my perspective, New Castle County taxes are downright amusing, amounting to just a bit more than the tip I give the mailman each Christmas.

You need to live, or have lived, in New Jersey, to appreciate property taxes. Now we lived in a perfectly adequate house in Passaic County. You might even call it a nice house, although it needed new windows and a furnace. It was not a spectacular house, or an extremely nice house, just a house.

For the privilege of living in said house, we paid more than $9,000 in property taxes. This was okay while I was working, but when I retired I earned about half of what I had formerly been paid. It appeared that I would have to get another full-time job and maybe some part-time work to continue to live in this perfectly adequate house, which would shortly need new windows and a new furnace. (The roof was pretty old too.)

So I figured out that if we moved to Delaware we would save enough to pay for me and Mr Charm to go to Europe every year on a nice tour. I thought Sicily would be nice, for a start.

We moved, and I'm glad. At least the bills and the income match each month. In other words, I don't run out of money before I run out of month, most of the time.

As for Sicily, I haven't been there yet. But I have hopes.

Welcome, Dr Sanity readers!

A modern dilemma

From kesher talk.

Chanukah and the spelling problem

Just because I'm Jewish, people are always asking me how to spell Chanukah. Well, it is spelled correctly in the above picture. In other words, the word is Hebrew and is properly spelled in Hebrew, so any way you want to spell it in English is okay as long as readers can understand what you're referring to.

In my household of origin, Chanukah was celebrated with what can best be described as torpor. Someone lighted the candles, unless they forgot. Dreidels were also involved somehow, but no one could quite figure out the rules so our dreidel games were of short duration. Potato pancakes were sometimes on the menu. Or not. Once in a while some relative would remember the true meaning of the holiday--giving money to children--and slip me a couple of bucks.

This holiday by no means has as many bells and whistles as Christmas, no matter how you tart it up. My suggestion: light the candles, get out the dreidel, fry the pancakes, and give the children money. Chocolates are good too.

A call for love

A middle-aged woman and a slightly younger man were talking in the gym the other day about the hostage-taker in Hillary's New Hampshire headquarters. The man had an explanation: "Every action is either an act of love or a call for love."

Older lady: "Oh, my my! Is that so?"

The man then proceeded to hog the piece of equipment which, as it happens, I was waiting for. Was that an act of love or a call for love?

It's snowing here

I had to go to the grocery store today. It was, of course, full of all the little old ladies and old guys who go to the grocery store only when it snows. I had an excuse--I am having company over the weekend, so I don't count.

The dairy shelves, particularly, looked as if they had been visited by a joint committee of Vandals, Goths, and Visigoths. Store employees were re-stocking as fast as they could.

Why do some people only buy milk, eggs, and bread when it snows? Is there some kind of an atavistic urge to to make bread pudding in bad weather?

Help!

I have received several e-mails from readers who have tried to access my site and been re-directed to blogxchng.com, curse it, whatever that is. Meanwhile, comments have dried up. Blogger has not been helpful.

If you are having a problem accessing my site, let me know. My e-mail is bentheo@verizon.net.

Thanks,

Miriam

My readers are so smart

Get a Cash Advance

Lo, the poor immigrant...

Welcome to Insanities readers!

From the News Journal, a sad case:

During her two-and-a-half days in police custody, all Maria Navarro-Luna could think about was her injured 7-year-old daughter....

Those who know Navarro-Luna say she is a wonderful mother, always preoccupied with providing the best for her children.

The mystery gets deeper:

They can't understand why Navarro-Luna, 31, was arrested earlier this week on two counts of endangering the welfare of a child after a June accident in which she and two of her children were struck by a truck while jaywalking across busy U.S. 40. Seven-year-old Dulce Maria -- "Sweet Maria" in Spanish -- was taken to Alfred I. duPont Hospital for Children, comatose. Her 16-month-old sister, Lucero Maria, whom Navarro-Luna had been pushing in a stroller, died.

Well, I've put my gigantic brain to the task, and I think I have the motive for the government's malign treatment of this magical mom: she was jaywalking across a busy highway with two children in tow!

Is that dumb or what? Does it perhaps display poor judgment?

If she were our own native-born admitted doofus, Britney Spears, it would be the work of a moment to revoke custody. In fact, Britney lost custody of her children, despite her money and fame.

Maria Navarro-Luna is a piss-poor mother who already caused the death of one of her children. What in the world would she do with custody of the other one--run across I-95 with her?

