Giving Thanks Our Way (Revised)

Stella Benson wrote, "Family jokes, though rightly cursed by strangers, are the bond that keeps most families alive."

If only other families could swap insults with impunity the way mine does, there would be no petty or protracted estrangements and Jerry Springer would be out of a job. While we looked forward to Thanksgiving that year, we all were a little apprehensive as well. It was the first one without my dad. Before we all got to my mother’s house, my sister e-mailed me and my brother to say, "I'm looking forward to y'all getting on my nerves this weekend."

The year was 2006. Picture seven adults, six kids and a few dogs cooped-up in a three-bedroom, two-bath farmhouse the size of a double-wide. (Well, it may technically be a double-wide, but it's so well-disguised that my dad always joked a tornado could never find it.) It's probably the only 20-year-old pre-fab dwelling with hardwood floors and ceramic tile. The Winnebago-style Fiberglas showers have yet to be upgraded to imported Venetian marble, however. I say “cooped-up” because I am a spoiled upper-middle-class American brat. A lot of families in this world probably happily sleep that many in one room. In fact, my Russian sister-in-law told me she felt right at home with so many people in what seemed like such a small space.

When we got there late on Wednesday night, everyone else was way ahead of us in the celebrating department. They started the party without us. That's the way we roll. You'll be there when you get there, fend for yourself on the food and drink and snooze you lose. Music was blaring, margaritas were flowing, and my sister-in-law was dancing as my nieces and nephews ran amok. My brother was vegging on the couch while my sister and mother were in the kitchen probably making sure all the tequila was either gone or well-hidden before I arrived. My mother already looked pale and what my sister refers to as "beat down" while my sister raged in full party mode. My sister-in-law wanted me and my sister to take her to a nearby dive bar frequented no doubt by truckers with more wheels than teeth, bikers (not the Lance Armstrong kind) and leathery tattooed barflies. Sure, it would have been a good time, but we would have been torn apart and eaten alive while the jukebox played the theme song from The Dukes of Hazzard or maybe some ZZ-Top or 'Skynyrd. My sister-in-law had hoped to pretend to be a deaf mute when we got there. Just for fun. It would have provided some great material, but we opted to stay in that night.

My mother and my kids have late November birthdays, so we always celebrate them the day after Thanksgiving. We all also brought gifts for each other's kids. Not so much to keep them from feeling left out as to cover birthdays we forgot or to go ahead and get Christmas out of the way. That's just how we do it. We're slackers. We did hold off on the real birthday presents for the designated days, but the others were distributed at random when whichever kid or kids seemed to need a new distraction. Thank God one of the girls got the High School Musical soundtrack so we could be subjected to it at max volume while they danced and sang with such pure joy that the pleasure we got from watching them almost cancelled out our collective desire to beat the stereo to death with a sledgehammer. My son and the boys went about their business oblivious to the chaos they were both surrounded by and supplementing. The little ones played contently with lead-painted Chinese toys or tackled the older one as necessary.

My sister outdid me again on our mom's birthday gift. She probably found it on a clearance "As Is" shelf at a dollar store. She got her a fancy, tricked out, under the cabinet stereo, radio/CD player, with speakers and a clock and a remote. It was meant for the tiny kitchen in Mom’s glorified double-wide. The remote handily attaches to the nearby fridge with a magnet. Mom reacted with mock awe, "Oooh, a remote. Just in case I'm at the fridge and can't move that extra three inches to reach the stereo itself." And the thing probably also had a built-in can opener, corkscrew and egg separator, too. Whatever. Then my mother said to me, "Didn't you give me some foot cream last time? And what does this mean—'extreme repair'? What are you trying to say?" I also gave her a $50 Target gift card. My sister was then kind enough to point out, "Oh, like there's a Target in this town." As if our mom never goes anywhere.

My sister and I spent most of the weekend making puerile and vulgar references and gestures (one involving the raw turkey neck and some "giblets"). And we couldn't resist adding "so to speak" or "that's what she/he said" to any conceivably vulnerable word or phrase that popped up (so to speak). Our mother and brother tried to look down their noses at us, but they couldn't help piping up with their own tasteless jokes at every opportunity.

We had dinner later than usual, mainly because we are not planners and because we wanted to overcook everything and get the turkey nice and dry. Because we had decided to cut back on the gluttony a little, we only had four starches instead of the usual 16. And we decided to break tradition and have just plain green beans (mistake). We have this phrase we use, usually at Christmas, but often at other special occasions. As we surveyed the spread, Mom shook her head wistfully and said, "Just another disappointing Thanksgiving." And it really was when we tried to eat the chocolate pie. As Mom made the pie, my brother told her to cut back on the sugar, so it would be more like dark chocolate (which is theoretically fine). He is normally a good cook. Well, she decided to sneak in some Splenda which only made it worse. I can't blame her for trying. But thanks to my brother and my mom, the pie sucked. It tasted like, well, crap. Even my son wouldn't eat it. That's how bad it was. My husband reminded me that when he and our son made an escape earlier that day for a visit to his aunt's house, they enjoyed pecan and coconut crème pies not cooked at my brother's direction or doctored by my mom.

When my husband and son made that escape, it was a wet and windy 34 degrees. My son needed a warmer coat, so my brother-in-law (a baseball coach at a rival college) offered up a hoodie sporting his team’s logo. My son said, "I'm not that cold."

One night, my sister, my brother, and my sister-in-law sat at the dinner table drinking wine and trying to top each other with "my kid is more messed up than yours" stories. Then my brother decided to rank the kids mainly in order of cuteness. We were trying to determine the criteria and see if age was a factor (no it was not) and if intelligence played a role (to even the playing field, no). So we were pretending seriously to decide which of the six kids was the cutest or best-looking when Mom approached to see what we were discussing. She acted mortified and appalled, but I know she was mentally trying to put them in order herself. We all wanted our own kids to win, but I truly think my nephew Ben would have been the winner, had we really had to do a pageant. My other nephew Peter would have been first runner-up only because he was a year younger and still had a shot at winning the following year.

My brother is a philosophy professor. I told my sister that I get nervous every time I talk to him about anything more important than wine. (Is there anything more important than wine?) She reminded me that I was smart too and that she's always been the outcast middle child who got her degree in Home Ec. She said, "Our brother is only like on a balcony above you as far as intelligence. He's a Mount Everest above me." So that made me feel pretty good.

We left Saturday morning so we were going to miss the small-town parade that was planned for that night where my mother was to judge some no doubt fabulous crepe paper floats and the highly-anticipated doggie fashion show. I was disappointed to miss that, only because of the great fodder I could have collected.

If my dad had been there, that Thanksgiving weekend would not have been such a loud, wheels-off free-for-all. We would have had dinner on a schedule so we would be done in time for his football game. The kids would have been a little better behaved and my sister, brother, and I would have had even more wine and probably more civilized conversation. Things were not the same. Even sameness is temporary. I could see him rolling his eyes at our absolute lack of control and I think he was probably glad he wasn't in the middle of it. We filled the empty space with such deep gratitude for six healthy kids who rarely see each other and when they do, pick up where they left off just like old friends do. They were scattered like the clutter under our feet, then clicked together like perfect little puzzle pieces. Through all the rude and crude, under all the noises and voices, inside all the motion and emotion, over all the laughter and quiet after, we could hear Dad's voice (my brother imitates it so well). We could feel his peaceful pleased presence and we knew he was glad to be (somehow literally) above the fray, smiling on our irreverent reverence. Approving and glad that, even so soon without him, the laughter will continue to be the bond that keeps our family alive.

A Tale of Two Siblings (new and improved)

My parents were always amazed at how different their three children were. We still question my sister’s paternity, but then she is quick to remind us that she has the upper thighs of our maternal grandmother’s side of the family. Bless her heart.

As we were growing up, my sister and I could not have been more different. I was the wild child, and as the oldest, I got away with everything since our parents had no idea what I was getting into. My sister was the popular one. As she progressed through high school, she went from homecoming duchess to princess to queen. She is three years younger. I’m sure my teachers would dread getting my little sister in their classes, but then would be pleasantly relieved. I was like the Ally Sheedy character (without the dandruff) in The Breakfast Club while my sister was Molly Ringwald. We fought mercilessly for years. Mostly about the phone. We had those mod, donut-shaped, coil-corded phones, just heavy enough to throw and leave a good size hole in the sheetrock, with receivers perfect for a good headlock/forehead pounding or punch in the eye. All kinds of hair-pulling, biting, spitting, door-slamming, and clothes-stealing. All taking place as I cowered in a corner. She was mean. All I ever did to her was try to steal her boyfriends. When we sold the house we grew up in, a splintered hole remained in the door of our shared bathroom. I think I was the one who kicked it in. She was probably taking too long in the shower, and I needed to get in there to check on my hydroponic pot plants. We often laughed at that hole later, along with all the boys’ names we had carved into the door’s latex-painted trim. Goood times.

We didn’t really become friends until we both had husbands and kids. Finally we had similar things to commiserate about. We also discovered the joy of junk shopping. My flea market addiction is fairly well under control, but she is wheels-off insane. I pity the grandchildren who will be stuck cleaning out her garage. Her mission is to encourage novice home decorators to pause to reflect on the aesthetics of their dwellings, to avoid objects of mass production, and perhaps to incorporate some American Feng Shui by replacing all fake plants with real ones. Even though we don’t look alike, there is no question that we are sisters when we laugh. We have exactly the same rhythm to the breaths and the ha-ha-ha’s. When we laugh together, we have to laugh again at how our laughter is perfectly synchronized. Or maybe one echoes the other, depending on who was a little bit behind on their latest margarita swallow.

My brother and I seem to be a little more alike, seeing as how he’s a philosopher and I fancy myself a connoisseur of logic, law, literature, and apparently alliteration. He studies consciousness; I work on my conscience. He’s an intellectual academic; I’m an ineffectual apathetic. He’s a member of Mensa; I can spell Mensa.

While I share similarities with each of my siblings, my sister and brother seem to be from two different planets. It’s not that he is the smart one and she is the idiot. It’s that he is the smart one and she is the idiot savant.

