The Dysfunctional Family

One day I hit the review button on my brain and out came an episode from high school that by all means should bolster my confidence (at least in hindsight), but still hasn't. It's called Driver's #Education, and at my suburban high school you fought for the privilege of being squashed into an ugly #Chevy Something with two other students and a teacher. So here I am in the last semester of my senior year worrying about getting into the college I thought I wanted to enroll in AND competing with the driving skills of Nancy and Bob. I'd known Nancy since Girl Scouts, and not only was she a goody-two-shoes, but she was a pleasant, WASPY one at that. That made her all the more irritating. Now Bob you could out and out dislike. He was a wise ass, smart, and knew the guy I'd had a crush on since 7th grade (P.S. I still do, but in my day dreams, he never ages and stays 17 forever). I'm sure Bob knows too much about me even before I start the car.

Yeah, I was riding high for a little while, but now the glooms have returned. For me, this means I wake up with the fervent desire to go straight back to #bed. It takes all the will power and the realization that six #dogs and two #cats are depending on me for food, water, and cleanup duty to get up and get dressed.I feel like a mummy who just got rejected from an Ivy League college. Maybe a slow-moving turtle with a hard shell that works like a large screen TV, alternating between scenes of #anxiety and #depression. These scenes jet by my grey matter and remind me that nothing has gone the way I wanted it to go. I never became the master teacher or librarian, and the writing job--freelance, which means, dive at your own risk--is yet undecided. I can give you at least five editors who were not happy with the jobs I turned in and five more who thought I did a credible job. That kinda cancels out to a big fat zero. Zero is my number of Doubt. I doubt that I'm pretty enough, I do

Toothaches are a cliche in that they happen frequently and to many people. But they still can inflict pain, right? If you feel a throbbing pain in your tooth, your body is telling you that something is wrong, says Dr. Stone in Fort Lauderdale, Fla, and it needs to be fixed. After a weekend of just-shoot-me-so-the-pain-will-end, I hauled myself to my #dentist. "What did you do now?" was his first remark. You'd think I had broken off a $1500 crown on some gummy bears (which I do love). But that wasn't the case. I did virtually nothing and yet The #Pain came. Obviously #pain has a life of its own, at least for me. It was probably getting bored taking up space in my ass hole next to my on-again-off-again hemorrhoid and decided it needed more of a challenge. So it got up its courage and made a drastic move into my head, which some people have actually likened to an ass hole (I do not officially recognize these peoples' comments as valid or applicable to my corpus, bu

This time it was a toothache, but other times, it's been a sick pet, sick spouse, rainy days on the Jersey seashore, studying for exams (that never did me any good), or taking a vacation with someone you thought was sane but turned out to be as wacky as a three-dollar bill. Like most ugly wastes of time, this tooth thing snuck up on me with a little subtle gnawing that gathered steam and morphed into a grinding, throbbing burst of pain that continued over two days. You know, Saturday and Sunday, when you're supposed to be enjoying other stuff, like Netflix, watching your cat play with a fake banana, or dreaming of sex. All the ibuprofen and cold packs in the world couldn't break the chain of pain. And I'm a whiner. When I hurt, everyone knows it. I was terrible with menstrual cramps. Every month like clockwork, the cramps conspired to gang up on me (Hey, what do you want to do with her this time? Make her cry? Immobilize her in bed with a hot water bottle?). Didn'

This may be unique in that few chickens get an obit written about them, but I bet you a free order of spicy hot chicken wings that you have honored a person or an animal and given them a second chance at life. I know I have. If you've adopted a pet from a shelter, you qualify, or if you discovered a pet wandering around your neighborhood and returned him to his owner, you also qualify. If you've ever forgiven someone, you have given them a second chance. Here are more ways to qualify: 1. Tried a new restaurant, but hated the fries? Go back and give them a second chance. 2. Feel like screaming at your next-door neighbor whose wild and crazy parties are getting to you? Bring over a six-pack and talk it out. 3. Got a narcissist for a friend? Beat her at her own game and talk about yourself. That'll give your relationship a second chance. 4. Didn't get a thank you note or call for a gift in the three figures? Call up and ask her how the (gift) is working out? Now give he

Have you ever done something that's counter intuitive like straighten up the house before the cleaning service comes so you won't be ashamed. I've done that, and I guess the trigger is shame because I know I don't have an obsession with cleanliness. I've also bought a few new clothes like tops and shorts for the long hot Arizona summer and put off wearing them until the season is almost over. Why do I do this? I haven't the foggiest notion. Another of my counter intuitive behaviors is not returning phone calls from friends. How do I expect to keep them as friends if I don't find out if they're alive, suffering from any serious disease, or achieving wonderful goals. Why do I do these things? Why do you do similar things? Please play Dr. Freud and tell me why you do what you do. Below is my linen "closet." I'm really not a slob, but this area of the house looks like a typhoon swept in and decided to stay a while and continue its work. Am I

Yup. Those are shoes that my parents got bronzed when I was just a walking, talking chip off the old dysfunctional block. After I inherited them from my sister--the one affected by Only Child Syndrome--I placed them on my dining room hutch near the pewter candlesticks. Now they collect dust together. Naturally my sister kept her pair of booties and I assume they're catching dust somewhere in her house. I imagine she'll pass them down to one of her lucky kids, who will in turn put them on a shelf to collect dust. The pair are impossible to throw away--there must be some curse that befalls ungrateful children unwilling to properly revere family heirlooms--but no one quite knows what to do with them. Stick them in the bathroom? Maybe. They might pass for Odd Objets d"Art to note while on the Royal Throne. That would be one thought. Or how about pawning them off on my husband. He could decorate his office with them. They would join the approximately 2,000 other tchochkes (Go