Obviously, Sudan is heaven on earth...

If naming a teddy bear Muhammed is the worst thing that ever happened in that country, they are lucky indeed.

Wait, you say--they have wars there and are killing each other? Were any teddy bears implicated in the violence?

News from the food police

While you--or most of us, anyway--have been stuffing our faces with unhealthy foods, the food police have been sitting around their Spartan vegan dinners and planning new rules for us.

A consumer group prodded the Food and Drug Administration yesterday to regulate salt as a food additive, arguing that excessive salt consumption by Americans may be responsible for more than 100,000 deaths a year.

Rachel takes umbrage at this. But why not? If carbon dioxide, one of the commonest substances in the world and part of the air we breathe, can be considered a pollutant, why can't salt be a dangerous substance?

The nanny-minded among us are discovering brave new worlds to conquer every day. There are no limits except for their own chutzpah. Let's hear it for Mayor Bloomberg, who decided to ban transfats. He's obviously a pioneer.

Want to break up with your significant other?

Here's a painless, high-tech way. No personal appearance or phone calls required.

No more physical therapy

Hooray! I got sprung from physical therapy today.

My last six sessions were in the water. There is a small pool which is used by one person at a time. Aside from feeling like a teabag floating in a very large cup, this suited me just fine. I could move my leg forward, backward, sideways, and bend it--a lot easier than on land. Jumping jacks, walking, running, skipping--all were great in the water. Not quite so good on terra firma.

Now if I could arrange to spend my life under water....

My favorite movies

I'm so glad you asked.



1. My Fair Lady. Script by George Bernard Shaw, costumes by Cecil Beaton, the unbeatable Rex Harrison and the radiant Audrey Hepburn--what's not to like?

2. Wife versus Secretary.

3. Sullivan's Travels.

4. The Quiet Man.

ht to Doug Harper.

Yes, I hate him

Which 2008 candidate do you hate the most?

The candidate you like least is Democrat Dennis Kucinich. He opposes the death penalty, opposes building a border fence, opposes Iran sanctions, opposes a troop surge for Iraq, supports embryonic stem cell research -- this guy is your worst nightmare!

Take the quiz at Buttafly.com

and I don't think much of the others.

God bless us every one

Oops! Wrong holiday! However, the sentiment remains the same.

God bless everyone; however, I hope Jimmy Carter's wishbone is broken.

Jack Reacher redux

Rachel has written a sarcastic comment regarding my invention of an attache case for this fictitious hero:

Jack Reacher don't need no stinkin' attache case.

I think Reacher rinses his undies out every night before he goes to bed. Or he goes commando.

Well, missy, I'm not going to take that lying down.

Imagine Jack Reacher, coming home to his bleak hotel room tired out from saving the world, and satisfying the lust of some gorgeous chick. He sneaks out of his lover's embrace, then goes to the sink and rinses out his undies, which are made of quick-drying flimsy material and have lace trim. I suppose his socks have ruffles? Is this the tough superhero we know and love?

Sorry, the attache case is the only decent way out. At the very least, he needs a backpack.

A mixed up family

at Thanksgiving dinner.

spam

This piece-of-crap ad comes up whenever I attempt to access my website.

Knock it off!

I am not interested in flacking for blogxchang, whatever it might be.

Jack Reacher's underwear

I've been reading Lee Child's books about Jack Reacher. His latest, Bad Luck and Trouble, is pretty good if you like that sort of thing, which I do. Lots of action, not much Inquiry into the Meaning of Life. He gets on with it.

You should know that Jack Reacher is a nomadic character, who goes wherever he listeth, carrying only a collapsible toothbrush. Wherever he goes, he finds intrigue and devilry and, after heroic effort, puts things right. He's a lone wolf, needless to say.

He has no spare clothing, wearing what he stand up in until he buys another outfit, and then discarding outfit A for outfit B. What bothers me is that toothbrush, or actually, what he doesn't carry besides it.

I mean, what does the man do for underwear? He sleeps with his clothes under the mattress, by which I gather that he is in the nude. But when he gets up and takes a shower, does he put on yesterday's dirty undies? Ugh! Or does he go commando? Also ugh, except not perhaps so much.

Also, in a related matter, what does he put on the toothbrush?

In my imagination, I have solved this problem. I have endowed Jack Reacher with a small attache case, containing a change of undies, toothpaste, deodorant, and a shaver.

It's so much neater that way.

Now it can be told...