For example:

My brother was hosting a “Self-Awareness Workshop” in a small town. Several brilliant and scholarly minds from around the world would converge on this tiny podunk village to discuss the theory of consciousness. Picture Einstein meets Green Acres, Stephen Hawking vs. The Beverly Hillbillies, or Marilyn vos Savant in any Will Ferrell movie. That town would have more brain cells and IQ points in it than the number of Jolie-Pitt children multiplied exponentially by the national debt. Here is a brief synopsis of what my brother’s workshop was to cover (these are quotes lifted directly from his brochure):

Self-Awareness Workshop

[P]henomenology of self-awareness, its computational and neurobiological modeling, the philosophical problems surrounding it, and its role in the formulation of a general theory of consciousness with particular emphasis on formulating ways of empirically testing the thesis that all consciousness involves some form of self-awareness.

[T]he computational, functional, and mathematical modeling of self-representing systems; various forms of incompleteness and computational irreducibility and their relation to the phenomenology of cognition, to self-knowledge, and to the opacity of sensory qualities; and virtualization (the computational process whereby the complexity of the “hardware” is systematically hidden from the “user” through the construction of virtual interfaces) as a possible paradigm for understanding the relationship between consciousness, the subject, sensory qualities, and the brain.

After agreeing on the theme, participants will be invited by the chair to propose views about the theme in the form of succinct statements. The statements will be listed and briefly reviewed for their salient logical and probabilistic connections. . . .


My sister and I shared the same reaction: “Ummm . . . What?”

My Sister’s Written Response

(a direct quote, with only some participants’ names redacted to protect their reputations):

Cannot help but notice that I was NOT listed as a participant. I thought I could bring some of my decorating books and present a lecture, complete with a PowerPoint, on how self-awareness is expressed through decorating your environment. Some of the self-representing systems I would touch on, but not limit myself to are as follows:

* Creative use of fabrics and textiles

* Exploring the limits of self-expression with a jar of Mod Podge

* Using an array of differing textures to promote sensory awareness through touch and sight

* Function and aesthetics: the ability to forgo function when aesthetics are being compromised

* The computational process of hiding the - what I like to call “necessary evils” of a dwelling – i.e., light switches, doorbell speakers, thermostat boxes, trash cans and construction and design flaws. The “hardware,” if you will, is hidden from the “user” by creative placement of home decorative items. Leaving us with the question, is one capable of learning this application of virtual interfacing in the realm of interior design, or is it inherently born in the consciousness?

* Various forms of in-completion in the mind and rooms of those who are handicapped in creativity and decorating in all of its manifestations

* How to gain a self-representing system through a collection of material objects that stimulate cognitive and sensory qualities upon entering a dwelling

* Being conscious of the role of accessories in a dwelling and their role in inspiring self-awareness - with that said, also being aware of the role that poor choices in home interior design and decorating play in sucking the very life OUT of the dwellers and their visitors

* The philosophic problems created by surrounding oneself with mass-produced, resin material, and big box home store accessories lacking in quality, character, and design

* I would like to close the PowerPoint with a field trip to a local flea market. This would (in theory) allow the participants to apply their newfound knowledge by selecting discarded items and giving them new life in their respective dwellings. Hence, allowing the participants to experience self-awareness through creativity and application of decoration.

I was thinking you could slip me in (so to speak) somewhere between the lectures. Or maybe my material would be a better fit (so to speak, again) with your material. My lecture could serve as a trailer - “Persons, Shelves, and the Decorative Brain.”


While my brother may be known as the smart one, my sister exhibits her own brand of genius. What she lacks mentally, she makes up for with mockery. And while she may not be able to cogitate or pontificate, she can certainly decorate and renovate. My brother’s workshop was a success even though my sister was not allowed to offer up a presentation. I guess it was all for the best. I have heard that the higher one’s IQ, the more likely one is unable to open a can of spray paint.

Smells Like Brownies

(or How to Spend $600 After Almost Killing Your Dog)

First, a little bit of background. Our dog Buzz is a 50-pound Australian Shepherd mix. We think he’s about our daughter’s age, so that would have made him seven or eight years old when I almost killed him. He was named after Buzz Lightyear, but we didn’t do that. He came with that name when we adopted him six years before from a local no-kill shelter. We decided to go for a mutt this time, seeing as how Buzz’s two predecessors (one disobedient inbred AKC-papered Lab after another) brought us nothing but grief.

Our first dog, Boo Radley, was a 100-plus pound black Labrador Retriever, who found it necessary to bust through our fence and get hit by a truck on the highway before he reached the age of two. His remains are supposedly resting comfortably in a pet cemetery in Lubbock, Texas.

Our second dog was a yellow Lab named Rex. Soon after we brought him home, at the age of about eight weeks (even though his parents were what they call “hip-certified”), one of his hips popped out of joint. The vet said it was the worst case of hip dysplasia he had ever seen. After losing Boo, we were not about to give up on another dog. (Mind you, this was before we had kids, so we had no perspective about how the value of an animal’s life declines dramatically once you have a human child’s life to value.) So of course we took Rex to a special orthopedic veterinarian who charged us about $3,500 to fashion and install some new and improved titanium bionic hips. Not long after Rex healed up, he used those damn hips to run away from us at every opportunity. As soon as we would let him out of the house, he did nothing but try to dig under the six-foot fence, climb over it, gnaw his way through the wood, or tear away enough boards to squeeze through. The puppy Prozac we dosed him with did nothing to make him realize that he owed his powers of locomotion to us, not to mention his life. The electric fence wire we installed acted as more of a challenge than a deterrent. Then he would simply howl as he gnawed at the fence with a mouth full of splinters, leaving his signature bloodstains behind. Anyway, after the kids came along, Rex took a back seat and was none too pleased with the lack of attention. When our daughter was a baby, right before we moved out of state, I had occasion to meet quite a few of our neighbors when they would return Rex to our door thinking they were doing us a favor. Most of them would say, “You missing a dog?” “Not really,” I would always reply, “but thanks anyway.” After we moved, I tried to give Rex away, but I forgot to include a no return policy. It wasn’t long before the first victims brought him back. The next time I gave him away, I removed his tags, left no forwarding address, and promptly took off. If Rex were still alive, which he surely isn’t, he would be about 20 years old. I only know this because he was born the night that O.J. Simpson (allegedly) got away with murder. June 12, 1994. I’m sure Rex’s remains amount to nothing more than a couple of titanium hips that some Boy Scouts will find one day while hiking through the woods of East Texas.

This brings us to dog number three. Our daughter was two years old when we went to pick out a dog. She was terrified of every one we put in front of her. We were about to give up when they told us, “Well . . . there is one more dog you might consider.” They told us Buzz had been there for about two years and no one wanted him because he was so standoffish. (And I think also because he has one brown eye and one blue eye, so people thought he was either defective, vicious, or just hard to make eye contact -- and therefore communicate -- with.) As soon as we put our daughter on the ground, she ran up to him, put her arms around his neck, and said, “This is my dog.” My husband and I looked at each other uneasily, verified that there was a return policy, and decided to give him a try. When we brought the dog home, he was terrified. He acted as if he had never set foot on carpet before. He rejected treats as if he felt unworthy of them. It was obvious that he had been abused. (He would tremble at the sound of thunder, gunshots, and fireworks, and at the sight of -- of all things -- fishing poles.) So it took a while for him to warm up to people. But once he did, he was the perfect pet. He would rarely bark, never sniff crotches or chew on things. And he was too smart and grateful to run away. He would usually curl up in a corner and sleep most of the day. The only problems we had (aside from the time he brought me a bloody headless rabbit carcass), were his odd habit of throwing up in our daughter’s bed, and the few times he found it necessary to leave a big dump in our son’s floor. We solved that problem simply by shutting the kids’ doors every time we left the house.

So, long story longer, here’s the story of how I almost killed Buzz at a most inconvenient time:

Most military wives know the obscure Murphy’s Law that encourages all household hell to break loose every time the husband goes away. In accordance with Uniform Code of Military Injustice § 13.666, events such as this are required to take place during every deployment of any duration. This code section mandates the following:

(a) Each child must suffer moderate to severe stomach bug or flulike symptoms over the course of at least two consecutive weeks. (This is standard operating procedure.)

(b) Some sort of kitchen mishap is required to occur. (In my case it was a dripping faucet and replacement thereof.)

(c) At least one large appliance must malfunction. (This time, it was a water-heater-over-flow incident and its attendant $100-extra water bill.)

(d) One more dramatic and costly event caused by any seemingly innocuous act that in hindsight appears to be quite negligent must occur.

My military-wife friends can rest assured that I began working tirelessly to repeal this archaic law as soon as I returned from an extended spa vacation that I took not long after my husband’s jet landed somewhere in the contiguous United States.

I was just hoping that his deployment to Iraq in 2008 wouldn’t bring on the scorpions, rodents, injured children, electrical or cable outages, car problems, or major appliance malfunctions. Of course, worrying about them all but ensures that they will happen, even if you knock on wood. Or worse yet, something you never could have imagined happening threatens to make you question, for example, where one could find an exact replica of your pet so as not to arouse suspicion in your spouse when he or she returns from an extended time away.

Again, long story short (by the way, I hate that phrase because it really just makes the story three words longer—so does the phrase “by the way” by the way) when no one was looking, Buzz ate four huge bars of dark chocolate. I had always heard that chocolate was like poison to dogs. He did not seem the least bit ill, and if my daughter hadn’t found the wrappers, we may not have realized that this had happened that night until he tossed it up in my daughter’s bed or left a pile of chocolaty diarrhea in my son’s floor.

I immediately called the emergency vet. They gave me an 800 number for a pet poison control advice line and told me I needed to follow their instructions first before bringing him in. After sitting on hold a little bit longer than forever, a veterinarian answered the phone, and, after asking what the problem was, told me that there was a $60 charge for their service. So of course I gave her my credit card number so I could get information that I probably could have Googled myself if I hadn’t been in such a panic. She told me that the amount of chocolate he ate for his weight was probably less than half the dose that definitely would be lethal. But I certainly wasn’t going to take any chances. She told me to give him three tablespoons of hydrogen peroxide to induce vomiting. She said that he should vomit in about 10 to 15 minutes. Well, I got tired of waiting for him to throw up. I even gave him more peroxide, and stuck my finger down his throat. After all the vomiting this dog has done, I never dreamed that I would want to see him toss his cookies as much as I wanted to see him toss his cookies that night. I even went so far as to consider guiding him to my daughter’s bed where he would feel most comfortable about puking -- but I didn’t. I decided to go ahead and start heading for the emergency vet hospital. I lined the back seat with towels and hit the road.

The clerk and the technicians seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole thing, as if dogs overdose on chocolate all the time and they always see overreacting owners. Well, as I checked him in, they informed me that there was a $300 charge just for walking in the door. What was I going to do? Say “Oh, well then, nevermind,” and leave? They took him to the back to check his vitals and do whatever they needed to do. My head was spinning, and I thought I would be the one to throw up first.

