I realized I had a crappy first name when I was five.
Our family was moving from Chicago to Peoria. One day, close to moving time, sitting shotgun, my mother was running errands. At a stoplight she turned and said, “We’re moving somewhere where nobody knows you. If you’d like to change your first name, now is the time.” I had always gone by D.J. (and still do today), but the message I received in that moment was clear.
A guy a know who I’ll call Cullen used to say, “I love you enough to tell you the truth.”
After this proclamation, he would immediately follow it with a barrage of criticisms about how you’re doing things wrong. It was uncomfortable. You’d feel defensive. But after his assault concluded, you’d find yourself saying, “Dammit, the sonofabitch was right.” And he always was. A mutual friend of ours, Jen, was complaining about some shitheel she was dating. Jen is a psychologist and a strong, independent woman. However, she was dating a shitheel. He sucked. We all knew it. She suspected it, but stuck with him. One day, Cullen says to her (apropos of nothing), “What’s up with your self-esteem? You know better than to be with a loser. Get yourself together. Christ!” And Jennifer started to cry. Cullen didn’t flinch. He patiently waited for the sobbing to end. Then Jennifer said, “Yeah… I know.” Because she knew that Cullen was right. She dumped the guy a few days later.
The reality is, like the Buzzy Lindhart song preaches, “…ya gotta have friends…” And maybe the job of a friend, aside from being there when the world collapses around you, is to be there to knock you down a few pegs. For example if I wanted to meet out some buddies and I showed up with a ten-gallon cowboy hat, I hope they would say, “You look like an asshole and aren’t allowed to sit with us. Go home and change.”
But not all friends are created equal. Some downright suck.
Or, rather, parts of them suck. Maybe they always hit on your girlfriend. Maybe they never pick up the check at Applebees EVEN THOUGH YOU SAW THEM EAT ALL THE WINGS. Perhaps they ask to borrow money. Or they’re just not there when you need them most. Or, God forbid, they didn’t “like” the video you uploaded to Facebook about your child’s piano recital.
But, they’re your best friend(s) and you’re likely stuck with them. And they with you.
Let’s help you figure out how to fix the stupid problems you have about your closest pals. Allison Arnone and I are, if nothing else, pretty damned smart. Also handsome. And we have hips that don’t quit for days.
Below here you can enter in the issue you have with your best friend issue, and we’ll solve it. If you don’t see the form below, click here to submit.
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I believed I was so ugly no woman would ever want to date me.
I remember confessing this to a college roommate one summer. He was a handsome fraternity brother who had to fend off women when we went out. He was asking why I never talked to girls and I told him, “Well, I’m just not attractive enough, so why get rejected?” Now, the worst thing you can do if someone confesses their most vulnerable insecurity is to confirm it. Since I believed I was an ugly troll as much as I believed my name was D.J., the only hope that I had was that I might be wrong. But of course, he said the worst possible response.
Look, at the bars, you just don’t go up to the most beautiful women. They probably wouldn’t be interested. Just go for someone who is okay looking. Not beautiful, though.
What do you do to soothe yourself when you’re having a rough day?
I stared at my therapist blankly.
By 10am I had been having a “not feeling good” kind of morning. The cold and the sludge and no sun – it was affecting my well-being. I was bummed. Plus, I hadn’t slept enough the night before. Not in a good mood.
The first thing that my therapist does in our sessions is to ask how I’m doing.
“All I want is to go home, overeat pizza until I pass out, play video games, write jokes on Twitter so people tell me I’m funny, and not be responsible.”
Okay, you want to blow off the day. How will that make you feel if you do those things?
“Um – worse.”
So, escaping is not going to make you feel better. What could you do instead?
“There are things I can do instead of blowing off the day to change my mood?”
She then asked the soothing question. I didn’t understand what “soothing” meant so I asked for examples. Being a woman she listed things like chocolate, pedicures or massages, buying an item of clothing. These I can’t relate to, but I understood the concept. She was talking about self-care. What were some small gifts I could give myself that would change my feelings?
I can’t put on music or a podcast at work and it’s too damned cold to take a walk with my dog. Other than that, I was out of ideas.
She reminded me that I didn’t have any other strategies to cope with a tough day other than powering through or completely escaping. Both are not ideal.
I needed to find ways to give myself things I enjoy when I’m feeling crummy. The problem is I have no idea what soothes me. I just know how to obliterate feelings by going off the deep end into short-term pleasure.
Since I didn’t have any suggestions on soothing she offered this idea – I start trusting that my body knows this information. To continue to stay with the discomfort until answers bubble up from the feeling. I agreed to give it a shot and went back out into the cold.
