CAN TRUMP & ROSEANNE COPE WITH TWITTER?

After Trump's "covfefe tweet " and Roseanne's "ape" gaffe in reference to a black woman, I'm beginning to wonder if celebrity seniors should stay off Twitter.

I'm a decade older than both of them, and I've had a Twitter account for several years.  Here's the thing:  it's really easy to eliminate a dumb tweet.  Just go over to that arrow at the top of your tweet, click on "delete," and  voila! The stupid tweet is gone forever!  Do these people not edit their own posts? Do they have failing eyesight?  The average person reading these weird and offensive  tweets  shakes their head and wonders if the bizarre tweeter is on something.  Medication? Substance abuse? or maybe it's due to just plain senility. 

Perhaps it's a problem that Trump and Roseanne didn't grow up with social media, or understand the power of it for celebrities like themselves.  Now, if I had made such an inane tweet as the two of them,  probably nothing would have happened.  My followers would simply have shrugged it off as the ranting of an old lady.  Possibly, someone on Twitter would have spotted it and gotten me suspended or kicked off Twitter for awhile.  But I do actually read my tweets after they are posted, so I've avoided that problem.

Trump seems to have gotten away with some of his wackier tweets, at least for the time being. But the cancellation of the Roseanne show probably put numerous of people out of work.
I hate to say it, because no one monitors my tweets and I don't want them to, but maybe, after a certain age and you're a public figure, perhaps you should give a responsible person access to your account so it can be edited.  Like maybe, your little grand children?

ERNEST HEMINGWAY LOVED CUBAN PICADILLO

Tired of serving the same old comfort foods like fried chicken and pot roast?  How about a change of pace with a Caribbean dish that’s super easy to fix, and adds a little variety to your life. The olives and raisins give it a special kick.

There are a ton of recipes on the net for picadillo.  I’ve fooled around with all of them, and have arrived at my own favorite. 

Ingredients:

2 Tablespoons olive oil

1 pound super lean ground beef

½ chopped onion

Small red or green pepper, chopped

2 minced garlic cloves

1/3 cup of raisins soaked an hour in ½ cup red wine

1/2 cup pimento stuffed olive slices & 2 Tablespoons of the brine

1 10 oz. can diced tomatoes with green chilies (get in the ethnic foods section)

2 teaspoons cumin, 2 teaspoons oregano

or

 2  teaspoons of plain old taco seasoning is easy and just as tasty.

You can experiment with different spices to get the flavor you like best.

First, sauté the onion, garlic and red or green pepper in  olive oil until the onion looks soft. Then crumble up the ground beef and cook until brown. Throw in the rest of the ingredients, cover,  and simmer for about 45 minutes.  If it starts looking dry, add a little water or red wine.  Serves six.

That’s it.  You’re done.  Serve over cooked rice.  

Best of all, only 2 pans to wash.

PRETTY GIRLS AND ANGRY SCHOOL SHOOTERS

Misogyny takes many forms.   Common wisdom says that everyone loves a pretty girl.  But, in fact, males who feel intense frustration that a lovely girl doesn’t return his feelings of affection may take a gun to school and shoot her.  The tragic events at high schools in Indiana and Texas prove this point.

Beautiful women have always sensed that their appearance may  arouse intense feelings of envy and jealousy. A pretty girl may be the kindest, most gentle soul imaginable, but her looks may evoke hostility  from other girls, who will label her shallow, vain, and any other adjectives they can summon up to diminish the fact that she’s just way too good looking.   Although not every man will decide to shoot her, some  men will hate her because they realize they don’t stand a chance to win her affections. They will probably call her dumb, crazy, bitchy,  or whatever hateful term comes to mind.  Very young women often don’t realize this.  Perhaps that’s why Muslims think it best if women cover their hair and faces.  At least they won’t get shot by some  jealous maniac.

I know of a wealthy mother who was so determined to have a beautiful daughter that she submitted her to a nose job,  chin lift,  and other surgeries.  Her hair is done in an expensive salon, far out of reach for average teenagers, and her make up is a Sephora triumph.  Designer clothes on a perfect figure complete the picture. Why then, does this girl look so sullen and miserable when you see her in public with her parents?   Pulchritude is a gift, but it can also be a curse.

MEMORIAL DAY SALUTE TO UNCLE REN

Memorial Day is special for me, because so many of my ancestors and immediate family are buried in a small country cemetery.  Usually, my husband and I drive up to a nearby shelter for a picnic, then over to visit the graves of my parents and sisters.  That’s a hard time for me—missing them so much that a hollow feeling rises in my chest and tears run down my cheeks.