After I had waited for about an hour, they said he still hadn’t thrown up. I started raising hell when I realized that they hadn’t given him anything else to induce vomiting, and had just been observing him all that time. Holy shit, I thought. I could do this at home for free. I insisted that they make him throw up immediately. I wanted my money’s worth after the $300 cover charge. The vet told me that chocolate camps out in their stomachs for a long time blah blah blah and does not travel into their intestines blah blah blah and into their systems for several hours. I said, “I don’t care; I paid $300 to walk through the frickin’ door. The least you can do is make my dog puke!” After another half hour or so, I sent the receptionist back to check on him. Apparently, as soon as they gave him some injection, he barfed all over his kennel. They said it looked like gallons of chocolate syrup. The receptionist came back smiling and laughing. I thought, well that’s a good sign. She said that someone came in the back door and said, “Smells like brownies. Who brought the brownies? Where are they?” The vet and another tech confirmed this story later and said that it indeed smelled like someone had just baked a fresh batch.

They then told me they needed to give Buzz some IV fluids, some activated charcoal, and monitor his heart rate. Overnight. The vet said that his heart rate was a little elevated when we first came in. I told her that his heart rate always goes up when we bring him to a vet or kennel or even to the groomer. I explained that he’s a bit skittish and shaky even in non-emergent situations. After he vomited, she said his heart rate increased further. I said “Well, maybe that’s because he just upchucked.” She said that in terms of absorption time blah blah blah, we brought him in very early, and considering how much he threw up blah blah blah, and that he hadn’t had any diarrhea, the majority of it had not hit his intestines and spread to his system. I said, “Then it should be safe to take him home, right?” She said that there was no way we would be able to replace his fluids with just water at home, and that she would be uneasy about letting him go without monitoring his heart rate and blah blah blah for a few more hours. I was thinking, I wouldn’t even go through this crap for my kid, much less a dog. Of course the vet said that if it were her dog, she would leave him there. (I thought, well yeah, you work here, hello?) So she brought him in to the little examining room to see us, where he seemed perfectly fine, wagging his little nub of a tail, a little bit shaky, because of course he was in an emergency veterinary hospital.

The next morning, they said the only problem was that he would not urinate for them even though they knew he was full of fluid. I told them that he could hold it for days and that he doesn’t like to pee when he’s nervous or on a leash or when anyone is watching. They finally agreed to let him go with a full bladder. The final bill for the pet E/R came to about $400. They had faxed his records to our personal vet, and told me that he needed to finish his IV bag there. Holy shit, another bill for this.

So I dutifully took Buzz directly to our vet’s office. He ended up spending most of the day there “under observation.” The doctor did some sort of test and decided to flush him with one more IV bag. He said it took that dog forever to finally pee, but when he did he peed forever. They were able to get him to eat and then make sure that he didn’t have any diarrhea. So I guess that extra day of vet care was worth the $130 I was popped with. Doesn’t everyone want to pay $130 to know that their dog doesn’t have diarrhea? Really, a bargain at twice the price.

Those damn candy bars cost me about $600. If my husband hadn’t been deployed at the time, this probably never would have happened. So really, I should blame him for being off in Iraq. Come to think of it, it was really George Bush’s fault. But the president gave us a tax rebate that year, so I guess he actually did pay for it.

The next time our dog ate chocolate (in the form of three boxes of Girl Scout cookies) I just looked the other way and crossed my fingers. I figured the money we saved could pay for a pretty fancy funeral.

War Bride vs. The Yard

Before my husband left for a deployment to the Middle East, he fully briefed me about all the things he does outside while I am in the house watching A&E or Bravo marathons and pretending to do laundry. The only indoor item I needed to worry about was the humidor. Apparently, it needed watering not unlike my thirsty houseplants. One spring day, he spent what seemed like four hours or so giving me detailed instructions on the use and/or maintenance of: the riding lawnmower, the gas-powered Weed-Eater, the leaf blower, the septic tank, the water softener, the sprinkler system (which I incidentally had theretofore been unaware that we had), the propane tank, the soaker hoses, the Miracle Gro plant feeder, the weed killer, various insect killers, and, of course, the humidor. He checked me out on all of these as I took notes in hopes of remembering what should be done twice a week as opposed to what should be done every two weeks.

After I tried out the leaf blower, he kindly took it out of my hand and offered, “A smart person would do it like this…” Apparently, one should get behind the blower’s targets rather than mill about aimlessly in the middle of it all. (His remark reminded me of what my brother told me they say in Minnesota when someone displays lower-than-average intelligence. According to him, certain mild-mannered Midwestern pasty yet somewhat redneck Lutherans will say, in that charming Minnesota accent, “Y’know, a lotta guys’d done it this way…” But I digress.) When my husband was training me on how to feed the plants in the garden, he must have picked up on my anxiety about the whole thing. He said, “Don’t worry; this will be a lot less stressful after I leave.” (No shit, I thought.) So then I just had to make sure I kept everything alive and in working order so I wouldn’t have to pull some Lucy Ricardo stunt and go out and replace all of our landscaping and the entire garden before he came home. And God forbid I let those Cuban cigars dry out. As I like to have a contingency plan in the event that I do fail (because I like to remain cautiously pessimistic about my ability and care level) I wondered if he’d notice if I were to put the Cuban labels on some Dominican Republic replacements.

So my husband went off to war. I was less worried about his well-being than I was about that of our lawn and garden. And the cigars. He sensed my anxiety as we said goodbye. As he hugged me, he said, “Don’t worry. You took some good notes. Everything will be fine. Oh, and I’ll be OK, too.” The truth is, I’ve never minded being on my own and I’ve never felt helpless when he’s gone. I had a full calendar, a full Netflix queue, and a full wine cabinet. No worries.

I mowed the lawn all on my own for the first time. Our Craftsman riding mower had an amazing turning radius. And the horsepower (whatever that is) was impressive as well. Here’s a tip: You can cut the grass better if you engage and lower the blades. I covered half of our small front yard before I realized I wasn’t cutting anything. Also, fill up the tank while the mower is still near the gas, so you don’t have to lug the gas can across an acre and slosh it all over yourself on the way. Here’s the mower casualty list from Day One: one sprinkler head (that I’m aware of), one large rock that I turned into gravel, a garden hose, an Otter Pop wrapper, a small frog, my right thumbnail, and my left cornea.

While mowing was a learning experience, weed-eating really stirred my soul. Aside from the fact that one should never use a big Weed-Eater in a small garden, here is a list of things you should not weed-eat and why:

(1) big fat honking dandelion or dollar weeds, because they are juicy and will splatter all over your bare and probably already itchy shins,

(2) any size pile of dog crap (especially fresh), because it tends to spray (again, all over your shins, but also an errant speck can hit you in the face at which time, you will be literally shitfaced),

(3) any small oak saplings or recently-planted (unbeknownst to you) petunias your husband may have wanted you to spare,

(4) the black foam air-conditioner-compressor hose cover, because you might inhale and choke on the particles or get a piece stuck in your eye (so I’ve heard),

(5) deer (or other vermin) pellets (especially the hardened ones), because they can smack you in the kneecaps, and

(6) ant beds, spiders, or small salamanders, for the obvious reason that you will either get stung, scared, or simply grossed out to the point of dry heaving at the sight of chopped lizard.

Some additional gardening tips:

(1) You may want to keep your iPod headphone cord at a safe distance if you choose to leave the Weed-Eater running while you squat down to pick up your sunglasses if they fall off while you try to rub gasoline out of your eyes.

(2) Don’t forget to use bug repellent and sunscreen. I discovered, after spending some time outside, that outside is where most bugs and UV rays hang out and tend to conspire against those of us who try to interfere with the natural order of things while we would rather be in the air conditioning sipping tequila and watching reality TV.

(3) Leaf blower caveats:

(a) If you have allergies, be sure to take your medicine first. Snot and tears make for a sure-fire way to get all manner of clippings stuck to your sunburned face.

(b) Keep your shorts from getting sucked up into the air intake, otherwise it can give you an inconvenient and embarrassing (even though you are alone) frontal wedgie, and

(c) If the wind is blowing, it is futile to work against it.

As for the septic tank, I found out that it has its own sprinkler system. Apparently, at random intervals, it will spray sewage water in a somewhat circular pattern in your back yard. Sometimes while you are in its radius and bent over to pull stickers out of your shoelaces. You will then wonder why you smell like a latrine the rest of the day.

The water softener and propane tank gave me very little trouble. One needed salt poured into it periodically, while the other just needed a check placed under the lid to pay the gas delivery guy. I hope I didn’t get them mixed up.

I managed to maintain the grounds fairly well without having to hire a team of illegals who would have done a much better job in exchange for some Taco Bell. I only had to replace one squash plant, one water hose, and one set of earphones.
It seems that all my outdoor efforts left a little to be desired inside the house. While laundry and dishes piled up, houseplants died, and toilets grew mildew, the humidor was, not surprisingly, neglected (actually ignored completely) and several irreplaceable and/or expensive cigars found themselves dried out beyond recognition. Soon after my husband’s return, I tried to suggest that the humidor was defective or that the cigars were expired or that the water I used was not wet enough, but he didn’t buy it. He took off to the cigar store for replacements before he even unpacked. I was so relieved to have him home from the war that I planted myself back in front of the TV and pretended to do laundry again.

Why Does Everything Always Happen to Me?

This is a text exchange I had with my sister yesterday. (Almost verbatim, with irrelevant or incriminating comments redacted.) We like to act like we have it so hard. Some people don't get our sense of humor. I pity those fools.


Me: Been tryin to write all day but laundry n correspondence n shit keep interfering. It sux!! Jst now gonna start writing n I bet mike will ask me to go get grocs. Ugh. Why does everything always happen to me?

My Sister: No kidding! Lily keeps barking, she wants back in the house but I’m on the couch watching BRAVO channel, stuff like this always happens to ME. I hate it I feel like I just wanna kill myself.

Me: Life is so not worth living under these conditions. Lol

My Sister: Ikr

Me: Its like a concentration camp over here. Esp when my phones fb app wont work right. Whats this world coming to?

My Sister: No kidding. I can totally relate to how the slaves felt.

Me: Lmao!! This exchange is postworthy.

My Sister: I feel like Nelson Mandela when he was jailed.

Me: I feel like anne frank.

Me: Or joan of arc

My Sister: Me too, only worse.

