Tuesday, March 30, 2010


Gentle Readers,

Please allow me to begin by defining my terms: If I suggest something, then I think it's OK and at least mildly enjoyable and/or amusing. If I recommend something, then I think it's well worth your time.

Keeping those terms in mind, I suggest you consider seeing Did You Hear About the Morgans?. I don't think you'll want to purchase it unless you're the biggest Hugh Grant and/or Sarah Jessica Parker fan ever or you will want to watch a movie over and over that creates an amusing distraction. But I do think it's a fun movie. It was cuter than I thought it would be and worth renting if you're in the mood for something relaxing that doesn't require a lot of thought.

However, do not waste your time on the director's commentary. He who shall not be named (because I can't remember his name - it might be Mark Jacobs), Sarah Jessica Parker, and Hugh Grant all comment on the movie. Although the three of them seem to get on well, they don't have all that much to say about making the movie. The DVD's special features do include some short pieces I like, especially one about the grizzly bear in the movie. The gag reel? Well, I didn't think it was such a gag. The non-stop giggling when they're trying to shoot one of the scenes simply becomes boring.

I recommend seeing The Time Traveler's Wife. I thought it had a lovely magical, poignant touch. I didn't think I would like it because it couldn't possibly live up to the novel. It was really quite touching though, and whether you'll want to rent or buy is up to you. It costs $16.99 at amazon.com. You might consider renting it from one of those red box things that are now outside many pharmacies and other businesses and for $1 see if you think it's worth buying.

I highly recommend reading the novel The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. It's a heartachingly beautiful book, quite haunting and so well written.

I wish you happy viewing and reading, Gentle Readers.


Dumped First Wife


Gentle Readers,

My son's young lady love has been a regular visitor of late. She comes complete with dog family, which can change with each visit.

During her most recent stay, she had her dachshund, two chihuahuas she's fostering, and a chihuahua she was pet sitting. When she came into the house carrying a chihuahua, at first I thought it was one of hers, but it turned out the pet sitting chihuahua had a curled tail like a pig's, although very small, of course, while her same-colored fostered chihuahua has a straight tail.

Mr. M, the chihuahua being sat, came into the house on his first evening and started running around checking out the place. I find chihuahuas quite amusing because they don't really look like dogs, at least not to me with my two collies and black lab mix. I think the chihuahuas look more like slightly enlarged gerbils.

Anyway, I followed Mr. M as he looked around the house and he decided to stop on the only piece of carpet in the house, an area rug in the living room. Mr. M then went into chihuahua pooping stance.

I shouted, He's pooping! He's pooping! as I snatched him up and tried to dash to the back yard with him.

Too late. He had already left a tiny pooper on the rug and as I scurried along, holding him in front of me as if he were a bomb about to blow up, more little poopers popped from him as we ran.

I thought it was hilarious.

I guess I'm not too freaked out by poop, after working in a nursing home at one time. And of course chihuahua poop is absolutely nothing compared to collie poop. When we had our hound dog, oh my goodness, his poop looked like big brown barrels.

Well, I guess that's enough poop discussion for now. If you like, you can send me your amusing poop experiences and I'll publish them for you.

I really enjoy having the young lady love here along with her creatures. My elderly collie tries to herd the chihuahuas and when they lie down he stands guard over them. He's so much more active when they're here. It's good for him and it's good for me.


Dumped First Wife

Saturday, March 27, 2010


Gentle Readers,

Last night I had the pleasure of watching my now 30-year-old son blow out the candles on his birthday cake, and it was the most creative cake I've ever seen.

Because 30 makes my son an old man, the young woman who made the cake, Lindsey, decorated it to demonstrate how ancient he now is.

The cake wore prunes laid out in the shape of Florida because that's where old people go to live. There were two old golf balls, a double entendre if ever I've seen one. The front of the cake sported one of those plastic pill holders that old people use so they remember to take their medicine and it was filled with blue M&Ms to represent a certain little blue pill. An old creature, was it a dinosaur? can't remember, donned an adult diaper.

I can't even remember everything that was on that cake. I just know I couldn't stop laughing when I saw it and neither could anyone else. What a creative young woman our Lindsey is. And how loved my son must be that people wanted to celebrate his birthday with him. His girlfriend said she'd never had a birthday like that.

