It’s not a military invasion this time, and it doesn’t directly involve Donald Trump himself. But it’s just as insidious, and almost as destructive.
While Trump gleefully dismantles America’s ocean monitoring systems and dismantles environmental protections across the country, his daughter Ivanka and son-in-law Jared Kushner are happily occupied with their latest project: building multi-billion-dollar private resorts on what were protected wetlands in Albania.
The Epitome of Obliviousness
The project would include the construction of hotel complexes in the Vjosa-Narta coastal region in the community of Zvernec, as well as on the uninhabited island of Sazan — currently home to flamingos, Mediterranean monk seals, and nesting sites of sea turtles, all of whom would be losing their homes to a playground for the rich and infamous. Excavators have already begun clearing pine forests and dunes, and erecting barbed-wire fences to keep locals and tourists away from their beaches.
But there is trouble in the Albanian paradise. When it was recently revealed that Prime Minister Edi Rama had been secretly facilitating the project by pushing through legislation in 2024 changing the protected status of the regions, the people revolted, taking to the streets of Tirana en masse and demanding Rama’s resignation.
Chanting “Cancel the project,” and carrying banners reading “Albania is not for sale” and “Ivanka, go home,” the protesters demanded that the project be stopped because of concerns over environmental damage and government corruption. [Agence France Presser, June 2, 2026.]
And now Albania’s Special Anti-corruption Prosecution office, known as SPAK, has opened a formal investigation into how that change to Vjosa-Narta’s protected status was quietly orchestrated. [Occupy Democrats, June 2. 2026.]
There seems to be no limit to the lengths the Trump family will go to in order to further line their already overflowing pockets, without giving a moment’s consideration to the impact on other people’s lives or the world’s natural environment.
Flamingos in an Albanian Lagoon
Here’s hoping the good people of Albania are able to win this one for the flamingos, the monk seals and the sea turtles, and send Jared and Ivanka packing. The world doesn’t need more Trump Towers.
I have carefully avoided the subject thus far because it’s almost too easy, and it’s already been beaten to death. But it is one of the biggest elephants in the White House these days, so let’s tackle it once and for all.
We’ve all seen hundreds of still photos and videos of Donald Trump appearing to fall asleep — in Oval Office meetings, Cabinet meetings, summit meetings, and even while standing straight up, which completely defies the laws of physics and which, I have to admit, I find oddly fascinating.
The White House, of course, continues to deny the existence of a problem, claiming that the photographers have caught Trump thinking with his eyes shut, or alternatively, “slow blinking.” And that last excuse has itself become the object of considerable scorn.
Well, I’m here — not to poke fun, or to refute the claims of Trump’s superhuman mental and physical acuity — but to assure you that there is indeed such a thing as the “slow blink.” And it did not originate with him.
How do I know this? I know, because I mastered it many years ago.
Eyelids at “Semi-Blink”
Slow blinking goes beyond just nodding off while watching the 87th rerun of a M*A*S*H episode, or trying once again to plow your way through The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Anyone can do that.
And during my many decades of working in offices, I have (too frequently) been found seated at my desk, facing my computer screen, both hands poised on the keyboard . . . sound asleep. That was usually in mid-afternoon, after a fairly substantial lunch. Food seems to have that effect on me.
But — and this is where it gets impressive — I am also able to lay claim to having slow blinked while listening to Henry Kissinger speak at a luncheon in Washington, D.C., back in the ‘80s.
“Say what?!!”
No kidding.
Now, Kissinger was a brilliant individual and a remarkable statesman, whose many accomplishments included reopening (along with Richard Nixon) diplomatic relations with the People’s Republic of China, advancing detente with the Soviet Union during the Cold War, negotiating the Paris Peace Accords of 1973, and instituting the “shuttle diplomacy” that helped end the Yom Kippur War in the Middle East. So he had a lot to say, and I was thrilled to have the opportunity to hear him speak in person.