My Sister: Post burning.

Me: Zactly.

Me: I am in tears laughing rt now.

My Sister: Me too

My Sister: I’m even feeling like Jaycee Dugard. This house is such a mess

Me: Lmfao times ten. I feel like a jeffrey dahmer victim. All dead and cannibalized n buttfucked.

Me: Shoot me now.

My Sister: No kidding. I hate feeling this way. Just think how much harder it will b if Romney wins

Me: We will truly be enslaved and screwed then. Im going to put a plastic bag over my head now.

Me: And cinch it

Me: With a blingy belt

My Sister: Great idea. I think I’ll do the same. Only light a match at the end of it.

My Sister: I’m gonna go cut for a while

Me: Good call. And maybe drink some drano first. Gotta go tend to my family. Damn them.

My Sister: Damn them to hell.

No Time for a Nervous Breakdown

Maybe it’s bad karma. Or a disability. Or raging pre-menopause hormones. Maybe it’s my meds or lack thereof. Or this unnecessarily dramatic midlife crisis I nurture. Maybe I should consult an astrologist or a hypnotherapist. Or a pharmacist. Either I am easily overwhelmed, exhausted, and spent, or I just whine about it more than anyone else does. Others seem to manage life so much more deftly than I do.

I will start a day with the best of intentions. A solid, ambitious plan. And more often than not, the plan goes out the broken window and everything gets swept up into a shitstorm. Like every item on my to-do list becomes a turd that gets thrown one-by-one into an oscillating fan. A whirlwind of clusterfuckery beyond my control. I feel pulled in 73 different directions and all I want to do is go back to bed until I desperately need to pee. I juggle candles that are burning at both ends. I bite off more than I can chew. And fight off more than I can do. I have too much on my plate and no dog under the table willing to help me eat it. Like I’m driving drunk with no steering wheel. In reverse. Blindfolded. Every once in a while, I will remember to breathe. Other times, an involuntary gasp reminds me. Not only do I have no time to wipe my ass, I have no time to take a shit in the first place. I know I am not alone. My girlfriends and I often share the Thelma and Louise escape fantasy. But with my luck, if I were to go for a flying drive off a cliff, I would survive in a persistent vegetative state until my family put me out of their misery.

I would love to schedule a nervous breakdown, but too many people depend on me. Maybe I could call it a vacation, but who has time for a vacation when there is so much minutiae to take care of? I have to be a part-time mom, de-clutter in time for the housekeeper’s visits, sometimes feed the dog, and keep the pantry and fridge alphabetized. There are toilets to plunge, spiders to kill, plants to water, dishes to wash, laundry to fold, kids to yell at, a husband to nag, errands to run, and shoes to buy. Then there’s all the household paperwork management. It is a fire hazard. In this digital world, I am amazed at how much paper crap still comes at me from every corner of my life. Daily. I dread going to the mailbox for fear of getting yet another piece of paper I don’t know what to do with. Sure, the junk mail goes right into the trash, and magazines and catalogs are set aside to read at my leisure (which is why that stack is four feet high and the clothing advertised in the ones at the bottom are already out of style). Then there are birthday invitations to respond to (and get a gift for), bills (to pay or dispute), insurance forms (to get the new liability proof from then file away somewhere), health care questionnaires (to consider filling out only to trash them later), receipts (some to keep, some to throw away, some to record in a register somewhere, some to look up online so as to figure out which account that money came out of and what the hell it was for even though it is dated yesterday), septic maintenance notices, post office “package to pick up” slips, Amazon packing slips (for things I may need to return but most likely not), kids’ school notices to read and calendar, order forms to fill out and write a check for, assignment sheets to review and sign, progress reports, report cards, Boy Scout and Girl Scout forms to fill out and e-mails I printed out for whatever reason that I never look at again, permission slips, reminder notes (that I always forget to look at), story ideas on scraps, songs to remember to download scribbled on Starbucks napkins, songs to remember to delete from my iPod scribbled on business cards, oh, and business cards (either mine or someone else’s), work ideas on Post-Its, letters to respond to, client-related forms, potential-client paperwork, board-member agendas, printouts, spreadsheets, ads for summer camps, forms for basketball sign-ups, salon or spa brochures, coupons, coupons, coupons, phone message notes, to-do lists, grocery lists, newspapers, newsletters, quasi-newspapers or newsletters . . . These are just the things that dropped out of the side of my head in the past five minutes.

Where do I put this or that so I can prioritize and be efficient? Who has time to get organized? I once wasted four hours online looking for a good time management program. I get e-mails from some website that is supposed to help me stay organized, but do I even open them? Hell no. I hardly have time to delete them. And don’t even ask about how disorganized and overloaded my three different e-mail accounts are. At least those are virtual. Getting on top of any workload is not easy when you have no organizational or time-management skills. This deficiency is compounded when adult-onset ADD makes me want to go shoe shopping rather than buy groceries because I can’t find the damn list that I scribbled on the back of a receipt that I just spit my gum into before it fell into the chasm between the driver’s seat and the center console to meet an errant French fry. (And because, well, I always want to go shoe shopping.)

No single thing is ever daunting on its own. It’s the cumulative effect of one nagging task on top of another. Things that should be at the top of the totem pole are mixed at random with things that would probably take care of themselves if I just left them alone. (And you can bet I will.) I am forced to put things on the back burner (if they are even on my figurative stove) while I want to stick my head in the oven. It’s like suffering from hemorrhoids or diarrhea while riding a rickety roller coaster. (Mind you, I have never had hemorrhoids, but I liked using two ass-related words that contain the rare “rrh” sequence of letters. Hemorrhage is another “rrh” word, but I chose not to use it in relation to the anal area, for obvious reasons. [Insert gory visual here.] But I digress.)

Some people make things happen. Others let things happen. I, however, get paralyzed and make sure that nothing happens. (Unless I have a deadline with consequences. Or unless it will make me some money.) The striving for intestinal fortitude and mental strength weakens me. (By the way, intestinal fortitude can get painful.) Perhaps my character is building and one day, I will be able to use my energy to keep everything together rather than use it to pretend I have it all together. I would clone myself to get things done, but I’m afraid the other me would really get on my nerves. She’d always be one-upping me and insulting me in her clever yet caustic way. Plus she’d want to borrow my clothes, my kids would like her more because she’d pay attention to them, and my husband would want to sleep with her. Bitch. Then again, maybe she could get me organized while I go on that vacation.

Dirty Words

In 1972, George Carlin’s Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television was a scandalous hit. Even though most of the words can be heard regularly on many cable TV channels now, they are still considered inappropriate. Why certain combinations of letters that make certain sounds are deemed “bad” has always concerned me. But as a writer, I know that words are powerful. Especially words like the original seven: Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker, and Tits. He also mentioned Fart, Turd, and Twat as contenders. I capitalize them to give them the authority they so richly deserve. I have a few to add as well. Mostly because I have stories to go with them.

I’ll address each word in order. A lot of parents forbid their children from using what they call the “S” word. Stupid. In our house, the “S” word is Shit. Much more expressive. (With our kids, we have so many other words worse than stupid to contend with, we tend to let that one slip by. We’ve told the kids that it’s not so bad to refer to a thing as stupid, but you shouldn’t call a person that. Unless it’s true.) Shit is one of my favorites. I like it because it is one of the few words whose meaning changes simply by putting the word “the” in front of it. If something is called Shit, it is just that: Shit. However, if something is referred to as The Shit, it is great. Note the difference: “This pie is Shit, Mom.” And “This pie is The Shit, Mom!” Shit is also a great synonym for the word “stuff.” I overheard my daughter and a friend of hers talking about how much they miss their bus driver and that they hope he’ll be driving their bus again the next year. I thought, Isn’t that sweet… Until my daughter said, “Yeah, he was nice except for all that foul language…” So I asked what she was talking about. She didn’t want to say the word. I said, “It can’t be any worse than what you have heard your dad and his friends say.” She said, “Or you. But hello? He’s a school bus driver.” She decided spelling it would solve the problem. She told me that one day he yelled at the kids to get their “S-H-I-T” out of the aisle. Good for him, I say. I am also fond of Shit because it is especially entertaining if I hear it uttered by a child or an elderly person. Years ago, a friend’s son (I think he was about six then) got into trouble for saying something relatively harmless like butthole. His mother’s punishment of choice was to put Tabasco sauce on his tongue as he stood in a corner. His response from that corner: “I guess I can’t say Shit either.” Brilliant. After my grandmother had a stroke, she lost her ability to speak. But she could still say “Shit!” Goddammit. I would too, if I had a stroke. I’d be pissed.

That brings us to Piss. It just means urinate, for Christ’s sake. Like pee or tinkle. But for some reason those four rather onomatopoeic letters make it a so-called bad word. During a rather trying visit to a truck stop restroom, I overheard a mom who was potty training her son. As I waited for an available stall, I heard this hillbilly meth-head say, “Come on, Li’l Earl, take a good piss for your mama.” Now, I’m not sure if she was indeed a hillbilly meth-head, and I also wonder if that description is a bit redundant as many hillbillies are probably meth-heads, but of course, not all meth-heads are hillbillies. They just look like them, what with the toothlessness and all. I’m also not sure if the kid’s name was Earl, but it was something redneckish like that. But I digress. I had never heard an adult say that word to a kid before. It was oddly refreshing. But poor little Earl didn’t have a chance. I venture to guess that learning a bad word was the least of his problems.

The next word on the list is probably everyone’s favorite. Fuck. So fun to say, right? So fucking handy. There are few things funnier than pre-schoolers using foul language that they clearly picked up from their parents. When my son was about four years old, after frantically searching the house for his little cowboy boots to don with his Pull-Up and hat, he looked at his grandmother and matter-of-factly in all his naiveté, asked, “Gabba, where are my fuckin’ boots?” He knew that that’s how you describe something you’re looking for in our household. When my nephew was about three years old, he told my mother, “I was going to say Fucking hell, but I didn’t.” We kept asking him, “What did you say???” And he kept repeating it, with a straight face, in his sweet soft little toddler voice. I swear, the Q & A went back and forth a good three or four times before we realized that indeed that was what he was saying. Then we kept asking him repeat it several more times because it was so damn funny. What else can you do with that? The word Fuck is the most important part of one of my favorite expressions: Bum-Fuck, Egypt; more commonly known simply as BFE. It is my generation’s parlance for “far away.” When I tell someone that we had to park way out in BFE, and they don’t know what I mean, depending upon whom I’m talking to, I either feel young or old. Usually old. The first time I said it to my daughter, I had to explain not only that Egypt itself is far away, but also that any place called Bum-Fuck, anywhere, is, by definition, far away. Therefore, Bum-Fuck, Egypt is doubly far away. She seemed to understand. Or else she was simply mesmerized by my saying the word Fuck to her when she was only seven years old.