The closest I ever came was one year when a nurse I assisted at a nursing home made brownies with peanut butter and chocolate chips for my birthday. They were homemade although she, like me, worked 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. three or four nights per week - and it was hard, physically demanding labor - and she, unlike me, had three small children. I don't know how she did it all, and I never saw her lose her patience at work. Once when her husband called her at work and criticized her because the house was dirty, she just got very quiet.

I know how she felt. We never do enough. We're never good enough.

But last night at that birthday celebration, everything was more than good enough.


Dumped First Wife.


Gentle Readers,

This week I read Jeannette Walls' latest, Half Broke Horses. It is her maternal grandmother's story, written in first person.

I enjoyed it so much that I immediately re-read The Glass Castle, which is really quite an amazing memoir.

Before reading these, I read Mary Karr's three memoirs, The Liars Club, Cherry, and Lit.

I think when I write my memoir I should call it Half Broke Liars. Maybe people will think I have a little Jeannette and Mary in me and I'll have me a little success.

Actually, I came across a Web site where people posted comments about The Liars Club and somebody said he/she lived on the same street as Mary Karr and that the Karr family lived a life of absolute misery and other people said Oh yes, it was obvious that it was just misery, misery, misery. And I thought, Gee, it seemed kinda like normal life to me. So maybe I had a crazy childhood too, or maybe we all just have crazy childhoods.

I have also started reading a blog I thoroughly recommend: WorkForced.com. It's hilarious. Before long I'll be wanting to marry the guy who writes it. I already want to marry the guy who does It's Priceless!

I need all the hilarity in my life that I can get.


Dumped First Wife

Scroll up a bit on my message center to find the amazon.com search box. You can purchase books and movies I recommend from amazon.

Thursday, March 25, 2010


Today I finally fell apart.

I’d been threatening to do it and last week cracks started opening up in the soft skin around my finger nails.

Cracks spread like egg, broken.
Then this morning, fell off the wall.
Stress fractures.
Pieces of my shell broke off.

Walk in the door and be careful - don’t trip over right foot.
Clue to location of left foot: Dog dragged it under the bed.
Nibbled toes

Head intact in front of humming refrigerator, mouth agape thirsty for drink of my favorite blue raspberry juice.
Torso asleep on the bed.
One leg leaning against the closet seeking lead to take black lab to park.
Other leg propping open back door.
Arm One in recliner, hand holding remote.
Arm Two holding book.

I always said that if I died my body would just keep going, doing all the things it’s supposed to do.
It’s trying, but the shell is too scattered.

C’mon all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
Gather the pieces in a pile.
Help me out here now.
Put crazy glue in my right hand.
I’ll put myself back together again.

Monday, March 22, 2010


Gentle Readers,

I am not the Grammar Police.

Yes, I have a BA in English, I am a many-times published author, and I have done my share of editing.

But when people say, Oh, you're going to correct everything I say, or Don't all the mistakes people make drive you crazy? I say no, no, I make mistakes too. It's not up to me to correct people and it doesn't bother me when the English language is mangled.

After all, that which does not change dies; therefore, we have to accept changes to our language, and some of those changes arise from errors.

I would, however, like to take this opportunity to point out a few little things that I see or hear frequently that kind of get on my nerves. I can talk about this here without pointing any fingers.

First, "I could care less." That's not the expression. It's "I couldn't care less." If you could care less, then why are you bugged about whatever "it" is? Go off and be bothered by something about which you couldn't care less.

Recently I read a message online that said I couldn't care less is a double negative so it's incorrect, but in this case, correct idiomatic English wins the day and the expression is I couldn't care less. It's similar to saying, There are some things I won't put up with. Yes, you are ending a sentence with a preposition. But it's o.k. because it's correct idiomatic English.

And that's idiomatic - not idiotmatic.

Then we have it's or its. Oh my goodness gracious I see this one screwed up all the time.

It's = It Is

So if you need to know whether to put that apostrophe in, just read your sentence out loud and say "it is" instead of it's or its. If "it is" makes sense, then it's is your man. If it doesn't make sense, you need to go with its.

I love the sea with all it's beauty.

I love the sea with all it is beauty?

I love the sea with all its beauty. Ahhhh, yes.

I am a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to grammar, I must admit. I still can't stand impact used as a verb. But I try to cope with change, I really do.

A word that has joined the ranks of "like" and "you know" is "hopefully." Hopefully, it won't rain. No, no, no, no, no. Hopefully should not be used to modify an entire sentence.

