Great quotes: about Peter Navarro

“I wouldn’t trust him to go out to get lunch and come back with everybody’s sandwich and drink order correctly. I don’t know how he could be put in charge of logistics.”

- Peter Navarro's former campaign  adviser, Larry Remer, on Peter Navarro, the person Donald Trump put in charge of marshalling emergency US production of medical equipment in the coronavirus crisis.

cited in The Guardian, April 10, 2020, "Peter Navarro: what Trump's Covid-19 tsar lacks in expertise, he makes up"

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2020/apr/10/peter-navarro-what-trumps-covid-19-tsar-lacks-in-expertise-he-makes-up

My May 1968: Part Two (letter to my mother)

University of Lyon during 1968 student occupation. Photo by George Garrigues

                     

  Part Two  (letter to my Mother)

by Carol Rose

                                                        May 12, 1968

Dearest Mother,

You have, as usual, been very faithful and I not.   Nothing from you,  however, since the postal service has closed down.   Actually I need to find some way to get this letter mailed.

This city has been going through a week of great excitement much of it centered here in the  neighborhood… (many parents of adult children have been calling to quiet their fears which were groundless.)  Last evening about 6 big demonstrations culminated in a mass demonstration of  around 600,000 workers  and students which filed by our house 15 abreast for hours straight, singing the International  and shouting slogans such as CRS - assassins (the riot police force), DeGaulle assassin, libérer nos camarades!  Among these comrades were the numerous neighbors in the courtyard who have small children such as mine.    Just behind our friend Marianne”s house, on the rue St. Jacques,  there were two story barricades consisting of cars, taxi signs and general debris built high by the students under the impatiently watchful eyes of the CRS police, chaffing at the bit as the students manufactured homemade weapons such as clubs and boards studded with nails.  Leaning against supports, the pointed ends of the nails marked off spaces for ordinary pedestrians to walk   No workers amongst this crowd!  The CRS police looked like black beetles armed as it were with black shields, wearing shiny black slickers, the whole topped with black helmets, shotguns hanging on their shoulders and machine gun like weapons slung over their backs to be used to shoot tear gas bombs at the rioters. 

Paris: My May 1968

author Carol Rose

 My May 1968  Part One

by Carol Rose

Today it is May 1998,  my hourly companion, the faithful France Culture radio station, has begun to speak of May 1968 in reverent tones; an historical event, without any doubt, which had changed France irrevocably.  

First of all the awareness of time having passed likitysplit’ — thirty years had gone by — then it hit me that the manner I had lived this string of events did not jibe with the reverence in the speaker’s voice.  It struck me as odd as I had not been particularly aware at the time of having lived closely through any major event and yet there I had been in the midst of things I barely understood.  

I understood the excitement of the daily marches taking place on the Avenue in front of our courtyard.  I longed to be out there to join in the upsetting fun.   The pharmacist at the corner on the Place Denfert Rochereau was very mocking of me for he realized how I was longing to be free to join the crowd.  He was appalled by the chaos, the total disorder of the meetings of workers and students which usually originated or ended in front of his shop.  People shouting slogans would climb up onto the Lion de Denfert and wave red anarchist flags.  

Meanwhile, in the courtyard where we occupied an old house with two little children, the concierge, Madame Libé, was fearful and scandalized by the goings-on.  We would stand on the sidewalk of the Avenue, she dressed in purple, wringing her hands at the events taking place before us.  I, a little child on each hand,  was not seeing any danger whatsoever in the quite orderly demonstrators marching by with their slogans and banners.   One child wanted to know where all the people were going..  