The next word is arguably regarded as the worst combination of four letters ever put together. The “C” word as we call it. I personally like to say it anytime I get the chance just because the sound of it is so shocking. And it fascinates me that a short one-syllable word can arouse such angst, especially in women. I own that word. That word is my bitch. I learned to own it when I went to see Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues. There is a short monologue called Reclaiming Cunt that really spoke to me. It is short enough to quote here:

I call it cunt. I've reclaimed it, “cunt.” I really like it. “Cunt.” Listen to it. “Cunt.” C C, Ca Ca. Cavern, cackle, clit, cute, come--closed c--closed inside, inside ca--then u--then cu--then curvy, inviting sharkskin u--uniform, under, up, urge, ugh, ugh, u--then n then cun--snug letters fitting perfectly together—n--nest, now, nexus, nice, nice, always depth, always round in uppercase, cun, cun—n a jagged wicked electrical pulse—n [high-pitched noise] then soft n--warm n--cun, cun, then t--then sharp certain tangy t--texture, take, tent, tight, tantalizing, tensing, taste, tendrils, time, tactile, tell me “Cunt cunt,” say it, tell me “Cunt.” “Cunt.”

See, if you say it enough, it starts to lose its power. A girlfriend of mine coined a word for her belly. Gunt she calls it. When your gut extends down to your cunt to form one continuous body part. A gunt is a lot like cankles or even thankles. But again, I digress.

This brings us to Cocksucker. Saying that word just makes your mouth feel good, doesn’t it? Repeat it: COCKSUCKER. It is best said in all caps when you are especially angry. My 70-year-old mother recently announced that she plans to take up frequent use of the word Cocksucker. She figures that at her age, she can finally get away with it. I tried to explain that I have been getting away with it for years, but she is from a kinder, gentler generation.

Next to COCKSUCKER, Motherfucker is near and dear to my heart. You can describe people, especially men, as Motherfuckers, and you can describe other things, such as pain via the employment of a simile. Like this: “My sunburn hurts like a Motherfucker!” It is highly unusual to describe a woman as a Motherfucker, but she can be described as, for example, a Motherfucking Cunt. (I also like to use the word Asshole for women just because it is so unexpected. I think it adds an extra dimension to the insult.) Motherfucker can also be used as a term of endearment if spoken in the right tone. One night as I walked with my husband and another couple down Sixth Street in Austin, a dreadlocked, Rasta-beret-wearing, patchouli-scented dope smoker cruised between us on his Pee-Wee-Herman-style bike. As he weaved between us, he looked us up and down, smiled broadly, and asked, “Whassup, Muthafuckas?” It was epic. Men use it as a compliment as well. Especially when referring to another man’s machismo. As in: “He is one tough Motherfucker. Don’t Fuck with that guy.” It’s quite a versatile and poetic compound word.

Why Tits is on the list is beyond me. Another powerful four-letter combo. It makes boobs pornographic. And I’m all about porn. I have always liked the phrase Titty Bar for those euphemistically-termed Gentlemen’s clubs. Excuse me, gentlemen, but you are being bilked one dollar at a time by some clever women who are capitalizing on the fact that a large portion of this nation’s population of gentlemen is willing to part with a significant portion of the paycheck they just cashed to see some bare Tits. Unlike most of the other words on the list, Tits or any derivative thereof is a word that a child should never say. It is one thing for a kid to say Motherfucker. Now that’s funny. But something about the word Tits coming out of a kid’s mouth is just wrong. Maybe it’s the fact that they probably just finished breastfeeding. At least I hope so, if they are able to talk about Tits. If they are still breastfeeding, and I hear them say, “Hey, Mom, I’m thirsty. Gimme one of your Tits!” I might throw up in my mouth a little bit. Speech impediments can come in handy for some unintended inappropriate words coming out of kids’ mouths. My daughter had a playmate who could not make the K sound. She would replace it with a T. So Hello Kitty became Hello Titty. And she sure did love Hello Titty. I know because we asked her about it all the time just to hear her say it. She would also use the D sound in place of the letter G. One time I heard her say, “Dod-dammit,” and I wondered if God would hold that against her even though it wasn’t really his name.

Carlin’s last three words were extras. Fart, Turd, and Twat. Fart? Seriously? My mother-in-law calls Fart “the F word.” I don’t have the heart to sit her down and tell her what the real F word is. The word Fart doesn’t usually sound nearly as bad as the Fart itself. What’s worse is Shart. When Shit and Fart combine, that’s where the real bodily function magic happens. Shart sort of brings us to Turd. Turd is a cute little word for fecal matter. If Shit is the adult word for feces, Turd is the kids’ version. When I hear the word Turd, I always picture one floating in a punch bowl. In my lexicon, people who invite drama are known to “Stir the Turd.” Turd-stirrers piss me off, except for the fact that it gives me an opportunity to say, “Stop stirring the Turd, you dumbshit!” Turd is also used to describe a difficult person in a more lighthearted way. As in: “My grandmother won’t take her medicine. She is such a Fucking Turd.” The last word, Twat, in my opinion, is worse than Cunt. Erotic women have Cunts. Slutty college girls have Twats. A Twat is more likely to have an STD. Scientific fact. Because of this, calling a woman a Cunt is one thing; referring to her as a Twat is indeed much more highly offensive. Keep that in mind for the next time you need to insult a woman.

I have a few more “dirty” word stories to tell (along with any related tangents) so here they are:

Bitch is not necessarily such a bad word, but it is frowned upon in many social circles. And frowned upon when kids say it. Because our son was such a cowboy when he was little, my husband thought it would be nice to watch John Wayne’s The Cowboys with him. For the most part, it was kid-friendly. There was only one line we had a little trouble with, but we thought he didn’t even notice it. We were wrong. The next day, our sweet little cowboy lost his temper with me. He looked at me and in all seriousness, said, “Mama, you son of a bitch!” He cried when I laughed at him. Years ago, a teenage friend of my brother said his mom was yelling at him and called him a son of a bitch. In all of his teen wisdom, he looked her up and down and responded, “You got that right!” Ouch. I think he missed an Iron Maiden concert for that one.

I have a love-hate relationship with Boner. It is a word that makes a hard penis both funny and threatening. I like Chubber, as well. Chubber makes a hard penis cute and cuddly. Woody makes it splintery. A Boner came up one day in my office. During some light chatter after a serious conversation with a client and another attorney, I discovered that the client had played clarinet in the Army band. After I mentioned that I was a really bad clarinet player, my associate said, “I was a tromboner … er, trombonist.” I have found that nephews are a great source of inappropriate talk. My kids and their cousins were playing in my mother’s hot tub when we discovered my four-year-old nephew sans pants playing with himself in a rather blatant and pornographic manner. My sister told him to stop, explaining that he can investigate his private parts in private, but not in front of people. He threw a temper tantrum that rivaled any I had ever seen in my local Walmart and kept screaming, “It’s my wiener and I want to play with it!! It’s mine and I can play with it if I want to!!” Such a little man. The audience of immature adults could only stifle tears of laughter. It would have been a lot funnier if he had called it his Boner though.

Another nephew came up with this little gem: When we gathered with relatives on a vacation, an 18-year-old previously baby-faced cousin showed up with a goatee. In mock shock, I asked aloud, “What is that on Cameron’s face?” My nine-year-old nephew didn’t hesitate to say, “I don’t know, but it looks like a Beaver!” Of course, one of Cameron’s buddies mumbled, “He wishes.” I am not sure when or why a woman’s external genitalia were named after an aquatic buck-toothed dam-building mammal. I would Google it, but I fear the image results. I pity the man who coined the term, because the woman who inspired it must have had a most unattractive Pussy.

The Beaver incident reminded me of a lovely song I was subjected to at the closing ceremony of my daughter’s Girl Scout camp a few years ago. The event was all very sweet. The flag-raising, the recitation of the Girl Scout Oath and Girl Scout Motto (I will never know which is which), the singing of the Girl Scout signature song “Make new friends/but keep the old/one is silver and the other gold…,” blah, blah, blah, the picnic, then a nice tape-recorded playing of Taps as the flag was lowered at the end. It was entertaining to see so many little girls all happy and dirty in mismatched clothes, laughing with their friends and performing for their parents. (I’d say it was as American as apple pie, but that concept was tainted –in my dirty mind- by the movie American Pie.) Anyway, at some point in the show, the girls lined up to sing and act out another song. This is where (for me) it suddenly became awkward and inappropriate. The cuteness came to a screeching halt and I giggled like Wayne and Garth or Beavis and Butthead:

The Beaver Song

Beaver one, Beaver all, let’s all do the Beaver crawl (pretend to crawl)
Beaver two, Beaver three, let’s all eat a Beaver tree (pretend to climb)
Beaver four, Beaver five, let’s all do the Beaver dive (pretend to dive)
Beaver six, Beaver seven, let’s all go to Beaver heaven (sway with hands in prayer)
Beaver eight, beaver nine, stop
It’s Beaver time, go Beaver, go Beaver (rapper/hip-hop moves)
Beaver ten, Beaver ten, let’s all do the Beaver again!


Beaver dive? Beaver heaven? Really? Oh yeah, do that Beaver again. I then pictured a burlesque team of the grown-up scout leaders (most of them rather burly women) taking it one step further, and I wanted to poke my eyes out. Maybe I am simply immature. There is an adult chip missing that would keep me from attributing dirty meanings to anything that could possibly be interpreted in any sexual way. Sometimes I think I should exorcise this teenage boy who has taken up residence in the basement of my mind, but I like him. He’s hot.

Speaking of Beavers, my daughter, who was probably seven years old at the time, picked out a package of panties with cute little silkscreened animals on them. (Actually, she caused me to accidentally shoplift them, but that’s another story.) When I unwrapped the package to put the panties in the laundry, I was confronted with one pair that said “Absolutely Purrrfect” under a photograph of an adorable kitten. Another pair depicted a cartoon monkey eating a lollipop and saying, simply, “Yummy!” Do pedophiles make these panties or do I just have a sick mind? But I digress.