Henry Kissinger
But for all of his brilliance, I’m sorry to report that Dr. Kissinger had a speaking voice that can best be compared to Russian baritone Dmitry Hvorostovsky singing Vecherny Zvon on a 78 r.p.m. vinyl recording being played at 33-1/3 r.p.m. (Or — for those who have no earthly idea who Dmitry Hvorostovsky was or what Vecherny Zvon sounds like — just think of an up-close recording of a hive of really angry bees droning on . . . and on . . . and on . . . in a heavy German accent.)
So, on top of a fairly heavy meal (there’s that food thing again), what should have been an exciting experience turned out to be a major snooze. I’m happy to report that at least I didn’t snore, and I didn’t face-plant into the chocolate mousse. But there were definitely a few slow blinks, followed by much gulping of water to get me through the rest of his keynote speech without humiliating myself.
Please don’t ask me what he spoke about; I have no clue.
*. *. *
Then there was my first attendance at what became my all-time favorite musical: the incomparable Les Miz.
I know, I know: It’s impossible to imagine dozing off while the barricades are being stormed to the accompaniment of “Do You Hear the People Sing.” But let me explain.
It was 1988. I had returned just two days earlier from my first trip to the then Soviet Union, and I was still somewhat jet-lagged, and physically and emotionally exhausted from the two-week schlep from Moscow to Tbilisi (Georgia) to Sochi to Leningrad. When I finally set foot back in Washington, my sister surprised me with tickets to the hottest show in town: Les Miz at the Kennedy Center. How could I refuse?
At the Barricades
There was no Kissinger-style droning to excuse my behavior this time. The entire performance — the music, the acting, the story of the French uprising reminding me of the plight of the Russian people I had just left behind — was riveting. But sometimes our bodies just do what they want to do, no matter how hard we fight against them. And toward the end of the first act, my eyelids began to bli-i-i-ink, bli-i-i-ink, bli-i-i-ink . . .
Luckily, that was just about the time the orchestra hit its finest crescendo, bringing me a good two inches up out of my seat. Our box seats were just across the hallway from a ladies room, and I made a beeline to it, splashed some cold water on my face, and managed to revive sufficiently to make it through the second act.
(P.S.: I have since seen Les Miz a total of six times in various venues . . . but never again on the heels of an overseas trip.)
*. *. *
So yes, even during an event that should preclude one from losing the plot and declining into slow-blink mode, it can happen. I’m living proof of that. And on those occasions, I was a good deal younger, and in better health, than Donald Trump is now. So maybe he could be excused for being tired and nodding off now and then . . .
. . . if only he weren’t the guy in charge of the nuclear codes.
I was actually searching for a meaningful quotation on aging today. But when I saw this by award-winning Canadian-American author Sara Gruen, it struck me as being equally appropriate to a matter that has been on all of our minds lately: the sanity of a certain aging head of state.
So, if any of his staff happen to be reading this (because we know he doesn’t read), perhaps they’d be kind enough to pass it along to him . . . and then run for cover:
“Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work, but important.”
Warning: This is a rant, though a fairly mild one. And if you read on, I’m fairly certain you will be able to relate, and will have no trouble understanding why I felt the need to vent.
First, a little background. I am a senior woman, single, living on a limited retirement income. I did not have wealthy parents to leave a nice little trust fund in my name, or a highly successful husband with a huge life insurance policy; nor do I possess any of the kinds of talent from which I might have earned gobs of money during my productive years. But I’ve never been poor, either.
My health is pretty good (“for my age,” as doctors are overly fond of pointing out). But as we grow older, sh*t happens: parts begin to wear out, you develop aches in places that you didn’t even realize you had places, and you start thinking that twinge you always assumed was just a gas pain might actually be something entirely different and much more scary. So your list of specialists begins to grow, because the old-time family doctors who diagnosed and treated practically everything short of major surgery died out about the time you reached middle age.
And that’s why man invented insurance.
Ah, yes . . . insurance. The biggest money-making scam ever devised, whereby a bunch of bean-counters sit at their desks and make life-or-death (YOUR life or death) decisions that determine whether your doctors will be allowed to treat you in accordance with their years of actual medical training and experience. And they send you a big fat bill . . . every single month, month after month, year after year, for the privilege of spending the rest of your natural life fighting with them over whether removal of that ruptured appendix was really necessary.
