The Dysfunctional Family

I don't know if I really have food fetishes, but I do admit to a large number of exclusions in my current diet. When you compare what I used to consume ten years ago with what I consume now, "radical" is the best word to describe the change. As a fully mature adult, I basically ate anything. Oh there were a few exclusions--for example, avocados and sardines. I know those green veggies are supposed to be healthy but nothing on God's earth will convince me that shoving that greasy mess down my throat will make me heart attack resistant. I can't stand the color, the texture and the consistency of avocados so if I find one that had the audacity to  appear in something I ordered, I just throw it out. Well, not literally. I don't believe in tossing food on the floor like a baby in a highchair, but napkins will do for relocating the avocado. Or else there's always my husband, who'll eat anything except mayonnaise. What else did I not eat a few years back?

Dear Abby, I'm not much for consulting newspaper columnists about relationships, but I'm up against a wall. I don't know if I should do anything or not, and if action is the correct response, then what action should I take?. Perhaps you need to know all the details first, and then you can yell at me. My friend's daughter is a psychologist with a doctoral degree. She works in NYC. She's in her early thirties and a stunner. So she is not in any way hard up for dates. Her older sister, who is married, tells me that her younger sister has a habit of on-again-off-again relationships with men. I was not aware of this behavior, and frankly I'm surprised since she seems like such a smart, well-grounded person. Now she has announced that she's engaged, but the man whom she intends to marry really does not want to get married. Her sister said, "He asked her what it would take for them to stay together, and she said marriage. So she kinda backed him into a c

I used to think he would grow out of it. That he was going through a developmental stage--an adolescent time of awkwardness when all four limbs weren't working harmoniously. I thought that explained his sometime clumsy failure to successfully complete a jump onto a garbage can or some other object a distance away. Now he's definitely an adult. A very mischievous, playful feline who doesn't seem to reason things out completely before he commits to them. So he's still messing up occasionally on his jumps-- he's either stupid or gymnastically challenged. I've seen him hanging by his claws, dangling on a surface he didn't quite reach. Yeah, it's funny, but he's not laughing. I've never had a cat so uncoordinated. Most of them when they're young and healthy have no problem with jumping everywhere. I've had cats jump on top of refrigerators, washers/dryers, kitchen counters, and all types of furniture. They usually do it gracefully with a t

If you've been following my humor blog--and 614 of you out there in blogland are--you know that I define the Only Child friend as someone who, despite the fact they may have 17 siblings, still acts as if they're the only child in the family. This person is afflicted with Only Child Syndrome.Not the worst of the personality disorders, but certainly not the best.  Well, today I got a dose of what passes for "friendship" in my world, and of course it was from someone with OCS. My friend, who I'll call Susie, recently left two voice mail messages, so I knew I couldn't avoid communicating with her for long. The clock was ticking, and the longer the time gap, the fewer kind thoughts about me she could muster.  For the past few months, I really haven't contacted Susie. The weather was hot so I didn't go bopping around with errands and lunches. Beside I was nursing my little black schnauzer and my depressive illness (of which Susie tends to make fun, e.g

Rejection is tough. It doesn't matter whether it's related to a lover, job, friend or anything else. The message somehow translates (at least to me) that you're not good enough or, at the very least, that you don't stack up with the competition or you're not a good fit. It's discouraging to be told in not so many words that you lack something important and vital that prohibits you from becoming part of the  "chosen." My greatest experience with rejection has come from freelance writing. You send out queries, which are really ideas for articles, and you wait for an editor to make a decision. The decision can be based on the appropriateness of the idea, your timing (someone beat you to the punch), or your credentials. Or it can be based on the query itself--was it well written, stimulating, containing enough hard info? If I'd kept a file of all my rejections, I bet I could easily paper my office walls with them. However, it would not serve a

The other day my husband out of a clear blue sky told me to blog about how I love my dogs more than him. He wasn't angry or judgmental, just resigned. It sounds terrible, I know, especially when you write it down and use a comparative conjunction to emphasize how big a deal it is. I'm stalling, however. The truth is-my husband is right. His greatest blunder? He's not an animal. As a kid, I would agonize if my ginger neutered male didn't come in the house when I called him. Depending on your age, you may recall that those were the days when most owners let their cats wander in the immediate neighborhood. As a result, they often came back injured by cat fights, wet from rain or snow, or pregnant. Or sometimes they didn't come back at all. I don't know why we made that decision to let them free roam, but since my parents ruled, I had to go along with it as well. Many was the night when I tearfully went to bed hoping against hope that my cat would be there hungr

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.