One of my favorite words is Ass. So versatile. Asswipe, Assmunch, Asshat, Assface, Asshole, for example. My daughter became quite adept at spelling so-called bad words. She told on her brother once by saying, “He called me an A-S-S-W-H-O-L-E!” I gave her extra credit for creative spelling. When my son was about six years old, he called his three-year-old sister a dumbass. When I reprimanded him (even though he was absolutely right, because, let's face it, three-year-olds can make some uninformed choices) he corrected himself and said, “I’m sorry, but she’s a stupid-bottom.” That was the first time he had used that other “S” word. Shit, I thought, I can't punish him, because it was true.

Legal Briefs

This is a combination of random crap I have posted before at various times. I thought I would see if it worked together. I'm not sure I succeeded, but I also don't much care. This one may or may not make the cut for my book.


I don’t like to advertise that I’m an attorney. Can you guess why?

1. No one believes it’s possible because

(a) I’m a “blonde”
(b) I’m never serious enough
(c) I have only a superficial understanding of world history and current events
(d) Any combination of the above
(e) (b) and (d)

2. When they find out and see that I don’t make any money at it, they must think

(a) I’m a sucky lawyer
(b) I’m a lame businessperson
(c) I have no drive or ambition and “why did she bother going to law school?”
(d) I’m so honorable to have given up a lucrative salary and high-powered career for the sake of my family
(e) All of the above except (d)

3. I think I’m scamming people because

(a) It sounds ridiculous to me, too
(b) I feel like a girl in a costume who says she’s a princess
(c) I feel like a stripper who tells everyone she’s a ballerina
(d) I feel like a ballerina who is really a stripper
(e) (d)

4. I may miss out on some lawyer jokes I haven’t already heard

(a) Like that’ll ever happen,
(b) Then I have to chuckle politely at a light-hearted attempt to offend members of my profession when the only thing that really offends me is the jokester’s negligent use of a trite and insipid riddle,
(c) At which point I will be forced to reach into my handy freight car full of witty and sarcastic comebacks that all-too-often will hurt some unsuspecting jokester’s fragile feelings,
(d) And then my audience will mutter to each other things like, “See what a bitch she is? I told you she was a lawyer.”
(e) This one is not multiple choice.

When people ask me if I work, where I work, what I do, or why did you write me that nasty letter, I hesitantly say that I’m a lawyer. I have been an attorney for over 20 years and that word still sounds strange coming out of my mouth. It’s a big part of my life and it takes up a lot of otherwise barren real estate in my mind, but it’s not who I am. My heart is in it, but only to the extent that it satisfies my desire to analyze and to write and to make my enemies suffer in abject shame as I expose their unscrupulous and heinous acts with my superior intellect, my unparalleled legal research skills, and my sly ability to threaten blackmail by distributing non-existent hidden-camera video, and (oh yeah) to help people.

*****

I do a fair amount of seminar presentations in my line of work. The conference organizers always want to add a little bio/resumé on the presenters. (This is where I am referred to as “Esquire,” which makes me sound medieval, which is cool. It also reminds me of “Bill S. Preston, Esquire” from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Clearly more of a dumbass than any sort of real lawyer.) The bios are always eye-glazingly boring and full of “look-how-smart-and-successful-I-am” crap. Here’s a little taste of mine:

Jill Mitchell earned a B.A. in English from the University of Texas at Arlington in 1988 . . . . She then spent a year at the University of Paris (La Sorbonne) where she earned a polite notice that she had failed miserably. (At least she thinks that’s what it said.) . . . . In 1991, she passed the Texas bar exam on her first try, by one point. True story.

She is a member of the Court of Appeals for Veterans Claims Bar Association, the National Organization of Veterans Advocates, the Texas Bar Association . . . and a variety of loosely-organized literary and social groups. She is the longsuffering wife of an active duty combat veteran, and through her children, she maintains minimal involvement with the Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts of America. . . . . She was also a member of the Texas Young Lawyers Association until she got too old.

Since 2000, aside from occasional wills for friends, her own traffic tickets, and nasty letters to insurance companies, she has limited her practice to veterans’ law, and works all alone in a posh, luxurious office. In her free time, she enjoys reading one novel per year, shopping at flea markets, and practicing yoga -- but not simultaneously.

A handful of otherwise bored seminar attendees thanked me for this refreshing pile of bullshit. If this lawyer gig doesn’t work out, I may start a resumé service.

*****

Actual notes from clients’ medical records:

“Patient sports a narcissistic moustache.”

“Patient cheerfully admitted to excessive smoking.”

“Q: What do you do to relieve stress? A: Try like hell to have sex.”

“Refer to Dr. Weiner for urological exam.”

“Q: What were you doing immediately prior to the accident? A: Drinking beer.”

Actual voicemail I received from a veteran: “Miss Jill, I really need your help with my VA claim. Long story short, ma’am, they just kinda shitted on me real good. Now you have a blessed day.”

*****

Because I am a moron and a masochist, and because no good deed goes unpunished, I took on some pro bono cases a few years ago. Just out of the kindness of my heart, to put some good karma back out there in the world, and in hopes, of course, of signing up the good cases later for a fee. Since I lost my conscience in law school, you can bet that any philanthropic act on my part will someday benefit me one way or another. And I mean financially. One of my new pro bono clients had the nerve, the absolute gall (after I had put in a good four or five hours reviewing his file and writing an important letter for him for free) to ask me for an advance on his potential award. As if: (1) I would ever do that, (2) I have the spare money to do that, (3) I am a sucker to give him free legal advice, so I must just be a sucker in general. Needless to say, that file went straight to my back burner. My assistant reminded me, “Don’t give away what you can sell.” (That’s great sex advice as well.)

*****

Speaking of giving away what I could sell, several years ago, I spent three days in a dank American Legion meeting hall dispensing free legal advice. The place was inundated with almost 300 disgruntled veterans. I heard one horrific and heartbreaking story after another in this fluorescent-lighted, linoleum-floored, smoke-smelling dungeon. After years of this practice, nothing shocked me anymore, but the listening drained and exhausted me every time. Normally, my consultations took place over the phone so I never saw the faces behind the stories. But for those three days, virtually nonstop, I sat across a table face-to-face and looked into tearful eyes of grown men and women broken physically and/or mentally by combat or by the mere preparation for it. None of them felt sorry for themselves. Many had earned Purple Hearts or various medals for valor or gallantry. Most of them had spent far more years fighting the VA than they spent fighting for our country. By day three of this event, the attorneys and other volunteers were appropriately shell-shocked. A media photographer (a middle-aged woman I had met only two days before and with whom I had until then only exchanged pleasantries) approached me as I sat alone during a rare quiet moment. In a serious voice, she whispered, “What kind of anti-depressant are you on?” Taken aback, I probably gasped before letting out a laugh not unlike those I offer in response to my own jokes. I replied, “Does it show? Can you really tell?” She said she was only half joking. She said, “Honey, anyone who does this kind of work has got to be on something.” Then I told her what I take, and as I am wont to do, proceeded --in my “TMI” way -- to share the litany of chemical crutches and (dare I say, maybe even life-saving at times) “happy pills” I have tried with varying success over the years. She said, “Forgive me, but I knew you had to be on drugs.” As I turned to go, I told her, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go shoot up now.”

Maybe if I found another line of work I wouldn’t need medication to keep the depression and anxiety away. Maybe if I found another line of work I would be more efficient and more organized and a better housekeeper. And maybe if I found another line of work my life would be full of butterflies and rainbows. Maybe so, but I wouldn’t be able to impress and befuddle people with the fact that I’m a lawyer.

Verbal Abuse (new & improved)

One morning, my son told me, “I play this Nintendo game good.” I said, “No. You play it well. Well is an adverb, adverbs modify verbs, and to play is a verb. Good (in this instance) is an adjective. Adjectives modify nouns.” After I realized (again) that I sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher to him, he asked, “Why aren’t they called adnouns? Shouldn’t adjectives modify jectives?” He totally missed the point.

The majority of my friends, acquaintances, reader(s), and healthcare providers are well-aware that I am a bit of a stickler when it comes to proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Hell, spelling ability was one of the top five reasons I married my husband or even dated him in the first place. And I’m proud to say that both of my children know the difference between “your” and “you’re” and the difference between “its” and “it’s,” which is a lot more than I can say for most adults I know. I have convinced my family that the only thing worse than misplacing my keys is misplacing a modifier. They pretend to know what a gerund is so as not to upset my fragile psyche. And they know all-too-well that dangling a participle in front of me is an open invitation for my unbridled wrath to rain down upon them. I don’t care what you say, as long as you say it, spell it, or punctuate it correctly.

If someone were to write me a note that said, “go to hell bitch.” I would return it to them with red marks showing that the word “go” should be capitalized, the word “hell” needs a comma after it, and the word “bitch” needs a capital “B” (because it refers to Me). I might also suggest that the statement end with an exclamation mark instead of a period. I once saw this painted on the side of a truck: “Quality at it’s best!” All I could think was: punctuation at its worst. I guess not everyone can care about apostrophe misuse the way I do.

Then there are the commonly mispronounced words and phrases. My peeves are the butcherings of the words mischievous and supposedly. When I hear “miss-chee-vee-ous,” I throw up in my mouth a little bit. When I hear “supposably,” I roll my eyes until they get stuck. And why does 90% of the American population say “sherbert” when it is spelled and pronounced “sherbet?” There is only one R in it. I don’t much care for sherbet anyway, but when people mispronounce it, I really have no use for that shit at all. And why do so many people pronounce “asterisk” as “asterick?” Does it have anything to do with the phenomenon that causes some people to say “aks” instead of “ask?” I am also plagued by commonly misspoken phrases like these:

“At your beckon call" is incorrect. The operative phrase is actually “beck and call” (this mistake is almost forgivable because the word beckon actually means “to summon” and in fact the word beck is simply a shortened form of beckon.) Come to think of it, “beck and call” is a bit redundant, isn’t it? However, I will often respond to a call, but I shun becks at every opportunity. One similar but unforgivable and dry-heave-inducing error is “For all intensive purposes.” It is actually, “For all intents and purposes,” which is also somewhat redundant. Even if a trite phrase is ridiculous, it should still be uttered accurately. The worst offender of all misspoken phrases has got to be the transmogrification of “all of a sudden” into “all the sudden.” That one puts me into such an internal tizzy that I usually have to run to the nearest restroom. I once heard someone say, "He takes me for granite." Seriously? Well at least he doesn't take you for Formica. And when did it become acceptable for people to use “of” instead of “have”? As in, “I should of?” It is especially offensive when paired with the wrong verb, as in, “I should of went with you.” Oh, you mean, you should have gone with me? Well, I’m glad you didn’t because you can’t talk. A phrase I hear a lot that makes no sense: "I miss not seeing you!" What? You miss not seeing me? Gee, thanks. I could say that to a lot of people who are up in my face far too often, "Hey, you who won't leave me alone, I really miss your absence." A couple of French words or phrases that Americans can never say correctly are armoire and coup de grace. I don’t mean that they should be pronounced with a French accent. That would be pompous. (No offense to my pompous friends.) They should just be pronounced the French way, but in American English. Armoire is not “arm-wah” and coup de grace is not “coo-day-grah.” The French do say the endings of some of their words. The bottom line with me is if you can’t pronounce coup de grace, use some other phrase. I even saw it spelled somewhere like this: cou de gras, which I think kind of means neck of fat. Not really the meaning they were going for. There is one mispronunciation I like and intend to employ at every opportunity. I once heard someone say anticdote when they meant anecdote. I think that pronunciation might be more apt when the anecdote involves antics of some sort. I don't care for anecdotes without antics, ergo, I prefer anticdotes and decided right then that I would henceforth pronounce anecdote that way. Any dull anecdotes I hear will not be referred to as anticdotes, but rather, antidotes. As in: "that story was a real buzzkill, the ultimate party-mood antidote."