After arranging the flowers, the highlight of the day awaits me at the top of a hill, under a towering oak tree.  For there, my great, great, great uncle, Ren White, came back from fighting in the Civil War to erect a memorial to the men who served with him in “Company D.”  Every man in the company is listed, but it doesn’t say which ones didn’t return.  Uncle Ren wasn’t a captain, either—just a mere sergeant.  But when he came home, he spent the time and money to erect this memorial to the men who fought to free this country of slavery.  Wow! Gives me the shivers, just thinking of how proud I am of him.

I wonder what motivated him to enlist. Knowing that branch of the family, I'm sure his motives were not mercenary, because they owned thousands of acres of Indiana farmland. My mother, who loved genealogy, probably knew if Ren had a wife and children, but I don't.

 Little did he realize that one day, a photo of that thoughtfully erected monument would be shown over the internet.  On this Memorial Day holiday, I salute you, Uncle Ren White, for your courage and patriotism.

DRUNK AND NAKED AT INDY 500

Having grown up in the hometown of Indy 500 owner Tony Hulman, I can remember when race day was considered a classy event.  Our rotogravure section of the local newspaper in Terre Haute  would feature pictures of country club socialites in lovely sundresses and seersucker suits with smug smiles on their faces.  They were elite—friends or acquaintances of the famous Tony himself.  It was quite the status symbol to attend the race with a reserved seat in the stands , even though most women found it about as exciting as watching paint dry.  Let’s face it, staring at a racetrack while waiting for a race car to zoom by every so often-- for three plus hours--isn’t that entertaining.  A lot of alcohol was needed need to get through the tedium. That's why people get drunk and naked at the Indy 500.

Those days  of exclusivity are long gone.   Indy 500 is a weekend long party starting with Friday's Carb Day Concert, where just about anything down and dirty is not only accepted but expected.  You see, people can bring their own coolers stuffed with all the alcoholic beverages they could ever consume.  Nakedness among drunken males and females in the crowds barely raises an eyebrow or a second glance.  Peeing in public is normal behavior, as is passing out drunk under the stands.  So, if you’ve always longed to defy convention, roll in the mud to cool off from 90 degree heat, drink yourself into a stupor, this is your best chance.  Dressing up would make you a pariah. 

This is not to say that rich people no longer attend the Indy 500. There are lots of celebrities and elegant parties thrown by the sponsors.  In fact, if you're in town race day weekend , you’ll see glamorous women in lavish ball gowns entering hotels at any time of the day or night.   But it’s mostly a white trash bash.

OMG! LOST MY CELL PHONE

I misplace my phone a lot, but it’s usually just a phone call away on my landline, and I can hear it ringing somewhere in the house.  That happens more often than I would care to admit.  But yesterday, I had a  panic attack because I thought I’d lost it in a parking lot, and being the low techie that I am, I had no way of finding it with a GPS.   My phone also has a strange habit of going on mute all by itself.  So, when I tried to call myself,  a message came across that I was unavailable.  Yikes!   Worse yet, I don’t have one of those messages on my phone that a stranger could use to call me.

I read something by a psychologist who said that the worst thing you can do at that point is to panic. You must, he admonished, take a deep breath and calm yourself down, trying to retrace your  steps  from when you last remember having smartie with you.  I did try that yesterday—for a minute or so—but then I didn’t want to waste time breathing when I might be finding my phone.   So, I jumped in the car,  went running all over the parking lot and into the grocery store where I’d stopped for lettuce and—no dice.

Most people lament losing their phone because it’s expensive to buy a new one.  I wasn’t panicked about the money, so much as three years worth of stuff of my phone.  Photos I haven’t backed up on Dropbox.   All those messages I want to save. The telephone numbers. The way I’m signed in already to my favorite websites.  The apps I’ve downloaded. No, I did not want to start over.  It was hard enough for me to figure all of that out on my current phone, much less on a new one.  At any rate, I came home with knots in my stomach.  And guess what?   My husband met me at the door, holding my phone.  He had found it in the laundry room.  So, the psychologist was correct; if I’d calmed myself down, I would eventually have recalled where I left the phone.