The real truth about 9/11.

Quick and handy guide to George W Bush

My George Bush Conspiracy Theory

George W. Bush made Rosie leave The View so that Ann Coulter, the Christian Coalition, Rush Limbaugh, the Jews, and big corporations could offend minorities.

Create your own at Buttafly.com

He's also mean to children. Because he hates them.

h/t Rachel.

I knew this would happen if Bush were elected

Dissent is being stifled.

Last week, in my weekly Sun Media column, I argued that it’s really not that big of a deal to make terror suspects like 9/11 mastermind Khalid Sheikh Mohammed essentially do what any kid does at Halloween when he bobs for apples...
That column triggered an email campaign spearheaded by the Daily Kos -- the largest far-left blog in America – which appealed to the Sun’s new editor-in-chief from the Toronto Star, Canada’s largest leftist newspaper. As a result, after 2 years with the Sun and a hundred columns, my writing is now in search of a new home.

See how Bush tramples on our civil liberties? Oops! Same church, different pew.

Reflections on Norman Mailer

The only thing I ever read of Mailer's was The White Negro, an essay extolling the courage of a bunch of thugs who beat up and murdered an elderly white shopkeeper.

It made a deep impression on me, as I can still remember its impact, and the crazy, troubled way it made me feel. Was good bad? Was up down? Could it possibly be that beating up on an elderly, innocent person was an act of merit? Clearly I could not appreciate the subtlety of Mailer's ideas. He must have meant something far, far different from the words on the page. Didn't he?

One of us (me or Norm) was obviously crazy, and since he was rich and famous and I was nobody, I assumed it had to be me. The essay did have the effect of giving me a pass, an excuse not to ever read anything else by him, and I exercised this option to the max.

And I've never been sorry.

Saluting veterans

My inner European

Your Inner European is Italian!

Passionate and colorful. You show the world what culture really is.

Who's Your Inner European?

I don't come from anywhere

What American accent do you have? (Best version so far) Neutral You're not Northern, Southern, or Western, you're just plain -American-. Your national identity is more important than your local identity, because you don't really have a local identity. You might be from the region in that map, which is defined by this kind of accent, but you could easily not be. Or maybe you just moved around a lot growing up.

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

People I least want to hear, read, or think about

These people should get the hook indefinitely. The American people have suffered enough.

9. Ron Paul

8. Dennis Kucinich

7. Paris Hilton

6. Duane "Dog" Chapman

5. Ellen deGeneris

4. Rosie O'Donnell

3. Britney Spears

2. Heather Mills

1. And the once and always champion, Jimmah (malaise) Carter, friend to dictators everywhere.

Let's have a moratorium on any news about them. Unless, of course, one of them dies. Their obituaries will be welcome.

A really good discussion of biofuels

The verdict: They're no damn good.

Click the link and read. Must I do everything around here?

Today is Guy Fawkes Day

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up King and Parliament.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

Daniel Hannan, who must be a British MP, has a graceful tribute:

Guy Fawkes Night is a big event in my constituency, especially in Sussex and Kent. These counties were strong for Protestantism in the 16th century and for Parliament in the 17th. To this day, there are bonfire societies in almost every village, and you can see orange sparks rising from crests of the Downs, not just on the 5th, but throughout October and November.

Guy Fawkes Night is a big event in Sussex and Kent.


Nor is it just Guy Fawkes who is burnt. I have seen effigies of Tony Blair, Romano Prodi, unpopular local politicians and, of course, the Pope.

The torching of the Pontiff understandably makes people uneasy – although, in my experience, Left-wing atheists are more offended by the rite than are practicing Catholics. Still, at a time when Catholic leaders are uneasy about the triumphalism of the new Elizabeth film, do we want to be setting fire to the Holy Father?...

[H]aving attended dozens of bonfire nights in my constituency, I can honestly say that I’ve never found the slightest hint of anti-popery in the crowds. Most people are there to enjoy the fireworks. To the extent that there is any ideology present at all, it can be found in the celebration of patriotism, of tradition and of English particularism: the sense that we are marking one of the things that makes our country distinctive.

One year, in Lewes, I watched a large crowd cheering the immolation of Jacques Delors and a large dinosaur that represented the Maastricht Treaty. The good people of East Sussex had realised that, these days, the threat to our way of life comes, not from the Bishop of Rome, but from the Treaty of Rome.