Correct use of hopefully: "Do you think it will rain?" he asked hopefully as he gazed out over the drought-stricken landscape. The incorrect sentence in the previous paragraph should read I hope it won't rain. Now, I know some of you young modern grammarians are starting to say that you can modify a sentence with hopefully, but hopefully does not need to take the place of I hope and I'll be damned if I'll go along with that change in my lifetime. Not me, nope, no sir-ree.

And consider this advertisement - Margarita's $1.99

I like the price, but why the apostrophe? People stick apostrophes in all sorts of places they don't belong and maybe some of those people should take all those apostrophes and stick 'em where the sun don't shine and where it doesn't shine.

And it's not I feel badly. Oh, so your feelings don't work? It's I feel bad. You wouldn't say I feel goodly, or at least I hope you wouldn't.

I confess: When I watch the news, if a crawl is scrawling its way along the bottom of the screen, then I read the crawl and look for errors. And I see plenty. CNN, MSNBC, I'm on to you. Fox, you can do whatever stupid stuff you want. You're already so damn dumb that nothing can make you worse.

I'll probably think of some more errors that bug this dumped wife to add to this message later. I can't help it. Its in my blood.

Ha ha! It's in my blood.


Dumped First Wife


Gentle Readers,

I had the great fortune of attending a writer's workshop recently.

The big event of the day was a question and answer session with the immensely talented and immensely skinny Joyce Carol Oates. Ms. Oates was wonderfully intelligent and funny and in spite of her many accomplishments, did not behave as if she thinks of herself as a celebrity. Rather, she said she has no confidence in her writing. If someone who has been that successful for so long has no confidence in her writing, then I think it's o.k. that I suffer from crises of no confidence.

Books I have read by Oates: You Must Remember This, Blonde, We Were The Mulvaneys, and Missing Mom

Oates is an unusually prolific author, and now I think I know why. I don't think the woman ever stops writing long enough to eat a full meal. In fact, I doubt that she's eaten much of anything during the past twenty years.

Perhaps her hunger even contributes to the darkness of her novels (although she said she's just being realistic and quite often bases her work on actual events).

But, Joyce Carol Oates, I beg of you, please put away your writing for awhile and have a nice big dinner with veggies, potatoes, rolls, and meat or a meat substitute, and ice cream for dessert followed by a cookies and milk chaser.

Oates teaches at Princeton and she seems as if she would be a wonderful teacher. She said she doesn't like to compliment or criticize her students too much. Apparently she strikes a balance with constructive criticism and encouragement.

In addition to the session with Oates, I attended four workshops. A major focus was on finding ideas and inspirations for stories and poems.

Following the line of my belief that nothing I make up can be as funny or crazy or amazing as real life, I heard two especially good true stories at the workshop.

The first was told by a poet and professor teaching a workshop session. She said that one of her colleagues had been in a car accident on his way to the university one morning recently. He had learned that morning that the young man who hit his car did so on purpose to keep him from getting to work to give a test for which the young man's girlfriend was not prepared.

That's the first time I've heard of someone getting out of a test by asking her boyfriend to hit the teacher's car.

The second story came from a woman attending the workshop. The woman appeared to be middle ageish, like me, and African American, not like me.

She said she woke up one night absolutely soaked in sweat. She thought it was because she was going through menopause. For those of you who don't know yet, you can have night sweats in addition to hot flashes during menopause. And both can last for years and years. You might also find that you're very emotional and cry at the drop of a hat.

But, ah, I digress.

The woman got out up feeling horrible and managed to make her way upstairs to the bathroom, where she fell on the floor, unable to speak and suddenly realizing that she was probably having a heart attack. Fortunately, she heard a family member, I think her brother, come up the stairs and he called an ambulance.

The EMTs came into the bathroom and gathered around her and said, What's the matter with her? Is she drunk? Is she on drugs?

Her brother said No, no, but they kept asking.

As this was going on, it occurred to her that, as she put it, she had no bottoms on and all her cellulite and bumps were showing so in spite of having a heart attack, she still had this interior monologue going on.

Finally, the EMTs grabbed her and dragged her down the stairs and out of the house. Didn't even make an effort to pick her up, just dragged her.

Then they took her out the door and to the ambulance, but they hadn't even backed up the ambulance to the door. So they carried her out to the street to the ambulance and suddenly she locked eyes with one of the men, and she said he looked ashamed.