Did you know that 2.5 billion people own smart phones, and the average person loses their phone one time a year?  That means that at any given time, someone, somewhere in the world, is having a panic attack over a lost cell phone.   So I figured out a low tech way to increase my chances of finding a lost phone.  I took one of those return address stickers you get from charities, slapped it on the back of my phone case, and wrote  my landline number on it.  If a Good Samaritan finds it, he can easily contact  me.  But  if a thief finds it, I’m going to be out of luck, anyway. And the next time I see my grandson, I’ll have him  fix my phone up with all that other stuff.  

LIVING THE FRUGAL LIFE

There’s a difference between the meaning of poor and poverty.  When I was a child, a lot of people were poor. That didn’t mean we were homeless or starving, but it did mean that money was scarce. 

For me, that meant wearing hand me down clothes until I could earn enough money babysitting to purchase a new sweater.  It meant making a choice between buying a candy bar at the movies, or riding the bus home on a cold wintry day.  Economy meals at my house often consisted of “variety meats” (hearts, livers, kidneys) baked beans, or meatless spaghetti.  I never ate a restaurant meal until I was thirteen. The heat was turned off at night in the winter, and if you wanted hot water for a bath, you had to go to the basement and make a fire with coal and kindling wood in the little water heater.  The telephone was on a party line, so that the neighbors could listen to all of our conversations. There were hundreds of ways to economize, and our family knew them all.  

You would think that once I graduated from college, married, and had a decent income, I would lose my frugal habits.  But if money was scarce as a child, you never get over comparing prices at  restaurants and grocery stores, clipping coupons, buying clothes only on sale, and waiting to buy a car until you’ve saved up enough cash every decade or so. A half eaten Thanksgiving turkey can never be thrown out unless every scrap of meat is cleaned from the carcass for use in casseroles & sandwiches. There are endless ways to pinch pennies.

 My husband was born on a farm during the depression, and although he, too, always had a roof over his head and plenty to eat, cash was a problem. His mother sewed shirts from feed sacks, and he went barefoot in the summer.  Consequently, we both are on the same page when it comes to economizing.

Growing up poor sounds sad, but it’s actually an advantage to learn how to “make do.” with what you have.  It gets you through job losses, unexpected health care costs, and other financial upheavals that most of us experience.  It also enables you to give more generously to the people you care about and the causes you believe in.   As my husband and I sit on the front porch every evening,, enjoying our  retirement  home and mostly home cooked meals, we don’t regret the money we didn’t spend.

MANICURES AND PEDICURES

Women have been polishing their nails since 3,000 B.C, but it's not for everyone. My fingernails have always been brittle and thin.  Every time I tried to wear nail polish when I was young, a  nail would inevitably break, or the polish would chip, even before the day was over.  I longed for beautiful nails, but finally I gave up.  Clean and filed is about as good as it gets for me, although I envy those who enjoy the luxury of perfectly polished nails.   I do paint my toenails when I wear sandals, just because I think toes are kind of ugly, and toenail polish doesn't chip so easily.  In defense of my bare nails, I will report that in all my years of dating and marriage, I never had a boyfriend or husband ask me why I didn’t wear nail polish, or express the feeling that I should.

Now, I’m amazed at the elaborate manicures I see on young  women everywhere.  Especially the receptionists in doctors’ offices.    Maybe it’s a sign of good times--more and more working women can afford manicures. Also, it may be a cultural thing, whereby women of means are expected to have polished, manicured nails.  Other women may do so in order to compensate for some perceived deficiency elsewhere in their appearance.  After all,  almost anyone can have pretty fingernails. (Except me).

What is worse than no paint on your nails?  Chipped nail polish is tacky.  Bitten-to-the-quick nails make you look nervous.  But if I tried to wear nail polish all day long,  it would always be chipped because I do my own housework and gardening, and I swim twice a week.  Sometimes I put on a thin coat of pale pink polish (ala Queen Elizabeth) if I’m going to play cards for a few hours.  Wouldn’t want people to think I was too lazy to do my nails!

Generally speaking, I view women who maintain perfectly painted nails as having a lot of time and money to spend on their appearance.  Does that mean they’re vain?  Insecure?  Wealthy? Or simply well groomed?  Not sure.   It could mean their husbands do the dishes!

IS MELANIA TRUMP ENTITLED TO PATIENT PRIVACY?

It was depressing today to see the first lady’s surgery announced all over the media.  Okay,  it was some type of benign kidney problem.  But, what if she’d had a breast biopsy?  Or been treated with some potentially embarrassing surgical procedure?   I can’t imagine how the public is entitled to know about such personal things.   Such types of stories (often not true)  used to appear in the National Enquirer, not in the mainstream media.  But that’s all changed now.