And don’t get me started on inadequate spelling. I live in a relatively large city with its share of under-educated and irresponsible people. (This may seem off-topic, but stick with me.) It is a known fact that too many animals are having unprotected sex. The combination of spelling-challenged adults and sexually indiscriminate dogs leads to signs like this: “4-Sell: Brown Chi-Wa-Wa’s” and “Free Doxen puppy’s.” I would have taken pictures of these gems, but that’s just the sort of obscenity I can’t abide. I’ll have porn on my phone before I’ll carry around misspelled and mis-punctuated words. I once saw a grocery-store cake emblazoned with fancy blue lettering that said, "SUPRISE!" As in, "Surprise! We misspelled the sentiment on your cake because we're illiterate, but that's okay because so are you!" I doubt anyone noticed it. Had I ordered a cake and arrived to find a misspelled word on it, I would have sent it back for a correction. Not just for my own peace of mind, but also to take an opportunity to offer a helpful spelling lesson and to prevent such a tragedy from happening again.

Because I don’t trust my children’s teachers, I take advantage of every opportunity to train my kids to respect, revere, and regularly employ basic grammar rules. If any other children (or adults for that matter) are within earshot, all the better for them. One of my biggest challenges over the past few years has been drilling it into the kids’ heads that “me” cannot be the subject of a standard sentence. Here are some examples:

My son: “Me and him were making up jokes about our nuts.”

Me: “Me was doing what? . . . Him was do-ing what?”

My son: “Making up jokes about our nuts.”

Me: “You should say, ‘He and I were making up jokes about our nuts.’”

. . . .

My daughter: “Me and Lily and Maddie are so hot for Brance.”

Me: “Me is so hot for whom?”

My daughter: “I don’t know whom you’re hot for, Mom, but we’re hot for Brance.”

. . . .

Likewise, “I” cannot be the object of a sentence:

My daughter: “Take a picture of Brooke and I.”

Me: “Take a picture of I?”

My daughter: “No, she and I.”

Me: “Take a picture of she and take a picture of I?”

My daughter: “No, of me and Brooke.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Now, I don’t pretend or profess to be the World’s Greatest Expert on the English language. (Well, sometimes I do pretend to be.) I only got a bachelor’s degree in English. It’s not as if I did something crazy like get a Ph.D. in grammar:

“Oh, you have a Ph.D.? So you’re a ‘doctor.’ Doctor of what, may I ask?”

“Thanks for asking. I have a Ph.D. in English grammar. I’m a grammar doctor. Can I edit something for you?”

I believe my linguistic superiority, whether it is real or imagined, can be somewhat off-putting to anyone who wants to speak (or God forbid, write) in my presence. I wonder if they bite their tongues lest I mentally edit each word they utter. This, of course, works to my advantage because (1) I don’t have to listen to other people talk and (2) I get to talk more. And let’s face it; wouldn’t most of you rather listen to me?

As I have stated before, any so-called errors I may have made (or may make) in this book are actually intentional examples of the poetic license I am entitled to by virtue of my obvious genius in this unpopular and endangered arena.

I know what you’re thinking:

(1) How pathetic is she that this is her only talent?

(2) Why must she try to make herself feel important by mocking and looking down on those less grammatically fortunate?

(3) Why does she abuse her children this way?

The answers:

(1) I have other talents that I am not as proud of,

(2) Therefore, I need to boost my self-esteem at the expense of others, and

(3) My kids will make me look good later when I can tell people they have Ph.D.s.

Jesus H. Christ (expanded version)

Jesus Christ and his mom, the Virgin Mary, have been known to visit keen observers when they cause their likenesses to appear in the most unlikely of places. Apparently, only those who believe can see the images clearly. Sightings of these religious simulacra (as they are called) are often the result of what scientists refer to as pareidolia: The imagined perception of a pattern or meaning where it does not actually exist. This phenomenon is attributed to the human mind's over-sensitivity to the perception of patterns, especially that of a human face or figure, where it would not normally be seen. I assume that when the image of someone’s aunt or third grade teacher, for example, materializes in, let’s say, a bowl of tapioca, it just gets eaten before any pictures are taken. Only the images of Jesus or his mom get such attention. And rightly so, I guess. I’d be afraid not to alert the media for fear of cosmic repercussions.

One time, the national news showed us the face of Jesus discovered on a moth. First, no one knows what Jesus looked like. So really, the image on that moth could have been that of the bearded white hippie dude who modeled for all the pictures we are so familiar with. When I saw the face on that moth, I thought it could just as easily be the face of the devil. (He has a goatee, right?) Just before the moth story, I remember seeing something about someone finding Jesus on a cross-shaped Cheeto (known in popular culture as “Cheesus”). Do these stories really make the news simply because of the alleged Jesus sightings, or is it more about pointing out the depths of gullibility hidden in so many pockets of future Darwin victims all across this fruited plain? I think it shows that the human race is full of doubt and a deep need for reassurance. I know that when I feel like God has abandoned me, nothing would be more comforting than to see the image of a bearded, long-haired man or a woman in a veil. Especially if I saw it in a food product (such as Cheez Whiz) or at the bottom of my sixth glass of wine.

Here are some places the images of Jesus and/or his mom have allegedly appeared: on a tortilla, a quesadilla (yes, another tortilla, but this one with cheese), a grilled cheese sandwich (the American quesadilla), toast (kind of like a grilled cheese but without the cheese), a pizza (I think he likes cheese), pita bread (I bet he felt more comfortable on something Mediterranean), pancakes, a potato, a potato chip, a pretzel, a french fry, (he apparently has no fear of carbs), a fish stick (I wonder how many he fed with that one fish stick?), a banana peel, an orange slice, peanut butter, shrimp, a glass of chocolate milk, the bottom of a coffee cup, a teabag, a Kit Kat bar, and a random piece of chocolate (no word on whether it was Dove brand). I think they like to show up in food maybe because of the whole communion idea. I’m sure the people who ate these images (if they did not freeze-dry and lacquer them and put them in a shadow box) felt extremely blessed and had no ill side-effects such as indigestion or diarrhea. If they did have diarrhea, it was just the evil spirits being cleansed from their bodies.

This crazy pair of Bible big shots has also deigned to appear in: driveway oil stains, a Walmart receipt, chipped paint, a scorch mark on an iron, a dog’s butt (Not kidding. Google it.), a bruise, water damage (was it holy water?), mold stains (I guess that’s what the water damage image morphed into), a toilet seat lid, moss, a dirty car window, a dirty sliding glass door, shower wall soap scum (would scrubbing bubbles be strong enough to defeat the power of Jesus-infused soap scum?), a garage floor, and an ashtray (Jesus hates it when you smoke!). It is not surprising that they would make appearances in such unsavory ways. How better to reach their target audience? Sinners are so unclean.

And they have shown up in rather neutral unexpected places as well, like: a frying pan (probably the one that cooked the above-mentioned quesadilla or grilled cheese sandwich), wood grain (Seems like he would steer clear of lumber after that whole cross experience, but nope. He’s fricking Jesus, bro.), a sonogram, an x-ray, an MRI, (Which would make me wonder: Is he healing me, or coming to get me?), a bottle cap, a telephone pole, chewing gum, a curtain, a velvet chair, a guitar, and a garage door. Do the appearances in these everyday items mean that he and his mom are just common, everyday kind of folks? I hope so, or I am so screwed. Surprisingly, there have not been a lot of sightings in nature. They have been spotted in: sand dunes, clouds, fire, a rock, a granite slab, tree bark, a tree stump, a turtle, and a cat’s fur. I guess he figures nature alone is signature enough, so showing up there is kind of redundant.

I think I saw Jesus in my dryer’s lint screen one time. I probably could have sold it on eBay, but I was afraid it would get damaged in shipping, and how do you insure something so priceless? So I hand-delivered it to a local Catholic church in exchange for a few dispensations. Even though I’m a Presbyterian. What if it really was Jesus trying to send me a message? Like maybe I need to engage my good/bad filter, or maybe I need to shed some unnecessary “fuzz” from my life. Or maybe he was just trying to tell me that I should clean that thing out more often. (Speaking of eBay, when I would get depressed, I used to look at the feedback people had left for me there. Here’s my favorite: “This eBay Superstar may be proof that the Second Coming has already happened!!!” That right there is some high praise.)

I am reluctant to make light of these so-called simulacra if in fact they really are God’s clever way of communicating with us. (What he is saying, I’m not sure, other than probably, “Hey, here I am, don’t forget me or I will smite you when you least expect it!”) We should welcome these subtle messages lest he decide to get louder. Given the choice between a talking burning bush and a face on a quesadilla, I’ll take the quesadilla.

Carrying the Weight of the Word (Redux)

Sportswriter Red Smith is alleged to have said something to the effect of, “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” Good writers spill their souls carefully and deliberately. They weave words to link their minds and hearts to those of their readers. Many of those who do it best are the ones who quite possibly feel or think too much. Scientific research suggests that poets and writers are more likely to suffer from mental illness and substance abuse. In fact, one study notes, “compared to the general population, bipolar mood disorder is highly overrepresented among writers and artists.” Many with bipolar disorder produce their best work during manic periods. (I know I do.)

