Where Did that Tree Come From?

They said it couldn't be done! I've had a few brushes with my orange Saturn Vue, but not because I collided with the two trees in the middle of my driveway. I wasn't feeling so hot when we decided to move to Scottsdale--depression had surfaced, and my concentration rivaled a three-year-old's--so I decided to minimize my losses by going for location, location, location. And Scottsdale is, as any snotty Arizonan can tell you, prime real estate. Yesiree, it is! So I figured I had done my job of selecting a house just by picking out the neighborhood. The rest I left up to my husband and fate. So what if an extra room in one house could only be accessed via a steep 20-step staircase? There was a gorgeous jacaranda tree in front (it blooms for at least 20 minutes every year). That more than made up for any knee or hip injury climbing up and down. Then there was the house that kept getting larger every time you walked through it. Did I really need three spare rooms for the maid, the cook, and the butler? Like that was gonna happen anytime soon!! Which is why I ended up with a unique driveway. I settled. Besides I like a challenge. No one I know has trees in their driveway so that means I get the award for bravery. They--the trees, that is--guarantee that I'm never drunk when pulling into my garage. I never have to worry about ramming my side mirror because I'm going verrry slowwwly so as not to scrape my beloved trees. The trees also are guaranteed nests for colorful singers who decorate our driveway with gunk you wouldn't want your worst enemy to step in. Still, somehow a driveway with two trees that whirl and swirl during monsoons and drop their leaves during a hard frost is appropriate for a dysfunctional kid from a dysfunctional family. What do you think?

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Should Old Acquaintances Be Forgot?

In the Scottish dialect of the old New Year's Eve song Auld Lang Syne, the composer posits the question: Should old acquaintances be forgot? The short answer to this is "Sometimes." One example will suffice. A "friend" of mine emailed me the other day and although she is not a writer, her words spoke plenty. Her first rebuke was that I don't answer her calls, and this is a claim I cannot deny. But the accusation was caustic, mean-spirited--it was as if I had neglected to visit her in the hospital, that's how grievous my omission was. She insinuated so much by those few harsh words. Why did she call? Purportedly to inform me of her physical status and that of her dog Murph. Being the obedient child I still am, I did call her afterwards, and we spoke. Mostly S spoke of her new illness--osteoarthritis of the spine--and her dog's possible diagnosis of valley fever. I listened and listened and listened until I just couldn't take it any more. The...

Bitching is My Life

Yeah, This is another one of my bitch/gripe essays. How can I keep up the challenging pace? It’s not easy but I work at it. I try to find something negative in everything I see and do. And it works for me. Just yesterday in AZ everyone woke up to a blue sky and warm temps, but I quickly dispensed with that happy development. All I had to do was walk out on our fake grass and I was hit with one big negative after the other. Our fake grass seems to have been infected with real grass and the two don’t complement each other. So I bitched about that over breakfast and pretty soon I had my husband outside pulling out the real stuff. Boy was he miserable! But I scored again! Then in the afternoon I went to the supermarket, and sure enough, I found something else to gripe about. It’s an upscale store. I mean it’s got a Starbucks, a salad bar, about a million bottles of French and domestic wine…..and a homeless guy hanging around at one of the exits. That’s disgusting. Maybe most people do...

Full Disclosure

I was reading essays by esteemed humorist David Sedaris and realized that not only did I enjoy the humor Sedaris conveys through well-crafted word pictures, but I also like learning about him and his family. So it's time for another go at my relatives--this time my mom comes under the gun. I think I was toilet-trained too early. There I've said it and now I'll tell you why I suspect that too much attention was directed at my defecation habits. If I had to guess I probably began my relationship with the Friendly Flusher somewhere between the developmental benchmarks of teething and self-feeding. I can't be more specific than that because I suspect the trauma I endured from being summarily plunked on the Friendly Flusher 20 or so times a day probably caused a deep amnesia of the details. All I can say for sure is that the toilet always seemed like a good place to make a quick deposit if you had some reading matter at your disposal, say a comic book or reader's digest...

The Dysfunctional Family

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