Perhaps the White House chose to make this announcement, thinking it would put to rest any speculation by some nosy reporter.  But why is it the business of the general public to know about every medical condition of the POTUS family?   Isn't there such a thing as patient privacy? Or is the first lady excluded from this policy?   Last time I worked in a hospital, you’d be in big trouble if you revealed anything about a patient --even the fact that they were there, at all. 

Just shows how much the honor of the media has deteriorated in the past few years.   The press kept FDR’s polio withered legs from the public for four terms.  JFK’s serious back problems were covered up, and lightly dismissed by showing him in a rocking chair.   I will admit Betty Ford went public with her breast cancer , but that was her very heroic choice, made to encourage other women to get mammograms.  Many people prefer to keep any medical condition to themselves.  I know a woman who didn’t even tell her best friend she was dying of cancer until the very end.   People handle bad news in their own way, which is their right.  I cringed today when I saw that information  about Melania Trump's surgery  headlining  across  my phone and desktop.  And then, of course, it was on the evening news.  Way Too Much Information, no matter what the source.  And I would doubt it was the first lady’s idea to have her privacy invaded.

Enough already.

THE SOLACE OF THE RIVER

When something stressful invades my life, I always find myself turning to water. 

Living inland, I can’t enjoy the comfort of deep blue water or the sound of crashing ocean waves.  But there are peaceful lakes and rivers all over the world, and they are there for you in times of despair.

My river—the Wabash—isn’t blue like the ocean unless the sun is very bright and the sky is cloudless.  It’s often a cool, pale green.  While watching the gentle,  rippling waves moving up toward  the bend in the river,  I  begin to relax , knowing that the Wabash is here for me now, and tomorrow.  It’s steady and predictable and comforting.  And even if I’m not stressed out, it give me a sense of  awe that heightens my self awareness and satisfaction with life in general.

The river in my city isn’t a particularly popular destination.  The far side of it is lined with trailers where poor people used to live, and some still do.  A cluster of subsidized senior housing units nearby doesn’t add much glamour.   It isn’t a ritzy, fashionable spot, although the city has cleaned up our side, and provided grassy parks where children can play, and shelters where folks can picnic. But it’s lined with towering trees and leafy bushes,  and if I walk there around noon, I see many parked cars with solitary drivers. reading books or cheering themselves up from whatever might be wrong in their lives.

Actually, I’m glad my river is a well kept secret.  It wouldn’t be nearly as peaceful if it were overrun with crowds.  There’s a movement in the town to do something like the river walk in San Antonio, Texas, but  I’m hoping that doesn’t come to pass in my lifetime.  Right now, I like driving past the small childhood home of musician Paul Dresser who wrote, "On the Banks of the Wabash,”  and his brother,  Theodore  Dreiser , the author of  "Sister Carrie” , and feel that moment of joy when I see the sun light shining across the water.

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MOTHERHOOD IS A RISKY BUSINESS

Motherhood has always been a risky business.  Before the 20^th century, it was common to lose a young child to diphtheria, pneumonia, or many other infectious diseases.  Reading the biographies of past presidents of the US, you learn that the death of some of their children caused them grief and may have affected the way they conducted affairs.

My first child was born in Chicago, where my husband and I had no nearby mothers or aunts.  How terrifying those first few weeks were—suddenly, you’re responsible for the life of a tiny human being and you have no experience whatsoever.  I relied heavily on Dr. Spock and a lady pediatrician who had a radio show every afternoon.  But at least I got to be a stay-at-home mom.  That was the norm then, and since I later became a working mom, I have to tell you that stay-at–home is far easier.  Now, my working mom daughters must juggle 8 hour days and commute time,  with the increasing responsibilities of parenthood.

So what do parents get in return for all this hard work?  Some women have grown children who live nearby and are very devoted.  Others might see their children only once a year.  None of us will ever be fully repaid for the sweat and tears we devoted to raising our children..  My reward is seeing my daughters passing on that tender loving care to their own children.  Love is a circle; it never ends.

And to those women who chose not to have children, I’d like to say thank you for not bringing an unwanted child into this world. 

Happy Mother’s Day to all.

DIRTY LITTLE SECRET ABOUT UNWANTED EMAIL

This will be difficult for my grandchildren to believe, but I didn’t use a computer in college and never took a computer class.  Everything I know about navigating  the internet is through painstaking trial  and error.  Consequently, I had no idea of how to get rid of unwanted emails.