But they know we can’t afford to be without their coverage. And since Medicare is notoriously insufficient unto itself, a supplemental — or “Medigap” — policy is a must. And they’re outrageously expensive, allegedly because older folks require more medical attention. So, just at that time of life when we can least afford it, we lose our previous employers’ group coverage and begin paying extortionate prices for individual coverage.
And each year, we get to look forward to that inevitable notice of “premium adjustment” — praying, as we slit open the envelope, that it won’t be more than this year’s half-baked cost-of-living increase in our Social Security checks so we can at least break even.
*. *. *
I needed to pause for a moment there, because this is where I get to the guts of this dissertation, and I felt myself getting worked up again.
You see, my annual notice of premium adjustment arrived in the mail yesterday. Without going into too much boring detail, let me just say that, not only did the dollar amount far exceed my last Social Security increase; the new premium represented a whopping 19.6% rise over last year’s premium . . . whereas Social Security only allowed a cost-of-living increase of just 2.5% over last year.
And the new premium now represents 21% of my total monthly income.
“But Donald Trump said . . . ”
Yeah, yeah . . . I know what he said.
Well, anyway, after crunching those numbers — and indulging in some much-needed Haagen-Dazs — I began an online search for Medigap policies that might be a bit cheaper than my current one. And guess what I learned?
I’m screwed. In fact, we’re all screwed.
All of the Medigap policies are regulated as far as coverage is concerned, so you will receive the same benefits under, say, Plan “A” regardless of what company you choose. But there is a choice of several plans, and the premiums can vary widely.
I did find some that would have cut my premiums by about $300 a month, but they involved huge annual deductibles that totaled almost that much per year. So I wouldn’t have saved a dime; I would simply have had to put that $300 aside each month to cover the deductibles.
Admittedly, I only looked at a summary that offered a range of premiums, and I based my calculations on the top of the range. I haven’t yet checked out individual insurance companies, and that might make a difference. So the search continues.
But my point is this: In today’s economy, we ordinary people have two options: (1) die young, or (2) face an uncertain, less-than-dignified old age. Talk about Sophie’s choice!
But at least I can take consolation in knowing that Donald Trump and his cronies don’t have to worry about paying their bills.
Today would have been Marilyn Monroe’s 100th birthday. Because she died at such a tragically young age, she will always be stunningly beautiful, quirky, sometimes joyous and sometimes sad — in our minds, at least.
Marily Monroe (1926 – 1962)
But she was not, as so often depicted, a “dumb blonde.” In fact, she was witty and introspective, as exemplified by her commentary on the meaning of life:
“This life is what you make it. No matter what, you’re going to mess up sometimes, it’s a universal truth. But the good part is you get to decide how you’re going to mess it up. Girls will be your friends — they ‘ll act like it anyway. But just remember, some come, some go. The ones that stay with you through everything — they’re your true best friends. Don’t let go of them. Also remember, sisters make the best friends in the world. As for lovers, well, they’ll come and go too. And baby, I hate to say it, most of them — actually pretty much all of them are going to break your heart, but you can’t give up because if you give up, you’ll never find your soulmate. You’ll never find that half who makes you whole and that goes for everything. Just because you fail once, doesn’t mean you’re gonna fail at everything. Keep trying, hold on, and always, always, always believe in yourself, because if you don’t, then who will, sweetie? So keep your head high, keep your chin up, and most importantly, keep smiling, because life’s a beautiful thing and there’s so much to smile about.”
Marilyn survived a terrible childhood, three failed marriages, stunning success and fame as an actress . . . only to give in to her demons at 36 years of age. But she left a beautiful legacy of having brought joy to millions of fans, including two generations (so far) that hadn’t even been born when she died.
I’ve quoted author and columnist Erma Bombeck several times, for her quiet wit and common-sense observations. I loved her gentle humor and her bright outlook; and it pains me to say that it’s probably best that she did not live to see what has happened to the world, and to our country since she left us.
