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It was another column in The Daily Beast from a whiny individual—someone I’ve never heard of who claims to have multifaceted talents as an actor, comedian, and writer. In other words, a so-called “famous” individual who thinks we care about what he has to say. In this case, his column was about leaving the country even if Trump doesn’t win the election in the fall because it’s such an awful place.

My response to anyone who utters those words is: “Don’t let the door hit your backside on the way out.”

I can think of several places that he might want to move. My man’s sister lives in South Africa. Beautiful country. Amazing animals. Intriguing cultures. Of course, she only has electricity half of the day, and I don’t think that includes the evening hours. We sent her some money so she could buy a generator-like device to keep the refrigerator and a TV on. At 83, she shouldn’t have to worry about such things.

Luckily, she lives in a gated community because the threat of crime in this beautiful country is omnipresent. When you are as poor as some communities are in Africa—despite their vast and oft-exploited minerals—you have nothing to lose by taking from others.

Before we start off on how the colonists ruined Africa back in the day, let’s talk about how the current demand for materials for batteries and the push for electric vehicles are exploiting the country far beyond anything in the past, except, of course, for slavery.

While you are driving through the Congo in your new EV perhaps you can use your battery-powered cell phone to take videos of the poor people working for the Kamoto Copper Company there. You complained about health care costs in the U. S., student debt, a lack of daycare for working mothers, a failing education system. The mine worker in the Congo isn’t burdened with those issues. He’s wondering where his next drink of water is coming from.

Oh, and there’s the 60 percent unemployment rate in South Africa. You may have to line up for bread.

Perhaps you would prefer China. They get things done there at a rapid pace. Well, maybe because the alternatives aren’t so great. And, also, because they have the enslaved Uyghurs at their command. Russia? You speak out, you die it seems. South America? Ay caramba. If it is so great, why are all those millions of folks walking thousands of miles and giving their life savings to Cartel members to get into the U. S.?

So back to this author’s premise in which he decries the famous remarks by President John F. Kennedy: “Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country?”

The whiny columnist writes: “Above all, I’m asking this: What can my country do for me?”

I have an answer and it’s a good one. I suggest mister multitalented actor/writer with three names that your country can update your passport and visas and send you on your merry way. If you don’t want to be part of the solutions to this country’s problems and don’t feel you can be bothered to work to make this a better place for everyone (without handouts), then leave, definitely leave. Tomorrow would be fine.

I notice that as I have gotten older, my body has become very vocal.

My bladder and I, especially, carry on nightly discussions. They go something like this:

Bladder: “Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

Me: “What?”

Bladder: “You heard me. Get up. Dangle your feet over the edge of the bed and head for the bathroom.”

Me: “Are you kidding? I just went to the bathroom about three hours ago. You can wait. I’m going back to sleep.”

Bladder: “Right, you may think you are going back to sleep, but I have other plans for you. I’m just gonna exert a little more pressure, and you’ll understand what I mean.”

Me: “Okay, okay. But this is the last time tonight. I stopped drinking water about 5 o’clock, so there is no reason for you to complain.”

Bladder: “We’ll see. Just remember who is in control here. And it’s not you.”

Next is the conversation with Mr. Pain.

Me: Why is my thumb so sore?

Mr. Pain: “I thought you might enjoy a visit from me. Takes your mind off of this awful Netflix movie you are watching.”

Me: “But what did I do to my thumb?”

Mr. Pain: “You helped move furniture today at the church sale. You silly woman. You keep thinking you are in your twenties.”

Me: “It was just a couple of paintings and maybe a chair or two.”

Mr. Pain: “Exactly. When was the last time you moved anything except your phone from one location to the other.”

Me: “Very funny.”

Mr. Pain: “You think that’s humorous. Tomorrow, I’m focusing in on your jaw … a little touch of TMJ to remind you that even though you are old you can still be stressed. Your neck is scheduled for later this week. A little payback for sleeping with three pillows.”

Me: “You are aptly named.”

Teeth: “You didn’t floss, water pick, and brush today. You only brushed, which is why I am giving you a twinge in that back molar.”

Me: “Come on. If I paid any more attention to you, you would probably fall out.”

Teeth: “Listen, I’m going to do that anyway. And all those old fillings and crowns. I’m gonna make sure you get to replace them. Just for fun.”

Me: “Fine by me. I’m going to eat some popcorn. Take that!”

Hmm. I hear my stomach gurgling. It feels gassy. I guess we won’t go there. The conversations continue. Read more

About ten days ago, shortly after I started the Eli Lilly drug Zepbound to help me lose weight, I got an email from a friend.