Since I do a lot of online shopping, it got to the point where I was receiving around 100 emails a day. Ouch! That’s a lot of stuff to go through, especially if you let it pile up for a few days.  Each morning, I would sit down and slowly delete unwanted emails  one by one,  looking for the 2% of mail  that came from a person I actually knew.

That all changed yesterday, after I read the Heloise column in our local newspaper.  Wait a minute: that’s the lady who gives you five uses for cardboard toilet paper rolls? And tells you how to clean your entire house with vinegar and baking soda.  What does she know about computers? Well, apparently, quite a lot,  because she just explained  how to stop those unwanted emails.

 First, you must open the email in question, even though your instinct tells you not to.  Then click on “enable links”.  Scroll down to the bottom of the email and look in the fine print for “Unsubscribe.” You’ll need your glasses to find this link because they really don’t want you to.  After you click on it, a new tab may open and you’ll be asked to type in your email address. They might  ask a few questions , but finally they will give in and let you go. It may take several days  for all the emails from  a company to stop,  but hopefully, by this time next month, I will not cringe every time I open my email account.

Thanks, Heloise

BREAKING UP WITH MY FITBIT

Were you ever in a good relationship that finally ran its course? That’s what happened between my Fitbit and me. Getting my first Fitbit was quite a thrill.   It made me feel young and hip.  I was proud to wear it out in public, and unashamed that it wasn’t exactly ornamental.   I noticed a lot of other people wearing them, too--not just when exercising, but at theaters and restaurants.  Who would want to be without a Fitbit?

It was supposed to help me lose weight.  The idea being that if I would just take more steps,  the extra pounds would simply melt away.  Didn’t happen, because I wasn’t exercising any more than I did when I set my goal for, say, 15 minutes of this or that exercise,  or maybe half hour of walking.  Another problem was that if Fitbit told me I’d walked an extra mile or so, I thought I could have an extra doughnut.  But I learned that 75% of weight loss comes from reduced calories, with exercise only accounting for 25%.  A little extra exercise didn’t justify eating more.

One good thing:  Fitbit told me how many miles I had walked from point A to point B,  but once I had that information, I didn’t really need the wristband to tell me what I already knew.  And then, a friend pointed out that if all I wanted to know was mileage, I could slip my smart phone in my back pocket and it would tell me the same thing.

After about a year, things started going south when I realized Fitbit was ruining my sleep.  It would tell me how many times I was up during the night, and how many times I tossed and turned . The first time I saw those numbers, I was rattled.  Up 5 times? Restless 16 times?    I could only remember getting up once. My goodness, what’s wrong.  No wonder I feel so tired.  I would go to bed at night, fearing the worst.  The more I worried about getting up at night,  the more the numbers increased.  If my Fitbit reported I only got five hours of sleep, I felt more exhausted just seeing that number.  Finally, when my Fitbit wore out, I decided to let it rest in peace.  It’s a relief not having to worry about those numbers anymore.  There are still times, when I wake up and can’t go back to sleep.  Sometimes that takes its toll, and other times I feel just fine.  Mostly, the way I can tell if I got a good night’s rest is the way I feel in the morning.   I don’t want Fitbit telling me I should be tired.

So  goodbye, Fitbit. We had a good run, but I don’t need you anymore.

SOME POTUS WERE A LITTLE "OFF"

The author F. Scott Fitzgerald once opened a story with, “the rich are very different from you and me.”  Lately, with all the craziness going on in national politics, I have begun to wonder if politicians are very different from you and me.

Why do men and women go into politics?  Supposedly, they are passionate  about helping people to have a better life.  That’s a worthy and very believable reason, but it seems you’d have to have an unusual amount of self confidence to think you would have the requisite personality traits and  abilities  to make great changes in society.  Somewhere along the way, someone helped them form this good opinion of themselves—whether it be a parent, grandparent, teacher, or someone very close to them.   So, that high self-esteem, wired into their brains,  makes them slightly outside the "normal" curve. Politicians also must have the intestinal fortitude to endure a lot of nasty attacks on their integrity,  appearance,  personal life,  ability to do the job,  and even their families.   Most of us don't have the stomach for all of that public criticism. 