Suddenly I remembered I had left the gas burner on

I had just finished lunch with my daughter. There was time to run a couple of errands before I had my next appointment. The day was brisk but sunny, the remaining leaves shimmering golden over the bustling sidewalk. Shop windows beckoned, but, eager to complete my tasks, I did not pause to admire the new winter coats with mock fur collars, but hurried to the entrance to the subway instead. I had just passed through the turnstiles when the thought hit me: I hadn’t turned off the artichokes. I had only turned the heat down, not off.
Three hours. That’s how long it had been since I left the house. With luck, if I dropped everthing else, it would take another hour to return. There had been four inches of water in the pot, more than I would normally put to steam artichokes. But three hours? It would have boiled out long ago. In my nostrils I felt smoke. The train pulled into the station and the doors flew open. I jumped inside, but knew that I was already too late.

When the loved one is a Trump supporter

Political disagreements are never easy. But for those who view Trump as a dangerous, treasonous despot bent on destroying democratic institutions, it’s getting harder every day to convince oneself that the right thing to do is to listen politely to his defenders - even when they live under the same roof.
So you disagree. Fight. And now, every evening, you who have been married for thirty years, are arguing about politics. Remaining quiet feels like a betrayal. Speaking up is horrible and painful.
And Thanksgiving is just around the corner.

How Dare You Remember That I Attacked You!

Matt Damon  perfectly captures Brett Kavanaugh's Trumpian outrage at being held accountable.

I like beer! I got into Yale!  Brett Kavanaugh's arrogant attack strategy failed to convince this mature woman that Trump's nominee was anything but a liar, and a vicious one at that. Many commentators have reviewed the evidence which all points to a heavy drinking environment in which humiliating and even mauling a girl could be considered good fun. The fact that Brett's bestie and main witness published a book about being a blind drunk alcoholic with a vomiting sidekick with a name like Kavanaugh does not really enhance his credibility, either.

Brett's calendar.

Had a women yelled and cried and sniffed and carried on like Brett Kavanaugh did at the Senate hearing she would have been told to calm down and get her emotions under control. But the attack strategy was obviously deliberate. Outraged man victim of....his own past. Supported by other powerful men outraged that a victim would even dare to remember, much less speak about an attack carried out by a protected class - theirs.


Dr. Christine Blasey Ford was composed and cooperative and ultimately entirely believable. Even before her testimony, Dr. Blasey passed a lie detector test and requested an FBI investigation.

Kavanaugh, on the other hand, showcased his disrespect. Asked about his drinking by Senator Amy Kobuchar, Kavanaugh interrupted her and counter-attacked: "You're asking about blackout. I don't know, have you?"

 He wasn't at the party. He never drank to the point of  blacking out. The words he wrote in the yearbook did not mean what they mean. He had no leg up at Yale.

Brett Kavanaugh's lies, under oath, are piling up.

Mature Women, who have spent years trying to forget their own Brett Kavanaughs, are speaking out.

It is clear who the liar here is. What is not clear is why the Republican Party thinks this arrogant frat boy who can't own his past is the best person for the job of Supreme Court Justice. Ultimately, as many commentators have pointed out, what we witnessed not a criminal trial but an interview for a job. And one in which Brett Kavanaugh clearly revealed that he lacks the temperament  or character to fill.

John Oliver has some pretty good insights.

Profiles in courage: Samantha Fuentes

The bravery of the young survivors of the Florida shooting forces our respect and admiration.
Somehow, after the horror, they found the strength to lead.
May it inspire all of the rest of us to step up too.
There have been many, many, many mass shootings in America. But this is the first time we see a movement like this.
The strength of these young people is inspiring. It is the first time since the election that there is reason for hope.

Monument to children killed by guns in America

We need a wall.
A glowing black wall of names,
the names of each and every child whose life was ended by a gun in America.
First name, last name, chiseled in white.
To stand in our country’s capital,
Where we can come to run our fingertips over the letters etched in stone as cold and dead as the child it names,
And weep,
And remember
And regret,
And vow to do better.
For the innocents
whom we failed to protect.