“I have been waiting 2 weeks for my Zepbound from CVS. They have ordered it but it’s not in yet. I got on a Facebook Zepbound group and all diet shots are behind. They can’t fill the orders because so many people are taking it. I was supposed to give myself a shot yesterday and it could be a month before I get my rx.”

As a longtime Lilly shareholder, talk of high demand was good news. It wasn’t too long ago that my stockbroker had urged me to hold onto my Lilly stock amid the news that they are building a new structure in Indianapolis to boost manufacturing because of demand.

As a new Zepbound user, the lack of supply made me shudder.

My next shot is due this Thursday and both Walgreen’s and CVS have said they are out of the drug and have a long waiting list. Walgreen’s already has my prescription. CVS essentially told me not to think about transferring my Zepbound order to them. They weren’t going to be able to help me, but they were nice about it.

A quick call to my other friend who is also on the drug revealed some other interesting information. She was able to pick up her last prescription from CVS, but they wanted to know how she was going to pay for it. “Cash,” she told them and that seemed to do the trick. We weren’t sure why that made a difference, but now she is thinking she should try to double up her order the next time.

That’s how it begins. Not hoarding food but clinging to our weight-loss drug supply.

Being the kind and sharing soul that she is, she offered to give me one of her pens filled with the miracle elixir. I declined, telling her to hang onto it for herself, I very much appreciated the sentiment.

I’ve lost seven pounds so far. Not the huge amounts that some people talk about—five pounds in the first week, they say. Maybe it’s because I’m not about to give up eating altogether or drop to one meal a day. Except for some acid reflux, which I tend to have anyway, I haven’t suffered any side effects.

The big question is what will happen when Thursday comes and goes without the injection? Will thoughts of chocolate cake and giant cheeseburgers overwhelm my already pathetic willpower? With cravings, anything is possible.

A visit to the Lilly Zepbound website gave me no indication that there was trouble in weight-loss paradise. Or any sign that shortages were being addressed. I have a friend who used to work at Lilly. I think it’s time I call her and got the skinny, so to speak, on what’s happening. Why is the company falling so far behind in meeting demand? Zepbound isn’t for diabetes, it’s specifically for weight loss so I don’t understand the issue.

Crank up the overtime, Lilly. There are a lot of us fatties–and shareholders–out there waiting and hungry for your miracle drug.

Let me take a moment to thank the six people and the bookstore owner who showed up at my “book signing” yesterday. We had a good time, and I’m grateful for the support they gave me and my new, as yet unpublished mystery/thriller, Under the Sand.

The reason my new book is not yet published is because a learned acquaintance, who is a best-selling author, suggested I get an agent. The result has been a forced march through underrepresented voices hell, but that’s a story for another time.

To test the market, I had two hundred copies of my book printed for sale on the little island I have called home for the last ten years. I moved to Sarasota recently, but almost everyone I know and have counted as friends still reside on the island. I see them often and will in the future—although not so much yesterday.

I had anticipated a poor showing but hoped I would be wrong. After all, it was Good Friday afternoon and lots of people are on holiday. But, even so, as the day progressed, I couldn’t help but wonder why more of the hundreds of people I know hadn’t bothered to show up just to say hi and have a cookie with no purchase required?

I had advertised my new book and the upcoming meet the author event in the weekly newspaper—a full page ad. I had already heard from several people who bought Under the Sand at the island beauty parlor. Fourteen others had also purchased it at the bookstore before the event. My deeply felt thanks goes out to all of them.

However, there were none of the artists whose works I have diligently purchased over the last twenty years or for whom I have volunteered to serve goodies at their opening night events. And what about the thirty or so people who have listened to my presentations—which take weeks to prepare—for our mystery readers book club? MIA. I hope they weren’t done in, and I missed their obituaries.

There were no familiar faces from the church, unless you count my three dear friends who showed up; one even brought her family and bought two copies of one of my other books, Scavenger Tides . Some of my fellow congregants had already purchased the book, but to the others I say, next time you want to bend my ear don’t bother saying that you “missed me in church.” I missed you at my book event.

The Realtors, whose offices are fifty steps from the bookstore, have made a lot of money off of me and my man the last couple of decades.  But no support from them or the people at the library or who I have entertained at my dinner table on many occasions or for whom I have written articles for the island’s weekly newspaper.

We’re all busy now, aren’t we? One woman who showed up had already read and favorably reviewed my book and put the event on her calendar “just because.” That’s a friend.

I’m a big girl. I can handle disappointment, but the event was a good reminder of a lesson I learned from raising three children. You can spend your life doing things to please others and make them feel good, but you shouldn’t expect anything in return. More likely than not you won’t receive it.