And this guy finally said, I think she's having a heart attack.

She said everything worked out o.k. and it became a wake up call for her to make some life style changes and she's much better now, but she feels she was treated so inhumanely.

And I had to wonder, if it were me, would I have been treated that badly?

Was she mistreated because she's black?

Immediate assumption that she's drunk or drugged and nobody even took her pulse or put a blood pressure cuff on her. Dragged down the stairs and hauled across the street to the ambulance for everybody to see. Point and stare. Point and stare.

Something to think about.


Dumped First Wife

Sunday, March 21, 2010


Gentle Readers,

A few weeks ago I mentioned the sad and lowly settlement offer my husband made. It was so pitiful it needed a bath with a good scrubbing, clean clothes, and then a healthy meal with fine wine.

We have made a little progress.

My husband had SAID he was going to pay my attorney's fees. But, stupid me, I didn't get it in writing. Learn from me children. Get everything in writing.

So when I told my husband I had received a bill from my lawyer, he said he had sent an email to his lawyer and he would get back to me about it. What? Why didn't he just send the lawyer a check?

Ah, not in writing. We have a written maintenance agreement, he said after consulting his lawyer. I'm not giving you any other money. You have to pay your bills out of the maintenance money.

His lawyer then sent my lawyer a letter stating that every time something breaks around the house that I can't ask my husband for money.

What's broken is my husband's frickin' ability to follow through on what he says.

No way was I going to pay my lawyer. Why should he do anything if he knows I'll give up little luxuries like eating and electricity in order to pay his bill?

My lawyer then sent his lawyer a letter stating that I can't be expected to live on X amount of dollars and still pay attorney's fees.

My husband then agreed to pay Y number of dollars for attorney's fees. The court ordered that he is to pay it by a certain date next month.

Of course, I'll get charged - and then he'll get charged - even more money because my lawyer charges for writing that letter and his lawyer charges for reading it and both lawyers charge big bucks for appearing in court for five minutes.

Ultimately, it would cost my husband less money if he just paid the bill in the first place.

But, somehow the logic of the situation escapes him.

The logic of many situations escapes him.

It's part of his illness, which he could conquer, or at least get a bit better, if he took his medicine. But oh he's so brilliant, he can get away with all the crap he does. His parents once said that they didn't do anything about - mmm, I can't recall the word they used so let's say oddities on his part - because he was so gifted.

Remember my discussion of psychopathy? Cunning and manipulative.

Today we have on the court docket Appearance v. Reality.


Dumped First Wife


Gentle Readers,

I've been watching Breaking Bad, which I find darkly humorous and moving.

Earlier today, I watched an episode in which Walt's wife tearfully told her boss, "Walt's been battling cancer."

When did we as a society start referring to people who survive cancer as having beaten it? They're in a war against cancer and somehow they manage to win. Is it because those people are tougher than cancer?

So if some people can beat cancer, if some people are winners, then what does that say about the people who die from it?

Well, I tell ya, Old Moe just didn't fight hard enough. If he'd put on the gloves one more time and given Cancer a punch in the nose, he'd still be alive today. Terrible thing for him to do to Flossie, leavin' her this way. That bastard just never fought hard enough at anything he did. Lazy sumbitch.

I guess people who die from cancer should have a great big L tattooed on their foreheads, those fuckin' losers who just wouldn't try hard enough.

Some diseases and illnesses can be controlled.

Some can't, no matter how hard the sick person tries to hang in there.

That's life.

That's death.


Dumped First Wife

Saturday, March 20, 2010


Gentle Readers,

Since I mentioned Mrs. Waldorf, my sixth-grade teacher earlier this evening, I thought I'd fill you in on some fun facts.

Mrs. Waldorf was a widow with a lovely young daughter who appeared to be about twenty. The Waldorf had a disconcerting habit of placing her arms under her breasts and giving them some sort of boost. I never understood if she was getting her bra into a more comfy position or if she tended to sag and needed to give her ample chest a lift.

Waldorf appeared to me to be ancient. Grey haired and old person grouchy. Very angry with the times - didn't like peace symbols or the "stupid" music we kids loved.

I really can't figure out how old she might have been when she was our teacher. I suppose it's possible that her daughter wasn't born until she was 40 or so and that the Waldorf was 60+. Or maybe old people just looked older then than they do now. If the Waldorf was in her 50s, oh my goodness, I hope to God I don't look that old in my 50s.