Erma Bombeck (1927 – 1996)
I don’t know when this was written, but Erma passed away in 1996. And at some point before then, presumably around the 4th of July, she had this to say about America:
“You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism.”
That was then. This is what has happened since:
Donald Trump’s Birthday Parade – June 14, 2025
That was last year’s birthday celebration. The word is out that, among his other plans for this year’s 250th anniversary of the birth of our nation, he has something equally (or more) inappropriate planned.
A spelling bee, that is, and specifically the annual Scripps National Spelling Bee that was concluded last week when 14-year-old Shrey Parikh correctly tackled words like . . .
(I capitalized all of them to be on the safe side, because I have no idea what any of them mean or whether they may be proper nouns.)
And that is precisely my point.
The Winner: Shrey Parikh
Who the hell does know, or care? Honestly . . . when will anyone other than, say, a devotee of the works of the late Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, ever have any use for a word like “cywyddau” (plural of “cywydd”), which (I looked it up) refers to “a highly structured traditional Welsh verse form . . . best known for being written in 7-syllable rhyming couplets that use cynghanedd — an intricate system of internal rhyme, alliteration, and consonant matching.” [Definition from Wikipedia AI Overview.]
See what I mean? Even Dylan Thomas himself probably didn’t know or care about cywyddau; he was too busy pleading with his father to “not go gentle into that good night” to be concerned with seven-syllable rhyming couplets or intricate systems of consonant matching.
I don’t mean to throw cold water on the accomplishments of young Shrey and the other spelling champs. They’re obviously bright kids, committed to learning and doing more with their lives than playing video games 24/7. They are to be admired and congratulated, as are their parents for encouraging them.
The 2026 Finalists
But what has happened to the Scripps National Spelling Bee in the decades since I became my school’s champion speller by correctly spelling “conscientious”? Yes, we were encouraged to study word lists; but they were useful words that added to our expanding vocabularies, with a few obscure ones thrown in for fun. And at the same time, we were being taught in our regular daily classes to sound out words, learn their definitions, and discern the most logical spelling. We didn’t simply swallow a volume of Webster’s Unabridged, and then spit it out, one word at a time, on command.
Why are we cluttering these children’s minds with words they are never likely to encounter again in their lifetimes? (And by the way, since this is a U.S. competition, when did they start throwing in bits from other languages that are not a part of the English lexicon?)
I don’t advocate “dumbing down” the contest — just keeping it real. And of course, a certain amount of memorization does factor into a well-rounded education. For example, I can still rattle off my multiplication tables, the names of the major bones of the body, and a few of Shakespeare’s most famous soliloquies. But none of those things ever played a part in my career advancement . . . although nothing livens up a dull party like a recitation of Marc Antony’s oration at Julius Caesar’s funeral.
Seriously, there is so much more for kids to learn these days, in the same number of school years, than when I was their age — more decades of history, and certainly more science and technology. Let’s not overwhelm them with the useless stuff, and maybe we can leave them a little time for . . . what was that old-fashioned word again? . . . oh, right:
Today is the 1,544th anniversary of the founding of Kiev (as it was known then). Although the exact date is the subject of ongoing debate, it has come to be accepted as the year 482 A.D., and is celebrated on May 31st.
Fifth Century Kiev
(Just as a matter of interest, the city of Moscow was not founded until 1147 A.D. — nearly 700 years later. So all of the talk about Ukraine historically “belonging” to Russia is . . . well . . . so much talk.)
Today, even in the midst of war, the spirit of the people of Kyiv shines through the pain and the misery, as expressed in a post that I found on Facebook today. It reads in part:
“This is a city that is truly impossible not to love. A city of chestnut trees and golden domes, bustling streets, morning traffic jams, and evening walks along the Dnipro River. A city where every street has its own story and every district its own character.
“ . . . Kyiv is its people. It is the rescuers who are first to arrive after strikes, the soldiers defending its skies, the doctors, volunteers, utility workers, teachers, public transport drivers, and everyone who works every day to keep the capital alive.