The Experience Gift

The Experience Gift

by George Sampras

Jeanie loved Christmas. The tree, especially, with its foresty smell and twinkly lights , magically conjuring beauty and life out of winter gloom. And the children: round eyes, round mouths, round cheeks so kissable in their little round faces mad with excitement and desire and hope. Every year, the same tradition: the selection of the tree, the layering of the decorations (garlands, then lights, then crystal birds and horses and snowflakes, then the shiniest gold and silver ornaments, then, to top it all off, the Christmas angel), the acquisition, wrapping and installation of the presents, the hanging of the green and red embroidered socks (“Sam”, “Trish”, “Mom”, “Dad”), the night of little sleep, as a succession of Santas tiptoed in, to secretly contribute a small wrapped trinket or two to each sock, then the morning, first long and slow then short and fast, with a mad jumble of sweet and salty foods, flying wrapping papers, and instances of joy and disappointment, more or less well concealed according to the maturity and blood sugar levels of the recipient. It was something they had done together, without fail, every year since entering the world, as miraculous as Jesus, one starlit night.

Jeanie hated Christmas. The rawness of the emotions. The vulnerability of so much desire. Expectations, high in childhood, had risen even higher. Of course they were still a family, but it was at Christmas, that they came together, atoms touching, in the same physical space. Here they crowded, like expectant concert goers, in a preordered spot at a preordained time, their hearts tremblingly exposed, exit doors unmarked and too small in case of attack. Where to take cover? There was no cover. It was an act of faith, this communion, an invocation of the spirit of childhood, of family, of love. But such powerful forces, once stirred, never come alone.

Jeanie picked a torn piece of shiny silver wrapping paper off the carpet and placed it in the Hefty bag. Three armchairs had been pushed awkwardly together to make space for the tree, leaving the room off kilter.  We are sitting ducks here, she thought.
If lucky she had – what - maybe twenty Christmases left on her celestial time clock? Time, she resolved, to make them count.

George Sampras lives in California. His, novel, The Experience Gift, will be published in 2018. 

Hope for heath care from Amazon

Amazon Disrupt: Has Jeff Bezos only just begun?

Can one of the world’s most innovative companies actually do good? Amazon’s announcement that it was turning its attention to healthcare caused panic in the bloated, inefficient, and vicously greedy market that is American health care. In other words, a market ripe for total disruption.

Books, clothes, household items, groceries, films, TV, music and cloud services - the logistics and IT geniuses at Amazon have nothing more to prove.  They could just sit back and let the profits roll in. Perhaps even pay out dividends to shareholders.

But what if, what if, all this innovation was just prelude? What if the real, ground-breaking innovation is only begining now, in 2018, with Amazon’s foray into the debacle that is American health care?

As a multinational with offices in all kinds of countries, Amazon management has experienced first hand the nearly unbelievable disparity in health care access, quality and cost throughout DEVELOPPED countries.

Presumably its employees in France can give birth and navigate accidents with excellent care and no cost, like everyone else in France. Multinationals like Amazon know that their French employees do not worry about losing their homes because of a health crisis. They are not innondated with dozens if not hundreds of separate, terrifying bills from an inexplicable array of doctors, labs, suppliers, catering services, and God knows what else itemizing blood tests, cotton swabs and pots of yoghurt consumed, all at prices that defy commmon sense. They do not stress because some life-saving procedure turns out to have been performed by an expert « out of network » and so will cost the equivalent of three years salary....

Amazon, like other global firms, knows well how perfectly awful the American health care system is, combining the unjustifiable administration cost of the most bloated bureaucracy with monopoly-style price gauging and airline level abuse of customers.

How can a system in which vultures like Shkreli make fortunes jacking up drug prices out of pure, unbridled greed not be ripe for disruption?An industry so exaggeratedly evil that Pixar studios created a superhero whose first act of defiance was to whisper to an elderly lady the secret for getting an insurance company to pay out on a justified claim?

Charles Dickens would find a worthly subject in the American health care system, so filled with corruption, greed and cruelty it is.

