The Dysfunctional Family

Did you ever notice how exhausted you feel once you board your plane to whatever #vacation spot you've chosen? There's a simple reason: Over the past 10 days you've been hard at work prepping for the Big Trip. If you, like me, are leaving a #spouse at home to babysit or rake the leaves, then you've had to shop for food so he won't starve and you had to call all your friends to make sure they will be available should an earthquake strike and the cell phones lose power. You also have to clean the house so your mate won't add to the stench that is already there, and do the laundry, which has increased threefold now that he knows you won't be there to wash his whities. Besides the spousal preps, you also have to deal with your pets. That means buying food for them, cooking if necessary, #grooming them so they won't look like mangy mutts when you return, and most importantly, reading the riot act to the person who will be minding them in your absence. That

One of the reasons that I distance myself from #relatives is parental role modeling. Yeah, it's not fair to blame the parents for all your mental hassles, but in this case, the shoe fits. History tends to repeat itself, and so do #families. Take my father, for instance. He had a dicey background--he was an only child (never a good start) whose mother died of cancer when he was about 21. Mostly his father was the pivotal factor in his life, and from what I remember (I was only 7 when my grandfather died) and what my mother described, my grandfather was a dictator of sorts. Kind of like a member of the gestapo without the Nazi influence. He washed windows for a living and had a #dog named Sportie, so he won points that way. But I remember he was pretty strict. I practically fell asleep at a seder, but he still continued the pre-dinner readings. All in Hebrew I guess. Probably an orthodox Jew and a smart one at that although he committed the ultimate sin (according to my father

I'm filthy #dirty, but not in the classical sense. I shower regularly, but I've been known to throw out an FU when the spirit moves me. On the other hand, I don't mention my toilet or sexual habits or joke about intimate body parts like a #penis or #vagina. 

I can only speak for my own brand of #OCD. I'm not #HowieMandel who has come clean (metamorphically and literally) regarding his #ObsessiveCompulsiveDisorder, and right now I can't think of any other celebs who have been tortured by this anxiety disorder. You may think it's all about checking doors and stoves or counting the number of times you must touch a wall. Or you may think it's a clean-freak disorder in which you must wash your hands a certain number of times or take a shower five times a day until you feel the ugly nervous gnawing in your throat disappear. Well, my type of #OCD was like none of the above. It's probably not unique in psychiatric circles, but I have never met anyone who behaved in a manner similar to mine. Of course, few people would telegraph this #disorder since it's nothing you'll ever win awards for.  First off, as far as I can figure, my OCD came as the direct result of way too much #anxiety. Some of the #anxiety was geneti

I'm disgustingly #average. I can get off on someone else's medical misery, say a hip replacement or orthopedic surgery, but I'm god-awful afraid when it comes to my own health woes.  Which is why I don't go to the doctor too often or submit to colonoscopies, MRIs, mammograms, urinalysis, gynecological exams, bloodwork, or any other 21st century indicator of diagnostic #problems.  I figure the less information collected, the less everyone has to worry about. And it works for me, except in the area of dermatology.When I was younger, I #cried and carried on--and also went regularly to the #dermatologist--due to acne. And it wasn't the easy, primetime, #Hollywood type where you look in the mirror and see a zitz and say, "oh my!" and squash it with a tweezer or something equally unhygienic. Oh no, I had to get the full-blown variety. I never actually counted the number of pimples or blackheads, but they had to fight for room on my face. It was what you'd ca

I have six #schnauzers, but even when I had fewer pooches, I sometimes had to ask myself, Who did it? I'm talking poop here, and, yes, I'm also talking blame (see my previous self-blame blog) My #dogs are housebroken, but sometimes for whatever reason--#dietary upset, illness, gas, or just for kicks--one of them will have what we like to graciously call an "accident." It's usually in the dining room or living room, but in reality, it can happen almost anywhere.

  It's ironic that this is a shorter version of the original "Blame Game." I say "ironic" because just about an hour ago I inadvertently deleted the original version in a simple cut and paste. This is a first even for me. I'm no computer pro, but I usually don't make those kinds of #mistakes. I'm still kicking myself for this one. Which brings me to the whole point of this article. Playing the self-blame game is easy to do and extremely dangerous. It happens often  to most people, but the lucky ones are able to get off the blame with a metaphorical slap on the wrist, but people like me take blame to a whole different definition. We luxuriate in it, bathing ourselves in negative self-talk. It never even occurs to me to blame someone else or just attribute a mistake to bad luck or fate. No, when I cannot justify blaming another person, place or thing, I default to myself. This is a lousy #habit I got into at an earlier age due to my