What I ended up doing was leaving work a few hours early and taking an hour long nap. That was what my body was telling me to do. Then I was interviewed for someone’s podcast and my body suggested another short nap. I obliged.
Now, I’m ready for bed and I feel better. I listened internally and did the suggested actions. I didn’t blow off the day or try to use force to change my state. I trusted there was something happening inside of me and that it would pass. It did.
I still ate pizza and tweeted a little and I’m about to play a video game. But all in small doses.
I wish someone when I was younger would have told me how “feeling your feelings” would be one of the most useful skills to life. Would have saved me God-knows-how-much in therapy.
That being said, I’m still allowing one blow off day a week. Getting high by eating four donuts at 10am is simply fun. Don’t judge me.
photo credit: Adam Kuban via photopin cc
Years ago I used to bother celebrities on Twitter and write about the interactions.
I called it CelebTweets. After a few posts went live a television producer contacted me with an idea. If I wrote fifty more of these she could pitch it to publishers and get a book made.
She cautioned me, however, to be very selective on what else I wrote on my blog. I did a lot of other styles of posts and she thought that might hurt my “brand.” If I wanted a book deal, I needed to decide if I would be the guy that bugs famous people on Twitter exclusively.
I decided against it. I wanted to do other things.
At the time I was separated and starting to go through a divorce which would become the most painful experience of my life. I had only, up until then, written silly posts. I was terrified to try anything unfunny. Looking back, I don’t know why this was such a scary proposition – I only had fifty readers. If nobody liked the serious stuff I could always go back to comedy.
By the way, my dad’s dick post is still the most popular story on this blog. Can you believe 154k visitors read that last year? Yes, that’s sad. And yes, I’m bragging.
I decided to change up my style. I started to chronicle feelings, thoughts, and perspectives around daily life. Sure I’d pepper in a joke or two, but the overarching theme was honesty and vulnerability. That was my mission.
In 2012 I ended up writing every day. I published 185k words that year. And let me tell you, not all of the posts were gold. Some were flat out stinkers.
The number one reason bloggers tell me they don’t write more often is that they want each post to be gold. I understand. I do, too. But I have way more singles and doubles in me than home runs. I also have strikeouts.
Yesterday I struck out. I sat at my computer for two hours trying to save a piece of shit. It wasn’t working no matter how many times I edited. But, in a way, I felt okay about it. The piece was as good as it was going to get. I had pride because even though the post didn’t turn out perfect, I had done all that I could. I hit publish.
According to stats 74% of my daily traffic comes from new visitors. Today many people were introduced to my blog with maybe the worst post I have ever written. I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t return.
So, why do I publish strikeouts?
One, failure is part of human experience. We all put effort into projects that don’t pan out. People relate to mistakes. Two years ago I dropped the need for my posts to be perfect and the weirdest thing happened. My viewership increased. The comments from readers got longer and more frequent. I was connecting with people at a deeper level than that of just fart jokes.
Also, many kept coming back after a less-than-stellar post. People forgive. I found that the only time anyone got pissed was when I didn’t share something intimate or “real.” Like if I wrote a joke that for a quick laugh I would receive little engagement.
I believe part of respecting and honoring an audience is to show them the truth. The flubs. Times that it doesn’t come together. As long as the writing is honest and in my voice I push it through. Now, I accept the consequences of this behavior, too. I lose readers who expect better consistency.
I guess at the end of the day I just want to feel good. During that marathon session yesterday I put my heart and sweat into that piece. I just re-read it again and yes, it’s cringe worthy. It was also the best I could do. I feel good about it because I see all the hard work that went into the process.
The question is, however – should I subject the audience to a mediocre post?
I’m probably alone here, but I say yes. A resounding yes. I just want to try my hardest and let the chips fall where they may. Were there readers bummed out after reading yesterday? I don’t know – I’m sure some were unimpressed.
So, here’s my deal. I write a lot. I have a boring, normal life and sometimes my posts will suck. Usually they won’t. Thanks for understanding.
My friend received a crazy note on her car yesterday.
She had not done the best parking job. She works in a high rise building in the downtown area of Chicago. The garage where she parks is only ever around half full. She woke up late and was hustling to work. By the time she made it to the parking garage she was flustered. She parked the car in a half-assed manner and ran to the elevator. Because of all the empty space she didn’t think twice about it.
When she left work later that day she found a note attached to her windshield. It read:
Dear Shithead – Learn how to park your car better or the next time I’m going to hit your door even harder. I don’t give a shit because this is a company car.