Many presidents have been slightly “off.”  FDR hid his polio-withered legs from the public for years,  afraid that if people knew about his disability, they would never vote for him. Richard Nixon was paranoid and had an alcohol problem.   JFK seduced White House interns and slept with mafia call girls.   Lyndon Johnson sat on the toilet while talking with reporters , and was feared for his dark moods. Jimmy Carter acted more like a preacher than a president. Bill Clinton had a bit of a sex addiction problem.  Now we have Donald Trump who behaves more like a medieval monarch that an elected official. And yet, in spite of their eccentricities and mental health problems, many politicians such as Abe Lincoln and Winston Churchill became great leaders.

Some presidents, like Harry Truman, had modest resources and no doubt were grateful for the perks, pension, and income  provided by public office.  Power, prestige  and money could  motivate many a politician.  But what about those who are already rich?  Someone like Romney? Is he a saint, or on an ego trip.  I have no idea what makes these people tick.    All I know is that something beyond the “normal” curve propels politicians  into the stratosphere, seeking  public office in places where angels fear to tread. 

SHOULD YOU STAY PUT?

The state of Florida is full of retirees fleeing the ice and snow.  A friend who moved there said,  “I never want to see a snowflake again.”  And yet, my husband and I chose to retire in our Indiana home.

This week, I remembered why we  stay up north.  First of all, I lived in Florida for three years back in the 70’s. My youngest daughter was born there.  What I remember most about raising young children in that state is that you almost never saw children out playing in their yards or in the neighborhood.  Most of the time,  the heat and humidity made it too uncomfortable.  And so, strangely enough, my children spent more time indoors on a yearly basis than they did  after moving up north. Retirees don’t have to worry about raising children, but the heat is still a problem, as the elderly are much more affected by hot weather.

Crime is a problem in Florida, because it’s the “point of no return,” for many unskilled people who move there without adequate resources or a job.  And during the winter months, the traffic is horrendous.  If you think you’d like to run a free motel, though, it’s a great place.  Distant relatives and acquaintances from up north suddenly start cultivating your friendship, and before you know it, they’ve come for a visit. And then there are the palmetto bugs that are actually giant roaches. Even with a monthly pest control service, they show up in strange places all over your house.

All of those problems are manageable, but what  I missed most about  Indiana was the spring and fall seasons.  As you age, you spend less time  gadding about,  taking trips, going to concerts and restaurants.  If your health isn’t good, the constantly changing landscape  provides excitement and drama right out the window. A sunny day in March brings a crop of colorful crocuses.  Then it snows, but a few days later it warms up, and there are your daffodils waving in the wind. More cold, maybe some snow, but then it’s warm enough for the magnolia and crab apple trees to bloom.  When summer arrives, the trees produce a lovely deep green foliage that you never see in the Florida palm trees.  A Florida summer is either scorched or yellow-green.

And then, along about September, a cold breeze sweeps in, and you suddenly feel a spurt of energy as you watch the leaves turn to a riot of yellow, red, orange and gold.  The crisp, cool air invigorates you in a way that no ocean breeze ever can. 

And so, as our days dwindle down to a precious few, we’re glad we’re Back Home in Indiana.

RUDE, CRUDE, AND LEWD

Once upon a time, ordinary people aspired to comport themselves with dignity,  as  ladies and gentlemen.  Hopefully, that has not changed in the real world.  But there was no class, whatsoever, in the Michelle Wolf speech at the Washington Correspondent’s Dinner in DC on April 28, where she brutally insulted the current

White House press secretary, Sarah Huckabee Sanders.

During WWII, the only source of live news was the radio.  The newspapers were a day late, and the newsreels at the movie theaters were probably a week late.   Listening to the nightly news drew the family together as though sitting before a fireplace.  We trusted that news reporters were telling the truth.   Journalists were expected to report the news as it occurred, not as filtered by their own biases. And, comedians like Jack Benny, Bob Hope, Fibber McGee and Molly were actually funny, with no need to use four letter words.  

Now it’s fashionable for  trashy women to stand up and use vulgar language in order to please certain journalists.  It just shows how divided we are in this country.   I think if Michelle Wolf had made that mean spirited speech in Flyover Country, either  someone would have deadened the microphone or the entire audience would have walked out of the room.  Here in middle America we don’t cotton to bullying, trash talk, name calling, and obscenity  in our journalists, no matter which political party they favor.

Sadly,  women like Kathy Griffin and Michelle Wolf are actually hurting the women’s movement. Women  want equal opportunity and equal representation in elected offices. They also want respect No one respects women who are Rude, Crude, and Lewd.  If this comedian from Canada is supposed to represent modern women,  God help us all.  

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