After some cursory internet research (no, I don’t capitalize “internet” even though most do. I don’t think it deserves proper noun status, seeing as there is only one internet, but I digress), I compiled a short list of writers who are known to have suffered from mental illness. I have taken the liberty of listing them in order of my least to most favorite (more or less) along with necessary notes about each: Graham Greene (Never read anything he wrote, so he gets to head up this list.), Eugene O'Neill (Never read any of his plays, but I have at least heard of some of them.), Charles Dickens (Had to read a fair amount of his dreary, wordy works in college. Not a fan.), Patricia Cornwell (Haven’t read anything she has written, either, but I’m sure if I did, she would garner a more favorable spot on this list.), Joseph Conrad (I had a horrible lit professor who made us read Lord Jim. Dreadful experience.), Henrik Ibsen (From what I remember, the plays of his that I was forced to read were eye-glazing at best.), Isak Dinesen (I listed her here because I get her name mixed up with Henrik Ibsen’s. I used to think she was a man. I never read Out of Africa, but the movie put me to sleep.), Sidney Sheldon (He was big in the ‘70s and ‘80s, I think. As far as I’m concerned, his best work was I Dream of Jeannie.), Emile Zola (Never read anything he wrote, either, but he was French, so he gets extra points for that.), Herman Melville (I know I should say that I read Moby Dick and liked it, but I would be lying on both counts.), William Faulkner (Of course he was depressed. I know it depressed me just trying to read some of his stuff.), Ivan Turgenev (Also never read anything of his, but it could not have been as good as Dostoevsky.), Hermann Hesse (I read his little book Siddhartha when I was in college. I seem to remember thinking that it would be cool if I liked it, but I honestly just didn’t get it.), Tennessee Williams (I remember reading The Glass Menagerie and wishing I could shatter all those stupid knick-knacks.), Henry James (Don’t think I ever read any of his writing either. I get his name mixed up with Henry Miller, who was much more interesting, and surely had demons of his own.), Ralph Waldo Emerson (I confuse him with Henry David Thoreau, who was even more boring.), Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (On my favorite refrigerator magnet: “Nothing is worth more than this day.”), Dylan Thomas (“Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”), Mary Shelley (I love it that a woman dreamed up Frankenstein’s monster. You know she had some mental issues.), Allen Ginsberg (I would have loved to party with that guy.), Jonathan Swift (Anyone who created a place like Lilliput and made up words like “Glubbdubdrib” and “Houyhnhnms” had to be a bit off.), Leo Tolstoy (I am glad to say I never read War and Peace, but I regret that I never read Anna Karenina, which has one of the best lines in literature: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”), Hans Christian Andersen (He was Danish, so I may be related to him. I am one-quarter Danish. Not sure which fourth of me it is, but I think it’s my skeleton. He wrote some of the best fairy tales ever. My parents used to refer to me as The Princess and the Pea because apparently, I was a little high-maintenance as a kid. I think his masterpiece was The Emperor’s New Clothes.), Robert Louis Stevenson (I remember him mainly because I used to play this card game called “Authors.” He was one of them, along with Nathaniel Hawthorne, Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare, Mark Twain, and Louisa May Alcott. Why she got picked to hang out with those men is a mystery. Maybe she was a groupie, or maybe they thought she would bring her Little Women with her.), Jack Kerouac (Another one I would love to have partied with. Still haven’t read On the Road, but it’s been on my list for years.), Kurt Vonnegut (Breakfast of Champions is on my list, too.), Franz Kafka (No doubt he was crazy. The Metamorphosis is proof.), F. Scott Fitzgerald (I always wanted to be Daisy in The Great Gatsby because she got to have the 1974 version of Robert Redford fall in love with her. In the new movie, it’s Leonardo DiCaprio, so I still want to be Daisy.), Emily Dickinson (A recluse who was said to have always dressed in white. Something I would never do. White is just a spill magnet. When I wear white pants, no matter what time of the month it is, you can bet that my period will start. Anyway, in her poem that begins My life closed twice before its close, she wrote: “Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.” Not completely sure what it means, but that’s what makes great poetry, I guess.), J.M. Barrie (Love him not just because he wrote Peter Pan, but because Johnny Depp played him in Finding Neverland.), Edgar Allan Poe (Gee, which of his writings might make one think he had some mental problems?), Honoré de Balzac (I loved Père Goriot, which was like a French version of King Lear, but the real reason he is so high on this list is because there was a hideous statue of him in Paris near where I lived back in 1988. It was a replica of the one at the Rodin museum there. I am told the replica was even more hideous than the original.), Truman Capote (In Cold Blood is one of my favorite books. I guess that makes me a little crazy, too. He was friends with Harper Lee, who wrote the Best American Novel Ever, To Kill a Mockingbird. Some say Capote actually wrote it, but I don’t believe that.), Mark Twain (He supposedly said, “Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.” Amen to that. Plus, Huckleberry Finn was probably the Second Best American Novel Ever.), and Dorothy Parker (She was an alcoholic who survived several suicide attempts. One of my idols. I like to think I was her in a past life, but she died after I was born, so I guess that’s impossible. Her poem, Résumé, sets out my philosophy of life quite well: “Razors pain you, Rivers are damp, Acids stain you, And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful, Nooses give, Gas smells awful. You might as well live.”)

In spite of Ms. Parker’s wise advice, a good handful of writers with mental illness have been known let this life take the best of them. One of those was David Foster Wallace, whose death inspired this essay. In September of 2008, at the age of 46, he apparently found it necessary to hang himself. I admired his insight and ability to express his view of the world, even though his writing could be somewhat verbose and dense. While I would read his work and mentally edit some of his paragraph-length sentences, I still savored each word--until the weight of the words (and of the book itself) would tip out of my sleepy hands. He was one of those writers I read not necessarily for the pleasure of reading but for the pleasure of his writing. I think he was often drunk on his own swirling thoughts and swam self-indulgently in his philosophical musings. I can certainly identify with that, but it's really too deep for me. I prefer shallow. Less chance of drowning.

The news media called his death “an apparent suicide.” Usually hangings are, I guess. Unless he was strangled, then someone hoisted his limp, heavy corpse up into a noose. It could happen. I could see it in a dark comedy. Maybe I have. Funny stuff. And “apparent suicide” hangings also bring to mind the Most Embarrassing Way To Die: autoerotic asphyxiation, which, by the way, is not the way David Foster Wallace died. According to reports, he was just seriously depressed and off his meds. It has been rumored that that is the way lead singer of INXS Michael Hutchence died. Even if it isn’t true, that’s what people like to think. Sex sells. Especially when it comes to that guy. He was hot. But seriously, people would rather believe a death was accidental (albeit embarrassing) rather than intentional. And poor David Carradine, if he accidentally died while trying to achieve orgasm, he went to a hell of a lot of trouble to get off. Bless his heart. But I digress.

Creative types have been known to take themselves out of their own misery with dramatic exits. Kurt Vonnegut described suicide as “the punctuation mark at the end of many artistic careers.” Ernest Hemingway blew his brains out with his favorite shotgun. Hunter S. Thompson shot himself, too. His suicide note supposedly read, “No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your (old) age. Relax — This won't hurt.” I was glad he left a note. (I think his could have been a little more “Gonzo” but he was depressed, so I'll cut him some slack.) Writers should leave notes. In fact, anyone who has the balls to kill themselves should have the courtesy to explain why. Another “apparent” shooter was Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain. He left a rather rambling note. Not his best work. At the end, he wrote, “I'm too much of a neurotic moody person and I don't have the passion anymore, so remember, it's better to burn out, than to fade away.” That’s it, Kurt, steal a line from Neil Young. I wonder how Neil felt about that. Honored, somehow, I bet. I would if someone quoted me right before blowing themselves away. Vincent van Gogh is rumored to have shot himself as well. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t the gunshot that did him in so much as the infection he contracted right after it. That would suck to fail at a suicide attempt—at least if you really, really wanted to die. You think he was depressed before, how depressed was he to know that he fucked up his own suicide? How embarrassing.

In This is Water, a commencement address David Foster Wallace gave in 2005, he said, “It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.”

Speaking of water, Spalding Gray (apparently) drowned himself. I remember wondering if he thought he was Swimming to Cambodia, but that was in poor taste. Virginia Woolf was a drowner, too. She filled her skirt’s pockets with rocks and strolled into a river after writing a lovely note to her unfortunate husband. It included these words, “If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.” Yep, I bet he was really pleased to get those compliments and I’m sure he felt like the happiest man in the world that day. (Maybe he did, if she was such a Debbie Downer.) I think it takes an extra measure of courage to drown yourself. I imagine it’s a lot of work, fighting your breathing instincts and all. Like trying to tickle yourself to death, or win a staring contest without blinking. Or sneeze with your eyes open. Hard work, that.

Sylvia Plath, who was only 30, went to a lot of trouble to die. She made sure her kids were asleep (which was thoughtful), then sealed off the rooms before turning on the gas and sticking her head in the oven. I’m not a very good cook, so I might not choose that option. I would probably singe my hair and burn my neck before realizing that I just needed the gas and not the heat. Poet Anne Sexton pulled a sort of copycat suicide a little over ten years later. She did the old car-running-in-the-garage trick. I guess the standard combination of alcohol and pills just isn’t dramatic enough for the more creative types. Simply going to sleep is far too subtle and smooth. It doesn’t make a statement. I think the statement must be at least as loud as the noises in their heads. They want their inner pain to scream on the outside. Or maybe they are numb and need to drop a bomb in order to feel something. How better to show how dead you are (or want to be) on the inside than to act it out? With as much drama as a miserable artist can muster.

Why do so many writers and artists kill themselves? Is it creativity overload that drives them to death? Some sort of tortured genius that the body can't sustain? I think most writers struggle with a sense of apartness. A heightened self-consciousness. Trying to answer Why am I me? Good writers are observers who can choose words well, even effortlessly, and put them in a certain order such that readers respond with emotion, thought, adrenalin, comfort, or connection. Creative people can take in too much. More than the mind can manage. A sensory burden. They carry so many sights and sounds that simmer and stew until they boil over onto scraps of paper, or a computer screen, and into a book or poem if they make the cut. Or the opposite happens and the words just won’t come anymore. And the emptiness becomes the burden. How can artists who have such skill at relating life let life kill them? They carry the weight of the world in their heavy hearts and troubled minds, but it’s the unwritten words that weigh them down. The very things that connect them to the world can also disconnect them from it. Just like a noose.