The Dysfunctional Family

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

I'm just like anyone else. I like a good zombie story when I hear it, but lately every Tom, Dick, and Harry is reeling off tales of naked dead bodies consorting with all kinds of filthy monsters. I prefer the classic zombie story as presented in "The Night of the Living Dead," when a family of normal humans with x-ray vision and a macaw trained to bite off the arms and legs of anything moving face off with a contingent of soft-spoken, drooling zombies who recently clawed their way out of their respective graves and marched down a four-lane super highway looking for a Walmart. Along the way, however, they chanced upon this humble family--Mom, Dad, and the bionic babes, Ghoulish and Goulash--and challenged them to a power contest.Things got complicated and the two sides negotiated a power package that peaked with a raft challenge down the snake-infested Amazon. But Zombies don't deal well with water events as their exteriors tend to slough off skin layers when in the p

Here's something for you folks with little time to waste: I used to teach third grade. I think I hated it from the first moment my hands wrapped themselves around a piece of chalk. I had a seating chart that I completed the first day of school and had to use it a whole year long because after every weekend or spring break, I could not for the life of me remember the names of my pupils. Well, here comes the funny part. One morning I was taking turns teaching reading groups, but all of a sudden, the kid next to me pointed at Neil S. The chubby always-smiling eight-year-old no longer had a broad grin stretched from ear to ear. And finally I figured out why. Below his desk was a puddle of what looked like water. Ok?  Given that I was a new teacher with limited experience, I wrapped my head around this problem and came up with a creative solution. Neil must be sitting under a leak in the ceiling. Of course he was. Four years of college and a 4.0 grade point convinced me of this. Mea

Over the years I've heard of or sampled a lot of different therapies, e.g. EST, cognitive, psychoanalysis,  group. And since I've always had a bunch of dogs slobbering over me, I'm what you might call a master at pet therapy. The dogs were always there eyeing me suspiciously when I did my tearful act or climbed into bed and said  "to hell with the world." They understood what I was going through, at least I thought so. And just knowing that they were picking up on my sad depressive vibes gave me a little more courage to abbreviate the "down" time and move on to if not happy periods, at least to that status quo where you're not contemplating jumping off the nearest bridge or drowning yourself in the bathtub.  They kept me somewhat stable. I thought I knew everything about pet therapy until I got two cats. I only wanted one ginger cat, the boy-cat with the wily body who looked to me like a fun-loving feline. But I got waylaid by the Queen of the Cat

Ha-ha! I bet you thought, by the above title of this post, that I was apologizing for not being as funny as, say, David Sedaris or Woody Allen. But I'm not apologizing. No siree, not anymore. I was just re- stating the obvious: that I'm been absent from this blog for too long. I had a good reason. I was tying up loose ends on my new book, Infertility Treatments, which will be published in June by ABC-CLIO/Greenwood. No, it's not funny, especially the chapter on costs but it's particularly nasty for people struggling to birth babies ("I don't know anything about birthin babies, Miss Scarlett"). But let's get back to that business of apologizing. Could be that I'm really inept as a humor writer, but I don't think so. So why apologize then? After all I have some humor credits even though I never made it on McSweeneys (but then who does?) But there's always the slim possibility--and I really mean paper thin--that you, the reader, think I

Full disclosure: I hate going to doctors, but at least for half of my life, I did the "right" thing. What is the right thing? I got all the tests, got biopsies when necessary, and submitted to scales, blood pressure cuffs and gynecological exams. Then when my mental health went south, I didn't have the energy to pursue a never-ending stream of mammograms, colonoscopies and the like. I was like flat out unenthusiastic about filling my days with terrifying tests that would only upset my balance even more. What I needed were happy books, films, and lots of anti-depressant medications. Not mornings when all I might have to look forward to were stirrups, speculums, and a professional's finger up my ass. Okay, so I gave up worrying and thinking about my health insofar as tests and doctor visits were concerned. I still took care of my health in a minimal way--I brushed my teeth, saw the dentist regularly, and showered when I had to wash or dye my hair. And I still went to

Have you noticed that everything is intertwined, at least in the arts category? I'll be sitting down to watch a movie on Netflix and for the first five minutes there will be nothing but music and lyrics. No dialogue at all. Does the director do this to save time and energy inventing dialogue? Because if that's the case, he's expecting too much from his audience. I'll be munching on kettle corn when I spot the closed captioned words of lyrics set to music. Sometimes it's a recognizable tune, but more often, it's some country western  ballad that I never heard of. (I'm convinced that a lot of country west tunes are made up on the spot by cowboy-type performers because after they run out of their repertoire, they're stuck for material. So they plunk a few chords on their guitar and say, hey, that sounds pretty discordant. I'll mumble words and wowee, I've got a new song. Maybe I'll even record it.) In fact the whole movie may be based on a count