I’m going to conduct myself in the future with that piece of information in the back of my mind. Even more important, I am going to celebrate the six people and others like them in my life who day-in and day-out demonstrate what real friendship is all about.

I remember where I was when I ate my first Krispy Kreme donut.

My teenage son brought a box home from the new bakery on 86^th Street in Indianapolis and put them on the kitchen counter. They were warm. Fresh out of the oven, he said. I was skeptical until I put one in my mouth. It melted into a delicious combination of sugar, fat, and flour. Literally, it disintegrated before I could sink my teeth into it.

“This is unbelievable,” I said, and, so, began my love-affair with the amazing glazed donut.

I used to love passing the flashing neon sign outside the Krispy Kreme shop announcing that donuts were in the oven. My mouth would water.

Those were also the days when CNBC would regularly get boxes from the CEO when he appeared on the morning business show Squawk Box. Things were hopping, and it seemed that Americans couldn’t get enough of the deliciousness.

Fast forward to today. Gosh, has it been twenty years? The bakery on 86^th closed down long ago. You could find Krispy Kreme in convenience stores and the occasional grocery but, otherwise, they seemed to disappear. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention, or I was on one of my perennial diets.

This morning, my man was reading The Wall Street Journal to me—as he likes to do way too often—when he landed on an article about Krispy Kreme donuts being sold at McDonald’s. He had me from the word “Krispy.”

“Under a partnership announced Tuesday, Krispy Kreme will deliver three versions of its donuts—glazed, chocolate iced with sprinkles, and chocolate iced with a cream filling—to McDonald’s locations each morning. Customers can buy the donuts individually or in a box of six,” the article said.

My “salivary glands,” as my man says, were in full action. My stomach growled.

I know that as we age, we are supposed to watch what we eat. Sugar is a no-no. Butter goes in and out of favor, as does cream. Flour is okay, I guess as long as it isn’t white or you aren’t allergic to it. Chocolate seems to have withstood all assaults. Eggs are back on the good list. There are eggs in donuts aren’t there?

Actually, I know that Krispy Kreme donuts can’t be too bad for me, because I remember reading that Sting requests them in his dressing room before or after a concert. I can’t recall which. All I know is that if he can eat Krispy Kreme donuts and look as good as he does at his age, then I should be fine.

Forget the sprinkles but bring on the glazed and crème-filled now!

Full stop may be the English language’s most annoying term these days.

For centuries, a period at the end of the sentence or the dropping of one’s voice has signaled the same thing: the thought ends here. It’s over. But today, many seem inclined to toss in the term “full stop” at the conclusion of a sentence. As though the listener didn’t quite understand what he or she was saying. I’m even seeing the term in print.

If the two words are supposed to be for emphasis, it might be more appropriate to say: “If you didn’t get my meaning, let me restate it … this nonsense has to end now.”

Imagine Shakespeare writing: “To be or not to be. That is the question. Full stop.”

I’m trying to remember the first time I heard the term. I think it was within the last two years that I noticed a dear friend—a Brit—had a particular fondness for it. It was quaint; part of his personality. Now that it has exploded in popularity, I am definitely over it. (Another one of those sloppy terms that creeps into the English language.)

When I looked up the term “full stop” on the Internet, it showed me a picture of a large period. Exactly, I thought. And then I remembered a time when people would say “period” at the end of a sentence. I suppose that was the precursor to “full stop.”

I can still hear my fathering growling: “You are not going to that party. Period.” I didn’t need to hear the word “period” to know that the discussion was over.

The search engine Bing explains that “full stop” is sort of a younger cousin to “at the end of the day,” which began as a Britishism—to the annoyance of many in the UK—and, of course, is now common here.”

If the British were irritated, they should have done away with the term before it had a chance to travel across the pond to the U. S.

I say let’s stop with the “full stop” and move onto tackling the current propensity to misuse the pronoun I. I’m not talking about anything having to do with gender, but the phrase “you and I.” When the I follows a conjunction, such as “with,” it is supposed to be “me.” As in, “Are you going to town with Mary and me.” Not, Mary and I.

I know it’s not easy, but I think we should all try to get this one small thing right. Or should I say, correct? Then maybe we can move on to “have went.”

It’s the little things that people say to you that linger. Sometimes forever.

Recently, I found my man in the closet staring at a row of long-sleeve shirts as though he wasn’t sure what to wear.

“Got a problem?” I asked.

“I haven’t worn that blue and white shirt for at least a year. Every time I think about putting it on, I remember what Jerry said to me about it … that it looks like the top to my pajamas.”