Is there an American politician who can put together an article as well written and articulate as that? Imagine Harry Reid writing an Op Ed about the Fourth of July. Don't be ridiculous. The last American politician who could string words together to make coherent statements was Daniel Patrick Moynihan. And he's dead.

Teddy Roosevelt wrote books, one of which, a history of the War of 1812, is still read. Compare that to the drivel published under the name of, and perhaps written by, Bill Clinton.

Widows

They just don't make widows like they used to. Bubbe didn't have many friends: she was too busy managing the family, in the same sense that Queen Victoria managed the British Empire. She didn't gossip. She didn't call people on the phone just to chat.

But there were a few ladies who showed up from time to time. They had names like Minnie, Flossie, or Fanny. I, as a young person, however, would not call these august personages by familiar names. They were Mrs. Cohen (Shapiro, Grossman) to me.

These ladies, most of them widows, had one kind of figure: full. From collarbone to waistline was a large bolster, and from there on down, another, smaller one. They were generally short. They dressed in dark colored dresses ornamented decorously with a few discreet flowers--nothing gaudy, mind you. Lisle stockings--think stockings made of Ace bandages--encased their legs, and they wore old lady shoes: 2-inch heeled oxfords.

According to the widows, they each and every one had been married to a man of sterling attributes; a kind and generous fellow whose loss made their lives an empty shell. Wow! There must have been a lot of really fine Jewish guys around Columbus, Ohio before my time! By the time I came along, the quality of men in the area had deteriorated seriously, because I never met one of these living saints my own age.

The few who still had husbands had not done nearly as well in the matrimonial market: The surviving husbands were just ordinary chaps, with their full share of annoying and exasperating qualities. The widows had gotten all the good ones, apparently.

Bubbe's friends all had mysterious ailments: gall bladders, varicose veins, arthritis generally. I am now more in sympathy with their aches and pains, having grown old enough to have pains of my own. But some of their ailments were more picturesque. One of Bubbe's friends told me that she had dropped organs: all her organs had slid down her body and were about 6 inches lower than they should have been, causing her untold grief and sorrow.

Private blogs

I just clicked on one of the blogs on my blogroll, and was directed to a message from Blogger that this blog was for invited readers only. Well hoop-de-do! I felt like I was trying to crash a party to which I was not invited.

I can't afford to be so fussy. I'm so busy whoring for comments, links, or any sign that there are sentient beings out there and that I'm not just wasting my brilliant apercus by shouting them down an empty well, with no response but a hollow echo.

Thanks to those who regularly stop by. You know who you are.

My mother the lawyer

(recycled)

 

My mother hated to be photographed. She always wanted to put it off until she lost 10, or 20, or 30 pounds. Consequently we have very few pictures of her. This is one I like.

Thanksgiving always makes me think of my mother. Thanksgiving was a big deal to us. We used to celebrate her birthday, and my Uncle Moe's on Thanksgiving. It was a Russian custom, or a Jewish custom, or just our family custom to celebrate birthdays in conjunction with some holiday. Mine was Purim, my cousin was Rosh Hashonah. Perhaps the family were just bad at remembering dates.

shopping with Mother and Bubbe

(recycled)
I really dreaded going shopping with my mother and her mother, my bubbe, especially in classy, high-toned stores. For one thing, mother and bubbe used to talk Yiddish very loudly to one another, deprecating the merchandise on offer and the manners, morals, and appearance of the other shoppers.

I hated to be seen in public with these back numbers who spoke a foreign language which I was sure sounded low-class to everyone else (why couldn't they speak French?). I also feared that someone would understand what they were saying about the fat lady in the tight pants who was in front of us in the escalator. It was a lose-lose situation. Either we appeared to the other, high-toned shoppers like a bunch of huddled masses waiting to be processed at Ellis Island, or someone would actually understand what they were saying and see what low minds we had.

Also, bubbe appeared to believe that she was in a souk, when in reality she was in one of Columbus Ohio's premier specialty shops. She showed no respect.

For instance: we are looking for a blouse. The saleslady brings out a few, I try them on and decide on one. Bubbe grabs it and scrutinizes every inch of it, looking for flaws. She finds a speck of dirt on the collar and attempts to bargain with the snooty saleslady while my face turns red down to my toes. I try to pretend I'm interested in the scarves in the next display case, but in any case, try to look like I'm not with them.

Then, horror of horrors, she pretends to walk away! I could die! (I'm around fifteen at the time.) The snooty saleslady calls her manager, and they do a deal, but by this time, my self-esteem in destroyed. What if someone I knew had seen us? I'll never live it down.