Waldorf's daughter had taught baton lessons for a few years. All the girls in our class who had learned to toss and spin a baton from Cathy Waldorf received straight As for the third marking period.

I, of course, had not had the privilege of learning baton from Cathy. My best friend, who regularly copied my homework, however, had taken baton. Guess who got straight As and who didn't?

It's o.k. My straight As started to come when it mattered - in high school and college. Can you say summa cum laude former best friend who dumped me while we were in junior high?


Dumped First Wife

Wednesday, March 10, 2010


Gentle Readers,

If you have never read Mary Karr's memoir, The Liars' Club, then it's time to catch up.

Follow it with Cherry, and then treat yourself to her most recent, Lit.

If you scroll up on my message center, you will see an amazon.com search box, where you can purchase Mary Karr's books, or simply click on the links I have provided.

I now look forward to reading her poetry.


Dumped First Wife


Dipsomnia Dreams

I read lit by mary karr and I decided to drink some whiskey because it would make me smart and beautiful and successful and get me a teaching job at a university and I would make some serious money when I wrote my memoirs about how I got abused when I was a little kid and people picked on me but I had great mentors in college and had some minor success but the whiskey would bring real success because I could write about beating the never-ending desire for whiskey and I definitely need the whiskey success route because my husband dumped me so I put ice in my green Tupperware cup and added a splash of whiskey and poured in some diet coke and then added another splash of whiskey and I kind of sucked it up through clenched teeth because it didn’t taste so great in fact it was kind of like drinking really nasty medicine that’s intended to cure you of something horrible and it cured me of the desire to drink whiskey because there was the aftertaste and by the time I got to the bottom of the Tupperware cup I was pretty drunk so I had to go in my bedroom and lie down for two hours and cope with being drunk and I certainly didn’t accomplish anything that way so now I know that whiskey is not the bottle to be spun to success.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010


Gentle Readers,

She was the fourth of seven children. When she was seven-years-old, her mother died in childbirth.

So she lost her mother.

Her father remarried and had nine children with his new wife.

So, in essence, she lost her father.

As a popular and witty young woman who had learned to talk politics, she left her home and much-hated stepmother in Lexington, Kentucky, and moved to Springfield, Illinois, to live with her sister, Elizabeth Edwards. She became engaged to a lawyer, who then changed his mind.

So, she lost her first opportunity to marry the man she loved.

She waited. One and one-half years later the young lawyer changed his mind again and married her. She said he would be President of the United States, and she worked hard to make that happen. When her husband was elected to Congress, she and their young child moved to Washington, D.C., with him--something politician's wives normally did not do--and lived in rented rooms. But she was in the way. She took too much time and attention away from his work. Mother and child returned to Springfield.

So she began to lose her husband to the political life she had helped him attain.

Three of her four sons died - Eddie at home in Springfield, Willie in the White House, and Tad, the youngest and the last person able to comfort her, as they moved from hotel to hotel, never having a real home.

So, she lost her children.

Her husband was elected President as she predicted. He presided over a nation divided by war and had very little time for his wife and her never-ending worries and headaches.

So she lost her husband, almost completely, to government service.

Because she was from the South, her many siblings were Confederates. She staunchly supported her husband and the Union.

So she lost her siblings. Some even died fighting for the South.

Finally, the North won the war. She and her husband went to the theater for an evening of relaxation, and he was assassinated as they sat close together, she clinging to him as they enjoyed the play.

So she lost her husband and her identity because a woman's identity came from what her husband did and he had made her First Lady of the Land.

Her remaining son, Robert, eventually had her declared insane and placed in a sanitarium. He took control of her money.

So she lost her only living son and her freedom.

But she didn't give up. She retained the services of one of the few female lawyers in the country. She managed to engineer her release from the sanitarium and returned to Springfield to live with her sister Elizabeth.

She's remembered as quite the shopaholic. Apparently, she tried to replace her many losses with Things. It didn't work. She bought fine draperies when she had no home in which to hang them. She bought dresses she would never wear because she wore only mourning black. While in the White House, she bought 300 pairs of gloves over a period of a few weeks. Purchases remained in their wrappings, never to be opened.

She shopped out of desperation. Perhaps she was even a hoarder.