“Ridiculous,” I responded. “He was probably joking. I’m sure he doesn’t remember saying that. Don’t let that off-hand comment keep you from wearing that expensive Brooks Brothers shirt I bought for you.”

He nodded and chose something else.

Over the years, I have fallen victim to the remarks people toss off and then promptly forget. They are often innocent enough but can have a devastating effect.

Back in the late 1960s, I was in Florida interviewing baseball players in spring training for The Indianapolis Star. The sports editor thought it would be “fun” to have a woman writing about sports. (That’s another story.)

Pete Rose was young and cocky and making a positive name for himself as a hitter for the Cincinnati Reds. I was wearing a short-sleeve green top and firing what I thought were snappy questions his direction when he said: “You’ve got big arms for such a little girl.”

Big arms! I was in my early 20s and weighed about 115 pounds and Pete Rose was denigrating a part of my body to which I had never given a second thought. I managed to finish the interview, thank him for his time, and head back to my hotel room … all the time thinking about the size of my arms.

It was the last day I wore anything sleeveless. Decades have past and you still won’t catch me without my arms covered. Now I have valid reasons for keeping them hidden. It’s not like they have gotten smaller in the ensuing years.

When in 2008 I saw the commentary about Michelle Obama’s muscular arms – some positive but other’s annoyingly negative – I remembered Pete’s casual but hurtful words.

Fast forward to today and an approaching literary panel discussion at a local venue involving me, a best-selling author, and a noted historian. I’m still asking myself how I got invited to join that esteemed group. Apparently, others wonder as well.

“I have advance copies of my new book,” I texted. “Can I bring them to sell?”

“I think not,” was the reply.

Countless authors have spoken at this venue and had their books available for purchase. The “I think not” was a stringing rebuke of my literary efforts and the twelve months I put into making Under the Sand something readers might enjoy. Suck it up and move on, I told myself. But the words linger.

Maybe I should stop thinking about what was said and focus on getting my arms in shape. Or better still, I’ll work on not caring about what thoughtless words sometimes come out of other people’s mouths and watch what I say, as well.

My prized orchid plant bloomed for the first time in over a year today. It was a tribute to overcoming adversity—mostly man-made and some spawned by nature.

The story of the orchid, which is not award-winning but special to me, dates back to last spring. On a whim, I spent $195 for this plant, which featured an abundance of blooms and buds in an amazing yellow with a pink throat. I took it home and sat it on the front porch in anticipation of a dinner party the following week.

I was sitting in my office, working on my book Deadly Winds when I heard the teeth-jarring sound of a leaf blower. The condo association had hired two men to clean off the cobwebs and other junk that collects on the outside of the buildings. Why they chose to use a leaf-blower, which does not clean but merely disperses dirt to other locations, was beyond me. As it came closer, I tried to shut out the sound that can rattle every nerve in your body. I stand with people who want those contraptions banned.

When will he move on I wondered and glanced out the window seeking an answer. What I saw rocketed me out of my chair: delicate yellow petals scattered over my porch like leaves on a fall day in Indiana.

“What the hell?” I shouted as I rushed to the front door and flung it open. I gasped in horror. My beautiful new plant was nearly naked.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the guilty party headed up the steps to the next level—his weapon of destruction whirring away, waiting to be revved up to full destructive power.

“Hey!” I screamed. “Hey!! I want to talk to you. Did you just blow the petals off my orchid?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that.” I read surprise on his face. Like he thought I wouldn’t figure out what had just happened.

“What were you thinking?” Yes, I was being insensitive. It was a crap job and he probably didn’t make minimum wage. But, in my mind, there was a reason for his lot in life and what happened to my flower. He didn’t care.

“I guess I didn’t realize that the blower (generating mega-force winds) would hurt your plant. Sorry.”

There was no way I was giving him a break. “You can’t just use that thing willy-nilly without regard to what is around you?”

He had the look my son often wore when as a teenager he was caught doing something wrong.

“I’m not going to report this to the office, but don’t ever come near my front door again with that thing,” I snarled. “I’ll clean off the cobwebs myself.”

“Okay. Have a blessed day,” he said as he moved on. Quickly.

A blessed day? Was he kidding? I picked up the dead blooms, trimmed off the wounded flowers and waited for the day when it would indeed be a blessed day for that orchid.

Five months later, Hurricane Ian roared through our community, wiping out more plant life than Mr. Leaf Blower could have dreamed about destroying. Thankfully, I had carried what was left of the orchid and other precious plants inside before the storm arrived.

The hurricane brought with it an end to the employment of the two men who had been hired to clean the buildings. There were more important concerns for the community. I wasn’t sorry to see them go.