Enter Amazon.

Amazon knows a thing or two about innovation. About customer care. About logistics. About value for money.
Amazon knows how to streamline a process. Meetings to coordinate, Bezos knows, are a sign that the process is flawed. In a truly well designed process, coordination should not be necessary; communication should flow naturally.

We at Mature Women welcome Amazon to the health care industry. Disrupt has never been more needed.

Let Amazon succeed, not with gadgetry and picking just a few obviously low hanging fruit, but by a complete revolution. Why not, for that matter, a French revolution?

France does a pretty good job of delivering on the promise of free universal health care. Let that be a starting point. The French system, though not perfect, serves 60 million people, and has the merit of existing.

Does this tax plan make me look fat?

One of life's great mysteries is why perfectly intelligent people fall again and again for the same cons. Say the words "tax cut" and it works like a magic incantation. Sounds great! Let's buy it! Like that saleslady who exclaims how beautiful you look when you can't even get the zipper up. ("Madonna never zips it up all the way either!") the Republicans pushing the tax bill don't really care what happens to you when you go out on the street. It's all in the commission.
Pity the poor guys at the Washington Post who took the trouble to try to analyze Trump's tax cut to see what it means for middle class taxpayers.

"it is hard to find a tax plan that has done less for the middle class"

 All the facts and numbers and charts and graphs in the world have an uphill battle against the perfectly understandable desire to believe the nice saleslady. If you're on a fixed income, prepare to go naked into winter.

What We Talk About When We Don't Talk About Trump

Sea rolling in as the sun rises above the waters

Love, longing, loss.
The joys of children, the terrors of children.
Hopes for the future, fond memories of the past.
Regrets.
Resolutions.
The desire To. Be. Better;
Food. Sex. Exercise Regimes.
Fidelity. Cheating. Secret fantasies.
The beauty of a fresh sprung rose before sunrise.
Swans.
The sweetness of a baby's breath.
Love. Death. Grief.
Surviving.
Learning.
Growing Stronger.
Dignity. Grace. Faith. Reason.
And love....

Is Marijuana Tourism The Next Big Thing?

Flipping through my iphone the other day I came across a news item that stopped me dead in my tracks:
A marijuana company purchased an entire town in order to turn it into a "marijuana-friendly" destination.
Dial back the speedometer forty years and imagine all the jumping up and down and shrieking with joy. Cool! No more sneaking around and wearing sunglasses at night (red eyes) or worrying that your Mom might accidentally scarf down all the special brownies before a board meeting. An entire destination! Stoner heaven, right?
But then, with another swipe I was immersed in a very depressing analysis of the impact of all that screentime on kids. They don't go out anymore, the author explained. Don't drink. Don't drive. Don't party. Don't have sex. Don't sneak around at all hours doing God knows what. They don't even leave their bedrooms. An entire generation whose social life takes place on their phones, posting photos and clicking on "like".
For God's sake, one exasperated teen replied, decide what you want! You spend all your time warning us we're going to get kidnapped, or paralyzed in a car accident, or riddled with disease if we so much as open a window, and now you're worried about us because we're staying in our beds under the covers with nothing more lethal than a phone?
I could see her point. And yet, I remember (fade into sepia) hanging with my friends, physical bodies bursting with adolescent imperfections which had not yet developed into adult imperfections or, even better, old people imperfections, talking about this or that, laughing, sneaking a beer or a joint, roaming aimlessly, going swimming in rivers with no supervision, camping in forests, in deserts, in friends' guesthouses, spending days at the beach, the ice skating rink, walking the city, the canal, the roads at night, stepping onto the soft shoulder of the road to avoid an oncoming car, cruising, going to stupid sports events and laughing and cheering, and hanging out, on a living room sofa, in a kitchen, in a bedroom, in a backyard, on a porch, in a pool, just hanging out, talking or saying nothing, joking or arguing, just passing the time in the warmth of each other's company like kittens, and taking some undefinable pleasure in it, and I felt sorry for the girl, that she would, it is true, know none of that.
How is it possible, I wonder, that anyone believes in progress anymore? There used to be such a thing, sure. Dying in childbirth at 16 is, in the USA, a thing of the past, thanks to advances in all kinds of areas. Or, to be more exact, it used to be a thing of the past, all bets being off for the future, given that current focus seems to be more on engineering more "likes" than actual physical health. The depressing study concludes that the more time teens spent on screens the less happy they were, that kids were sleeping with their phones, harassed, in a never ending marketing effort of their own selves.
Remember the tamagotchi?  It was a "handheld digital pet" that idiot parents gave to their small children because it was heavily marketed and everyone had to have one, the attraction of which was that it enslaved the recipient by demanding to be fed, or changed or read to or some such nonsense (nonsense because it was not a live thing but an electronic toy) and if the child failed at some point to take care of it, the little tamagotchi declared that it had died.
That, my friends, was the thin edge of the wedge.
Now these tiny electronic death happen millions of times a day: each time a photo posted on social media is not "liked". I'm amazed Disney hasn't made a classic animated film about this yet (the tweet, lifeless in the rain).
I swipe back to the marijuana resort story and wonder: was this our dream? Will the new generation appreciate it? Will they allow cell phones?

