Ramblings of a Middle Aged Lunatic

                I was raised Roman Catholic.   Like most kids, I wasn’t given a choice in the matter, I was born into it, a walking talking stereotype. Despite not attending parochial school, I was fond of wearing plaid skirts to class, complete with little girl lace trimmed socks, a teenage boy’s fantasy come to life.   (Although I never imagined anyone had such thoughts about me, many years later several former classmates confessed to me that indeed they did.   That kind of makes an ugly duckling feel better, but I’m digressing.)   I attended CCD (basically Bible or religious instruction, for those not in the know) every year from second grade until seventh, sacrificing Saturday morning cartoons, and missing Muppet Babies .   In seventh the instruction got more serious, and took place Monday nights, forcing me to miss Perfect Strangers . Serious my ass.   Although run by pries...

                I’m not comfortable expressing anger.                 Like many women, I’m like Dr. Jekyll and Mr.   Hyde.   If I was the weather, I’d have only two forecasts, sunny and thunderstorms.   There are no mediums with me.   I’m either happy or I’m in a rage.This is not because I’m bipolar. (or is it)?   It’s because, like many women, I’ve been taught to swallow back my anger until I erupt in a volcanic rage.   Probably most of you had mothers that were 99.9% Donna Reed but a memorable .1% was Incredible Hulk.   And usually the transformation happened over something slight.   After all, the woman smiled bravely while your baby brother vomited all over her and then flew into a blinding rage over a forgotten Lego that migrated under the couch.        ...

This is a story that needs to be told, because I’m fed up with being judged by people who have never walked in my shoes and think they know everything. What I’m about to say won’t be a surprise to anyone that has read my novels; this situation crops up several times with mild variations.   I’ve held back in telling it mainly because I worried it would embarrass my mother.   Well, she’s gone now, so the hell with that.                 Long story short, in 2011, I fell in love.   The kind of love that is fleeting, temporary, and burns very briefly, but I didn’t know that at the time.   His name was Steve. He was the best looking guy I’d ever dated, blonde, blue eyed, tan, and so charming! I never thought a man like that would be interested in a wallflower like me.   I wonder now if my low self-esteem was partially the draw for him.   He enjoyed listing the ways I didn’t measure up,...

                Over the past couple of years, I’ve written a considerable amount about bullying.   My first book, The Playground, was based on my experiences as a childhood victim and details how it continued to adversely affect my life many years later.   I’ve blogged about bullying, and I’ve written a nonfiction book for parents of children who are being victimized.                   But my bullying resume was incomplete.   Until now.     I had never experienced cyberbullying.   Sure, I’d traded nasty barbs from time to time with my fellow Facebook users, in the heat of a political discussion, but I would hesitate to classify that as bullying.                 As much as it sucked, I’m profoundly grateful, because now ...

   Mr. Rogers Neighborhood was the first program I watched regularly.  I remember crying at the end of an episode at the age of four years old when he said, "See you next week."  I couldn't wait another week to see Mr. Rogers!  Fortunately, he was always on the very next day.  I loved him probably just as much as my own parents.     Of course, once I'd grown out of the Sesame Street phase of life, I scorned Mr. Rogers and the legion of public broadcasting.  He was so lame, in his sweater and shoes (although I loved watching him change into them as a small child), and I would laugh at the various parodies that cropped up over the years.  As I grew into adulthood, I began to have a new appreciation for him, especially when I realized he was still on television talking to children in that patient voice of his.  I think I cried when he died.      Until I watched the documentary on him yesterday, Won't You Be My ...

I lost my father at the age of twenty-nine.   It was not unexpected.   He was terminally ill throughout my twenties, and chronically depressed during my teens.   Ever since I can remember, he had a death wish.   He would talk about death as though it were waiting right around the corner, making statements like, “I probably won’t be alive to see that,” whenever I mentioned graduation or getting married or having kids.   His pending death consumed my life.                             Nonetheless, he remains the meter by which I judge all men.   My father was a profoundly flawed man, and still every man who came after him would fall short of what I viewed as his unrealized greatness.                 My father could have been a contender.   He was extr...