I could write a 2000-word essay on what’s amazing about that letter. I’ll skip ahead and tell you what she did. She took a photo of the license plate and sent it to her brother, a police officer. He’ll run the plate and tell her to whom the car is registered. She’ll then call the company and ask which employee drives XYZ car. Then, she’ll call his boss (has to be a him), and send over the letter. He’ll be fired.
It got me to think about my own inability to hold it together at times. How I can go from sane to crazy in a matter of seconds should the right stimulus present itself.
My psychiatrist put me on a drug a few years ago. I can’t tell you what neurotransmitters it affects, but the way it was explained to me is this – the medicine allows me a few seconds of rational thought before I go into fight or flight. In other words, it provides sanity when I most need it.
I have one of those brains that flips out at the drop of a hat. If you drop and break a plate I’ll jump two feet in the air. I’ll also let out a scream. I’m high-strung and always have been. When I was younger it was named “sensitive” by adults. The kids at school would call it a “spaz.” Thankfully I learned how to internalize my freakouts and keep them hidden from the world. Nobody wants to be the class spaz.
I’m to a point now where I wonder how much of the behaviors I’d like to change are medical vs. psychological. I mean, if someone drops a plate, I don’t have much choice other than to freak out. It’s automatic. Wake me up in the middle of the night and I’ll begin yelling at you before I’m even conscious. With this med, however, I have more control.
I’m also in a therapist’s office once a week to work on my issues. The struggle for me is knowing what I have the ability to change and what just doesn’t work right with my physiology. Is the sadness I feel just a normal reaction to life or because my dopaminergic receptors don’t have the right uptake process? It’s confusing.
So, what do I work on and what do I surrender to meds? The science isn’t yet perfected on figuring out mental health.
What seems to be a true north for me are feelings. To fully feel a tough emotion when it comes up, and learning to trust that it will lead somewhere useful. As a guy, however, I was not taught to indulge in my sadness, fear, anger, or shame. Even after years of practice the process is new to me.
However, I’ve never left a nasty note on someone’s car and dented their door. I’m not far off the charts, thank God.
So for me the formula seems to be something like this:
acceptance of how I currently am + meds for how I currently am + therapy for how I’d like to be + feeling tough stuff
Or maybe I should just keep freaking out and writing about it. It does make for great stories. Like how, to soothe myself today, I bought a huge amount of beef jerky and stunk up my office gnawing on the worst parts of a cow. Then I stunk up my office in a whole other way. It was awesome.
photo credit: Frau Shizzle via photopin cc
In this note the person claimed to be having an affair with another of my readers. I thought this was the coolest thing. Two readers met on my blog and fell in love! When I inquired further, however, the person mentioned that both are currently married. That made me feel less good. I ceased inquiring.
I try to stay out of drama that doesn’t relate to me.
(but secretly, it’s sort of exciting, too.)
Another time a woman began to write regularly in the comment section of my posts. She was often placing jokes into her comments, and sometimes her jokes would skirt a sexual boundary. I always thought of these quips as funny one-liners, and never took them as serious pick-up attempts. Over time she revealed that her husband was in the military and stationed overseas. Then, in one comment she said something like, “I’d let you warm me up.” It was the punchline to a joke she had set up earlier, but it was a little over the line. I ignored it, but the readers didn’t. They eviscerated this person on my site calling her every name you would expect. I think even “hussy” was thrown around – which is one of my personal favorites.
The woman wrote me a tear-filled apology via email. Then she never commented again.
It’s been at least a year since any exciting gossip has transpired.
Well, it’s time to reset that counter back to zero!
This morning I received an email…
D.J. I’ve discovered a rather nasty little reference to my wife in the comments to your March 20, 2013 posting, “My Ex-Wife Got Married …”. The comment is from “Emily” and my wife’s name is XXXXXXXX. I would greatly appreciate it if you could remove the comment. I look forward to your response.
I’m a terrible gambler.
This foolio has been living at the Rio in Las Vegas for the past three days. I haven’t sat down once at a table or slot machine.
I am surrounded by opportunity to play games and win some dough. So why aren’t I gambling?
A few reasons – first, I have an addictive personality. Moderation is difficult and I tend to drift toward the extremes. The past four years of therapy have taught me that learning to live in the middle, the grey, is a very important skill. A skill I don’t have.
When I sit down at the blackjack table I have a hard time leaving. If I win $20, I’m bummed I didn’t win $40. If I lose $20 I want to put in more money to win it back. Thankfully I’ve never been so heavy into gambling that I’ve blown more than $100.