- by Jim Carnes August 4, 2017 Los Angeles

(photo credit:  SuSanA Secretariat [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

see also:
A marijuana company has bought a California ghost town to turn it into a pot-tourism destination by Melia Robinson 3 Aug 2017 Tech Insider from Business Insider

Have Smartphones Destroyed a Generation? by  Jean M Twenge The Atlantic Monthly Sep 2017

Lost in South Beach, Miami

To not know where we are, as children, is a nightmare.

To not know where we are, as adults, is a perfect dream.

- Ray Bradbury, Yestermorrow 

To wander around Miami's South Beach is not really to risk getting lost. The ocean, as vast and unmistakable a landmark as ever was created, sees to that. Thanks to its discipline there is a kind of grid, not overly perfect in its geometry, by which the confused visitor can orient herself. It goes like this: 

Forming the vertical lines are sky, horizon, water, sand, scrub bushes and a low wall followed by more sand, dotted with volleyball nets and jungle gyms for adult males, a comfortably wide boardwalk, set against thick, oddly rubbery grass lined with coconut palms, a concrete sidewalk set against the asphalt of Ocean Drive with its unbroken line of restaurants offering $8 breakfasts, then on to the serious avenues of Collins, Washington and other roads until you get to the big Alton road and, beyond that, more water, this time with boats, and another horizon, this one filled with immense bridges and the skyscrapers of Miami.

You could follow any one of those lines down to South Point or up to, say 22nd street or beyond, on foot. 

South Beach is a walking town, and that is one of its greatest pleasures.

You can stroll nearly anywhere, at nearly any time. Get lost, get found, stumble around into parts you haven't seen before. Landmarks are plentiful. There is Joe's Stone Crabs at one end, Espanola Way and Lincoln Drive in the middle,  and, if you're a bookish short, a regional library at the other.

What about crime on South Beach? It exists - how could it not? - , but there are even more police. They glide around like sharks in their wonderful black and white sedans straight out of a 1960s cop show, lights occasionally flashing but sirens rare. Those who love the early morning when all is dark and quiet and the sun has not yet begun to glow red on the horizon will be comforted by the stealthy presence of Miami's police. The many homeless, drawn to the place by the soft weather and communal beauty, seem to coexist peacefully with the representatives of the law. At least that's what I've seen in my early morning wanderings. A few beach strollers and joggers appear before dawn, so even the earliest birds are never entirely, dangerously alone.

And if one gets lost and tired, there are buses. The South Beach local costs $0.25, city buses $2.25. Exact change is required but bus drivers tend to be kind. 