The celebrated blooming today serves as a reminder that time and tender care can heal the damaged—and that life, miraculously, goes on.

I called my financial advisor to ask if I should diversify my portfolio. Translation: Should I sell some of my Eli Lilly stock, which I’ve had for at least twenty years and is now a big chunk of my holdings?

Nope, she said. Lilly is doing great, thanks in part to its new weight-loss drug, which is marketed as Zepbound. I told her I had heard of the drug from several sources. A friend of mine got the weekly shots and lost fifty pounds. He says he feels great.

“My daughter, who’s a nurse, is taking it,” my advisor explained. “She did a lot of research and is getting it directly from Lilly.”

“Not going through a doctor?” I asked, as my thoughts took me back many decades to the sleezy fat doctor on the eastside of Indianapolis.

The guy was overweight and disreputable-looking. The physical exam he gave me before dispensing his miracle weight-loss pills amounted to a breast exam . . . the old reprobate and that’s being kind. Hey, I wanted those pills, which is why I didn’t slap him, storm out of his office, and report him to the AMA.

Turns out those magic pills were amphetamines. I took one in the morning and buzzed through the day. When I got home after work, I was more interested in cleaning my closets than in ordering a pizza.

I even remember a friend offering me a large, black pill that was known to help a dieter drop the pounds quickly.  She called it an “LA Turnaround.” You could drive to Los Angeles and back on one of those pills, she explained. Or clean the entire house from top to bottom a couple of times.

I said “no thanks.” Too strong for me. Besides, my house was already clean from the other pills I was taking.

It was after three or four weeks of taking the magic little pill and losing weight, that I began feeling irritated. The least little thing would set me off. I was still buzzing, but I was more like an angry hornet than a docile honeybee. I stopped taking the amphetamines and started eating pizza again.

Several years later I went to a weight-loss doctor on the west side of the city. I still get emails from him asking if I want the pills I was taking when I lost thirty pounds. His email said they would ship the drugs to Florida for me. I wonder if he’s added Zepbound to his repertoire.

He was a nice guy and seemed sincere about wanting to help me slim down. But he lost my business when he cautioned me about getting too thin. “A woman of YOUR AGE needs a little extra padding,” were the last words he spoke to me.

After the conversation with my financial advisor, I decided to hang onto my Lilly stock. I doubt that I’ll become a customer of the company’s latest phenomenon. I’m less adventuresome than I used to be, and I’ve been up and down this hilly road before. But I wish the company—and my portfolio—continued success.

Amy Cloughly, Warren Frazier, and Dan Lazar are literary agents that I don’t know and have never met. But I respect them and here’s why. I sent them a query letter about representing my new book Under the Sand. They responded and said no thanks but nice of you to think of us.

The point is that they responded. Busy, successful agents and they got back to me in less than two weeks. One even wished me good luck. The other two were courteous and friendly. That’s the mark of a professional, and I’m grateful for their time.

I think they missed out on a good book. But I’m sure their plates are full. And maybe I’ll have something that will speak to them in the future.

The other ten agents I sent query letters to have remained silent. Perhaps they are sorting their way through hundreds of other emails and haven’t discovered mine yet. Fingers crossed.

My feeling about securing an agent hasn’t changed since I started writing and self-publishing books ten years ago and decided that it wasn’t a great idea for me. Time and money were the big factors.

Hiring an agent, who is going to take fifteen percent if your book gets published, isn’t easy. Their names are all over the Internet, but figuring out who will be interested in your book and who won’t is, frankly, a crapshoot. Some of their resumes read like the old Playboy magazine descriptions from years ago. “I love books that speak to me and the greater universe … while I’m taking walks on the beach … and playing with my cats.” Others … “Send it in and if you don’t hear from me in three months consider your book query uninteresting, dull, and not worthy of any further attention from me. And if that is the case, I won’t be getting back to you, loser.”

I ask myself, should I keep on pursing an agent and hold off on self-publishing this little gem (my word)? Some of my literary friends say yes. The author from Kirkus Editorial said definitely (although I’m not supposed to quote him in any shape or form).

But three months? And then three years to get a book published, if at all? I’m certain I have at least another dozen books in me and the clock is ticking. If I didn’t want to go through the tedious and painful process ten years ago, why should I find it compelling today when I’m in competition with a million other books published annually in the U.S.?

So, here’s my plan. I’m printing two hundred copies for limited release in March to my best market—the little island where all the action takes place. I’ll get their reactions and then decide if waiting for an agent is something I really want to do. If you want a copy, email me at shanafee@yahoo.com and we’ll talk.

Tomorrow, I’ll give you a sneak preview. Let me know what you think. And be kind.