“Kyiv is a city of resilience and a city of hope. Happy Kyiv Day — to the city that inspires, fights, and wins!”
But, as I’ve said before, Vladimir Putin and his crew of Kremlin comics are often at their funniest when they’re being serious.
On Thursday, May 28th, a drone — in the midst of a massive Russian multi-drone attack on the Ukrainian city of Izmail — crossed the border into Romania, striking an apartment building in Galati, seriously wounding two Romanian civilians.
NATO and the EU immediately denounced Russia’s “reckless behavior,” while Romanian President Nicusor Dan expelled the Russian Consul General and shut down the consulate in the nearby city of Constanta.
But instead of attempting to defuse the potentially volatile situation by apologizing for what might conceivably have been an accident, Putin went on record the next day as saying it was too early to determine whether the offending drone was actually Russian. Speaking to reporters at a news conference in Astana, Kazakhstan, he said:
“Who in Romania says that this is a Russian drone? No one can say what the origin of this or that drone is until an examination has been carried out.” [Reuters, May 29, 2026.]
Claiming that Ukrainian drones had previously been spotted in Poland, Finland, and the Baltic countries, he attempted to deflect blame by adding:
“The first reaction was exactly the same as it is now in Romania: The Russians are coming. Then, after a short time, it turned out that it had nothing to do with Russian drones.” [Id.]
Well, maybe . . . except for a little matter of geography.
I am the farthest thing from a military expert, but even I can see the fallacy in Putin’s so-called logic. Let’s look at the map of the region.
Eastern Europe
The area in which the missile strike occurred is circled in red, in that little space where Ukraine and Romania share a short border, next to Moldova. Galati, Romania, is located just across the Danube River from Izmail, Ukraine. So why would Ukrainian forces, who were busy repelling an attack from Russia, be firing drones toward Romania in the opposite direction? Unless they were colossally stupid — which they most assuredly are not — their anti-drone munitions would be aimed generally in the directions shown by the arrows: north/northeast.
Am I right?
Now, I realize that the Russian Federation and the Soviet Union have had a long-standing tradition of refusing to accept responsibility for anything, preferring instead to find the nearest scapegoat when things go wrong. But it seems that after so many years of dissembling they’ve run out of plausible excuses.
So why can’t Vlad — just once, to see how it feels — put on his big-boy pants, and admit that someone in his army goofed? And if that’s too painful, he can always find a general or two to take the heat.
There is nothing more dangerous than an animal — even one of the human variety — that is cornered and out of options. And with his war against Ukraine in its fifth year, his economy bottoming out, NATO and the European Union standing up to him, and his own people catching onto the fact that he is something less than superhuman, Vladimir Putin is showing distinct signs of exactly that kind of desperation.
He has also been struggling to maintain a measure of control over a number of former Soviet republics. The Baltic states — Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia — are fiercely independent, having gained membership in both NATO and the EU in 2004. Strategically-located Moldova has more recently become a candidate for EU membership. And now Armenia — long considered to be under Russian security protection — has begun turning Westward, deepening its ties with Europe and the U.S. while noticeably reducing its dependence on Moscow . . . the final straw apparently having been Russia’s failure to assist Armenia in maintaining its control in the Nagorno-Karabakh region.
So, Putin being Putin, he has been issuing threats that he may not actually be in a position to carry out. In a statement glaringly reminiscent of his rhetoric prior to the 2022 invasion of Ukraine, he recently warned Armenia’s Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan that they could face a “Ukrainian scenario” if they continued to pursue stronger ties with Europe, and spoke of a potential split:
“In my opinion, it would be right, both in relation to the population, the citizens of Armenia, and in relation to us, as the main economic partner, to decide as early as possible, for example, by holding a referendum. Accordingly, we would draw the appropriate conclusions and follow the path of a soft, intelligent and mutually beneficial divorce.”
– Vladimir Putin, May 10, 2026 Press Briefing
And we all know what a Putin-esque “Ukrainian scenario” looks like.
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