You too can grow up to be a trophy wife!

We've all seen those incredible aerial shots: massive crowds of women in American cities and around the world, marching to protest what they see as Trump's anti-women thoughts, behavior, policies and cabinet appointments.

But despite all this there's one real fact that no one can deny. Melania Trump's a knock-out!

Yes, girls! In Trump's America you may not control your bodies or join the cabinet (unless you have a sex and age change to become an old white man), but there is still one great achievement you can dream of.  Trophy Wife. 

The beautiful and very sexy Melania should inspire us all. 

Not since Justinian's wife, the energetic former dancer Theodora, who inspired Procopius' hilariously mean-spirited Secret History, has the world witnessed such a rise of fortunes.

So throw off your glasses, girls! Drop those boring books! Anyone with a pair of eyes can see what counts in today's America! 

Five Film and Book Cult Classics For the Trump Era

Yes, the world is ending. But that's no reason not to laugh.

Get comfortable with a nice cup of hot cocoa and enjoy our selection of hilarious dark satires for the Age of Trump. From Stanley Kubrick, Sinclair Lewis, Philip Roth, Terry Gilliam and Douglas Adams.

1) Dr Strangelove: Or How I Stopped Worrying And Learned To Love The Bomb

Peter Sellers (in three roles), George C. Scott, Sterling Hayden, and Slim Pickens in this brilliant Cold War classic. Brilliantly funny. 

2) Elmer Gantry.

The book was written by Sinclair Lewis in 1926; the film, starring Burt Lancaster, came out more than half a century ago, in 1960. But the story, of a slick con man playing to the Christian evangelicals, is a fresh as the day is was written.

3. The Plot Against America, by Philip Roth.

What if a fascist who sided with America's worst enemy were to win the presidency over a great and decent man? That is the question Philip Roth explores in this dark novel, published in 2004.

4. Brazil by Terry Gilliam

Plastic surgery, terrorist bombings, angry plumbers and love meet in this totalitarian nightmare, filmed by the incomparable Terry Gilliam of Monty Python fame.

5. Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.

DON'T PANIC! Those are the comforting words on the the cover of the ultimate travel guide, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, after Earth gets bulldozed in an intergalactic bypass construction project and our hero finds himself hurtling through space with a friend who turns out to have been an alien all this time. Witty, wise, wacko with more than a touch of genius, from the much regretted Douglas Adams. A book, a radio show, a TV series, a movie and a book again.


Geena Heart's Lifehacks for Over Fifty will be released in 2017

Facebook is harassing me to send birthday thoughts!

Yeah, well YOU send good thoughts! 

I have 1278 friends, which means about three birthdays every day.  Mark Zuckerberg wants me to send birthday greetings to each and every one.

(Elect me President! I know your birthday!)

BACK OFF, Facebook.

My to do list is long enough without adding birthday greetings to everyone I ever accepted as a "friend" on Facebook.

My skin stopped itching when I cut eggs from my diet

I have always been able to eat anything I liked - no allergies, no food sensitivities, a cast iron stomach.

But after I turned 50 things started to change. 

If I ate a heavy meal after 7pm - or even 6 pm - I would wake up in the night with a feeling of drowning. My throat hurt and swelled, so much that I finally consulted my GP who sent me to a specialist. Acid reflux, he said. He prescribed medicine and early, light dinners, and after about a year things settled down again.

But then there was the rash. My skin started prickling. Hot showers only made it worse, with an itching so intense it was nearly impossible to resist scratching. Sometimes, especially after breakfast, my stomach swelled and hurt. I thought it might be the bread  and tried to avoid toast (which I loved). But the swollen, uncomfortable feeling and the itchiness just got worse.

I was getting frightened. Imagining terrible, perhaps fatal diseases.

A dermatologist said not to worry and gave me some cream. And an antihistamine.

When the itching went away on my forearm it popped up again on my thigh, or on my shoulder, or my stomach. Tiny bumps that turned red when, unthinkingly, I scratched them, bruising.