What she's not remembered for, because she did not allow reporters to accompany her, are her many charitable acts. She visited sick and wounded soldiers with gifts of fruit and wrote home for them. She and her closest friend and confidante, Elizabeth Keckley--- a former slave--purchased blankets to give to the contraband, who were runaway slaves living in camps near the White House.

Finally, she died, and she rests with her husband and children in their tomb in Springfield, Illinois.

So, she lost the things that never brought the comfort she sought.

But, oh, what she gained.


Dumped First Wife

Tuesday, March 2, 2010


I dreamed he was in bed with me last night, Gentle Readers, here in my new little home.

We were in my bed, sleeping back to back. I was on my side of the bed and he was on his.

Then I wondered if I dared to roll over and place my hand on his back as I had so many times before.

I dared.

Then I cuddled up close to him with my arms around him and we lay that way for what seemed hours.

Then I awoke. I was snuggling my black Lab.


Dumped First Wife

Monday, March 1, 2010


Gentle Readers,

I have finished watching the Olympic Winter Games on my DVR and I pronounce them a great success. You can now tell me who won the medals and I will say, Yes, I know.

Unfortunately, the games began with a tinge of sadness when a Georgian bobsledder was killed in an accident on the "world's fastest track," but life and the games go on.

From the Opening Ceremony to the closing on the last night of February, the Canadians conducted themselves with grace and humor. I'm not even upset that the Canadians managed to whip it out in the end and win gold in ice hockey. Our American team did a great job and brung home the silver. That's fine. I know that gold means the world to Canada.

If you don't know how Canada rescued six American diplomats in 1979 during the Iranian hostage crisis, then do yourself a favor and conduct a little research. Our neighbors to the north are some darned good folks. We could learn some lessons from them about health care, manners, and most important, how to stop shooting each other.

Canada, long may you run, long may you run, long may you run.

Love ya Canada,

Dumped First Wife


Yes, Gentle Readers, there really was a Typhoid Mary.

Her name was Mary Mallon, and she was an Irish immigrant.

She worked her way up in the U.S. household staff hierarchy to become a cook. Unfortunately, she carried typhoid bacteria, even though she was healthy, and caused more than 50 cases of typhoid and three deaths.

Mary Mallon came to the attention of the New York Health Dept. when a typhoid researcher traced cases of typhoid among some well-to-do families and discovered something each family had in common.

They had employed Mary Mallon as a cook.

Mallon denied ever having had typhoid, but she may have had a mild case that left her with the bacteria in her body, or perhaps she was infected when her mother had typhoid while pregnant with her. At any rate, the New York Health Dept. hauled Mary off kicking and screaming to test her for the bacteria and there it be! Then they quarantined her on an island with other people who had highly infectious diseases, and she lived in a little cottage by herself.

Typhoid is spread through feces and ingested with food or liquid and causes a high fever, quite often a rash, a host of other symptoms, and sometimes death. Typhoid spreads best where sanitary conditions are poor and it still exists in third world countries where access to antibiotics can be difficult. It kills one out of one hundred people who come down with it. Prior to the advent of antibiotics, typhoid killed one out of ten infected people.

The bacteria can be eradicated by high temperatures, i.e. food that is cooked, but can remain present in uncooked foods, including Mary Mallon's popular peach ice cream. Working as a cook, Mary would have handled food constantly and even if she washed her hands after using the bathroom, she probably could not have washed them thoroughly enough to get rid of the bacteria.

After three years in quarantine, Mary Mallon was released on the condition that she not work as a cook. Unfortunately, the Health Dept. got her a job as a laundress, one of the suckiest and worst-paying jobs in America. Eventually, Mary called herself Mary Brown and went back to cooking.

When a typhoid outbreak occurred at a hospital where she was cooking, Mary was once again quarantined, and this time, for the rest of her life. Active typhoid bacteria could still be found in her body after her death from pneumonia in 1938. She spent a total of 29 years in quarantine.

Some people still believe Mary killed thousands of people. Her name certainly became synonymous with the spreading of disease. In reality, she became an example of a healthy, albeit stubborn person who could be a carrier of a disease. She never believed that she spread typhoid and she couldn't be trusted to give up cooking. Some other typhoid carriers were also identified, but nobody was quarantined unto death the way Mary was.

And it was all because she worked her way up to being a cook.


Dumped First Wife

Typhoid Mary is now used to describe someone who opens computer attachments without knowing the source and then passes the virus in the attachment on to other people. A Typhoid Mary also refuses to uses anti-virus software.