The Better-Off Dead
1.
A policeman was blocking the front door when I arrived. Serious sunglasses, snug short-sleeved shirt, stiff slacks, arms locked across his chest. The splotchiness of his freckled skin could only be seen when you were immediately in front of him. Probably because his forearms glistened with smooth layer of sweat–a necessary reaction to the burn of the desert sun, still brutal at minutes after five PM. Read more »
Child Abuse?
I’m not certain I would diagnose myself with chemical depression. But if I am currently suffering, a definite symptom would be my recent interaction with a nine-year old girl.
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For Some Reason It Never Feels Right
In high school, I was sexually desperate.
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How I Know My Soul is a Bit Rotten
1. I’ve never had a decent relationship with anyone. Not with a parent, nor with a boy. Not with a Jew. Not with a Goy. Not when I was nine, and not when I was ten. I used to be passive-aggressive about watching Friends. Even my pets have usually been aloof. Ask anyone I know for proof.
2. I’d eliminate the need to procreate from the human genome, if it were easy to do.
3. I only enjoy oral sex if the man is, what I perceive as, too good for me or married. I rarely cum with fat men.
4. Sometimes when I’m depressed, I think the only thing in my life I’ve ever done right is to not have a kid.
5. I find that as I get older that I’d rather not hear about child abuse rather than actually do anything to stop it.
6. I think people who’d rather cut taxes than build schools should have to park there their car in Richmond, CA once a week.
7. I think racial humor is hilarious. Misuse of the word Oriental always makes me smile.
8. I think having a kid should cost you money on your taxes.
9. Knowing that 99% of the girls are drugged, abused or both, I still watch porn, and somehow, I always feel worse for the guys—those peach tanned, van-driver types.
10. I’m glad my parents got divorced. I only wish they’d tortured each other longer.
“For Some Reason It Never Feels Right” is the occasional blog of Linda Weissberg MFT.
The Illest Place to Put a Dime
My Great Aunt Ginny never married. Because of that she had become sort of pet of the family. She’d come live with a brother or a sister for a month or two, and then try life again on her own. When things got bad or tight again, she’d send a postcard to the oldest sister, Ethel, who’d arrange a place for her to stay.
She was a decent house guest. She had one decent dessert she’d make every Sunday, Lemon something. And she always wafted along with a fragrant scent of something that seemed to lighten moods and soothe stomachs. She swore it was Dove soap, but her married sisters, whenever they congregated in groups of two or more, forever complained that their single sister was far too possessive of her personal whatnots. And that, obviously, was part of her problem. I think her pleasant smell and demeanor kept our family from overreacting to her occasional fits of strange behavior. Someone was always willing to take her in. My mother often bragged, “You know what the Kennedys would’ve done to her, don’t you?”
Ginny stayed with us once. It was just before the home and the lawsuit and all that mess.
It was pretty uneventful. I had been up all night so I was ditching school and sleeping in. Around eleven, the doorbell rang. I put my glasses on and had my retainer half out when I heard the front door open.
I snuck out my bedroom door and Pink Panthered to the top of the staircase. There I saw my Great Aunt Ginny standing at the door—in her bra and panties.
Loose skin vibrated into every direction as she pressed rumpled dollar bills against her bare belly.
The delivery boy—who was my age, ok looking, not great, not terrible—was watching Ginny like a puppy watches a burrito in a child’s lap.
When Ginny grabbed the pizza box out of the boy’s hands, I had to turn away.
“And here’s the tip,” she said.
“Nah. It’s ok, m’am, seriously,” the boy said, suddenly hurried.
Ginny implored, in something resembling words.
“But seriously,” the kid said, now horrified, “that’s the illest place in the world to put a dime.”
“For Some Reason It Never Feels Right” is the occasional blog of Linda Weissberg MFT.
Speed Dating
The birthday gifts my mother gave me were more like a series of insults than a present. A new outfit with an empire waist to hide my belly. A gift certificate to a salon she found on Yelp that specializes in curly hair. And one VIP admission to the Jewish Shalom Speed Dating event in Albany last Wednesday.
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What My Mother Used to Look Like
Aside from hate speech and porn spam, I really don’t get many comments. So I try to reply when I do.
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My mother is so upset about Gaza.
My mother is so upset about Gaza. She and Ron were going to go on a couples’ caravan through Israel in March, and now her havurah is having second thoughts. Gail thinks they all should just go to Laughlin, but my mother already shopped for Israel. Read more »
Why I Should Have Abstained from New Year’s Eve
I promised myself that’d I’d never be friends with a woman (read: girl) who ever seriously took an abstinence pledge. This promise would be especially applicable to befriending a woman approaching thirty years old who took the pledge at nine and has lived with its miserable logic for two full decades.
But I’m all about exceptions.
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When I Was a Child, I Did Exactly One Cute Thing
When I was a child, I did exactly one cute thing. Read more »