I didn't know what to do.

A friend whose life had been turned upside down by the sudden appearance of allergies listened to my story and suggested allergy tests.

"But first," she added, "it might help to try eliminating certain foods from your diet. One by one. Just to see if there's any improvement. There's no risk, no cost, and - who knows - it might help." And then, as an after thought: "And try drinking more water. My skin is sensitive to dehydration, yours might be too."

I went home, drank a glass of water and searched the internet for the most likely culprits. For a woman my age, bread, sulfates in wine, eggs, rice and aspirin were frequently mentioned. I already eat very little bread, and I enjoy my nightly glass of wine, so, by process of elimination, I decided to start with eggs.

Fried eggs, scrambled eggs, eggs in omelettes, quiches, flans - I eat a lot of eggs. Nary a day goes by, in fact, when I don't have two eggs.

Some people can get away with oatmeal or cereal for breakfast, but I tend to get weak and fluttering if I don't have something more substantial. So, just for good measure, I replaced the egg with meat. After all, I wasn't dieting - just trying to find out if I had a reaction to eggs.

The first day I cut out eggs nothing happened. I drank more water than usual, and, without really meaning to (all that water) drank no wine and took no aspirine.

The second day I cut out eggs I noticed the rash receding. Even hot water provoked less of a reaction.

The third day, my skin is noticeably smoother. And, I realized with relief, I had slept through the night, uninterrupted by the need to scratch.

It might not be the eggs, it might be all the water I'm drinking. Or perhaps the fact that I've unintentionally reduced the wine. But, whatever it is, my skin is improving. And I'm hoping that, if I stay away from eggs for a little while longer, my skin will recover completely.


Submitted by Carol Dougall, New Jersey

health - menopause - skin - food - diet - allergies - over50 - women - health tips - living

King Edward VIII's bad trip

It started badly with two days of rain and the Prince suffering from a surfeit of langoustines...(1)

"Wallis complained that she was not being introduced to all the English notables whom she felt sure were to be found in Biarritz. 'I think she would complain more if she was,' commented Aird dryly."

(1) King Edward VIII: The Official Biography by Philip Ziegler p. 230

Dining Etiquette for the 21st Century

A flurry of new books have hit the market promising to initiate the reader into the secrets of fine dining. Most of them are silly. Or obvious. Fork here. Elbow there. Don't talk and chew. Be clean. Yes. Here are FIVE TIPS for being a pleasant dining companion, whether in the fanciest restaurant or at home.

1) Don't talk on the phone.
This should be a no brainer. Sitting at the table carrying on a conversation with someone who is not there while ignoring your compagnons is worse than serving yourself mashed potatoes with your bare hands in our book. Yet a surprising number of people who view themselves as "civilized" will think nothing of receiving - or even making - telephone calls while sitting at the dinner table. RULE: if you must take a call, excuse yourself politely, get up, and go away. Do not come back until you are finished.

2) Put away the tablet/computer/video game and other attention grabbing electronic devices.
Even if they make no noise because you have earphones. It's simply rude.

3) Don't eat directly out of the serving dish. 
Put the food on your own plate with the serving spoon. And then, with your own fork, put it in your mouth.

4) Don't talk trash or call names. 
Even though every TV show talks constantly about human sex organs as proxys for courage, motherhood, masculinity, femininity, and just about every human emotion or situation, there's no reason for pottymouth at the dinner table. See if you can tell a funny joke without referring to a sexual organ. Make it a parlor game.

5) No screaming please.
Yes, the elections left more than half the country with PTSD. Yes, families disagree as ferociously as during the Civil War (though we had less weapons then). The dinner table is a time to come together, not stick forks into one another. If you can't talk politics politely, don't talk politics at all.

Bon appétit!!

about the author:
Geena Heart's Lifehacks for Over Fifty will be released in 2017.