A Short Autobiography Reminds You Life is short and not to be squandered. So don't

I was born. I was thoroughly educated. I taught third grade. I hated the work. I quit. I returned to school. I worked as a librarian. I had an NBD. I returned to the Real World. I worked in a law office. I moved. I worked as a librarian. I quit. I returned to school. I worked for a very long time as a freelancer. I quit nonfiction article writing.

I now write humor. I'm alive and kicking. My work is therapeutic, finally. I'm earning less than I ever did. My prestige is nonexistent. I'm planning another NBD before I die. I've transformed myself into another person (see red hair, fake teeth, unshaved arm pits, etc). When I read memoirs, I wonder if I could pitch one to an agent. I fantasize, I agonize, I theorize. I wonder when it will all end.

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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...

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...

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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