When I was smaller and couldn't protest, bubbe and mother bought my clothes much too big in the hopes I would grow into them. Then they took them home and altered them to fit me, sort of. The idea being that the clothes could be let out next year. They never were, though. I wore them out first. But I went through childhood looking like I had borrowed my wardrobe from a larger child.

Of course, with maturity I could see where she was coming from. This was a woman who split one can of sardines among her three children, while she and her husband made do with dry toast and tea for supper. Fancy salesladies held no terror for her.

Italians to Romanians: get out...

and don't let the door hit you on the way out.

Physical therapists here and there

When I had my last knee operation, I went to a rehab in New Jersey. This time I am going to a rehab in Delaware. What a difference in therapists!

The therapists in New Jersey were hardbodies, mostly around the age of 28 or 32. Not an ounce of fat on any of them. I thought at first I had stumbled into a practice session of the Olympic gymnastic team. By the look of them, they were studying hard to be tri-athletes. They spent their weekends running half-marathons, hiking difficult trails, or rock-climbing. In the evenings they relaxed by lifting weights and doing push-ups. We, the patients, were a sad lot compared to them.

The therapists in Delaware are older and softer. They look just like regular folks--spare tire and all. They spend their weekends taking the kids to visit grandma, and in the evenings they hunker down in front of the tv with a brewski.

The therapists in New Jersey were tough. They would tear your leg right out of its socket for your own good. But whatever they did, it worked. The Delaware therapists are much gentler, but they seem to get results too.

Are we paying the Palestinians to be violent?

Just asking.

Indoctrination--your tax dollars at work

Apparently, students matriculating at the University of Delaware and living in the residence halls have forfeited their right to be left alone.

Getting the power thing right

(recycled)

I mean, I know we Jews have our agents (known in tradecraft as neo-cons) controlling the highest ranks of government, international banking, labor unions, socialist agitators, Thomas the Tank Engine, etc. We also direct the media. Two very learned professors, one at Harvard, say so.

So what's gone wrong? We've got to get it together if we really, sincerely want to take over the world. No more calling in sick, long lunch hours, flirting around the water cooler, vacations in Aruba, or playing games on your computer. Keep your noses to the grindstone, and hatch out some more of our trademark fiendish plans. In the time you waste chatting up your friends on the cell phone, you could be finalizing plans to take over Iran and make slaves of the Iranians. Or ousting Hugo Chavez. Or terrorizing the Syrians with hailstones and frogs. Maybe foment a riot in Cuba. The possibilites are endless. You're bone lazy, that's your problem.

Get to work.

Coming along

I went to the office of the surgeon who replaced my knee yesterday. The waiting room looked like the reception area at Lourdes--the pre-miracle one. Walkers, canes, crutches. Mute suffering. Except for me.

I was called in by the nurse, and she seemed surprised that I didn't have a cane or crutches. The doctor, too, couldn't believe it when I rose from my seat and walked out. It was almost like a stunt--like walking on water.

I just don't like using crutches and stuff. I had been warned not to go out without my cane. So I went to Macy's with the damn thing. I felt like an idiot. What do you do with it when you're not walking? How can you simultaneously open your purse, stow your sunglasses, find your reading glasses, put them on, and fiddle with the cane, while trying to determine the price of a sweater?

And when I came out of the store and stood at the curb, all traffic halted while the entire population of northern Delaware waited for me to dodder across the street. I got the feeling that the drivers were willing to wait all day for me to make my way s-l-o-w-l-y out of the path of traffic. I felt like a fraud.

So now I just walk wherever I go. I guess my legs are just too ignorant to know they aren't supposed to work, so they do. Like bumblebees, which theoretically cannot fly. Go figure.

Robert Redford contributes to global warming...

by disseminating hot air:

Holidays again. Forgive me while I dodge the rumble of the million footed throngs that have succumbed to the marketing ether for Christmas and its days.

Holiday. can we, without disappointing the children and others who long for the surprise of gift giving, just look to a different value to digest, wherever you are? These details that are natural and sometimes hidden?

This as intro to a catalog full of overpriced gifts and underweight models, from Sundance.

Bob,--I call you Bob since we are obviously intimate friends-- if you don't want me to buy anything from your catalog, rest assured. I promise it won't happen.

A map of the soler system

 

by my 6-year-old grandson.