Yeah, D.J. that’s how most everyone feels when they gamble!
Not everyone. My sister’s boyfriend expects to lose. He sets aside gambling money and views it as his entertainment for the evening. As such, he’s never disappointed when he blows it.
If I lose even $20 I’m devastated. I don’t expect to win every hand, but I hope to walk away with something in the black. This, of course, is not how gambling works. But addictions don’t pay much attention to rational thought. Addiction craves the high of winning.
Here’s the second reason.
I don’t have the stomach for large betting. I hit the $5 blackjack tables and never play more than $20 a hand. And when I do that I’m nervous and sweating.
Let’s say I’m really lucky and win $100. True, it’s adding to my overall net worth. But being $100 richer isn’t going to change my lifestyle. I can take my girlfriend out to one additional high-end dinner. If I lose the $100, I can still pay my bills. No real change.
And, as mentioned earlier, I haven’t the nerves for any high stakes.
Since my gut only allows me small bets, I’m never going to win enough to make a substantial difference in my finances. So, what’s the point?
The high of winning is not as intense as the sorrow of losing. I am more affected emotinally walking away down than up. I wish it were reversed, but it’s not how I’m wired. Since the games are tilted to the house’s favor, I have a bigger probability of feeling like poop.
I don’t know how to play most games. The electronic slot machines confuse the shit out of me. I feel like since I’m not Asian I shouldn’t attempt Pai Gow. I never learned Texas Hold ‘Em. Keno is for old people, and craps is way too fast. I don’t assume I’m lucky enough to pick Roulette winners.
Blackjack is the only table where I’ll sit down, and there are rules to maximize your odds. Because I’m such a risk-adverse person, I play the suggested ways. Which makes it boring after a while, even if I’m winning. I’m like a robot. A sweaty, nervous robot.
No, I’ll stick to the seafood buffet. I’m heading to the best one in town tonight. Can’t wait to sit by myself swallowing crab legs, lobster, shrimp, and halibut. I may do a few shots of drawn butter, but that’s only because I’m awesome.
Do you pick up spare change lying on the ground?
I don’t.
I realized this fact on Christmas Eve during our family’s annual holiday party. Carolyn and Laura are two sisters who grew up in our neighborhood. They’re both very successful. One’s a realtor and the other an attorney. The attorney (Carolyn) stated she always picks up change she stumbles across in the real world. Laura does not.
That led to a quick poll of the room.
About half of those in attendance said they picked up coins. When asked why they together barked, “Why not?” The picker-uppers didn’t have more explanation than that. Laura said, “Carolyn, you’re an attorney for God’s sake! You don’t need to pick up a penny.” Carolyn replied, “Yes, but now I’m one penny richer!”
What was interesting is that both camps did not understand the behavior of the others. We both thought each other was nuts.
To me, the idea of grabbing a penny off the ground doesn’t even register as something to do. I don’t use pennies in my life. I don’t use any change. The only time I used a coin in the past year was for a parking meter in a Chicago suburb. Oh, and also when my cat peed on my comforter and I had to go to the laundromat.
I pay for things in cash less than one percent of the time. Here in Vegas at a conference I do carry cash – for tipping. But other than that, it’s all credit cards. I want the airline miles!
I, with pride in my heart, whipped out my Mastercard two days ago at Walgreens for a $.37 purchase.
Now, I find coins on the ground three times a week minimum. Living in a big city, they’re everywhere. And I never bend down and grab them. Even if it’s a quarter, the holy grail of free change, I pass on by.
I started asking myself the tougher question. Like Descartes pondering existence, I wondered at what amount I would reach down and grab free cash. What is my threshold?
Pretty sure that Descartes joke is going to fall flat. I’m leaving it in.
The minimum amount is one dollar. If I ever come across a paper note, it’s going in my pocket. This has never happened.
So, now the question is begged – do I think I’m too good to pick up ground-change?
I’d like to say no, that it’s the dirtiness of the coins or that I’d hope someone else less fortunate finds it and puts it to use. But that shit ain’t true. I have no problem with dirt and grime, and I could always donate my change at the end of the year if I felt guilty about grabbing it.
No, the truth is this – I’m too good to pick up change.
I wish I weren’t typing that but it’s a sad reality. I feel powerful when I walk by a penny and refuse to stop. Like I’m a big shot who doesn’t have the time. And doesn’t need it.
Now, there’s no reality here – I’m not so wealthy that I don’t have the time. True, finding change isn’t going to speed up my retirement, but I’m not above visiting the CoinStar once a year to receive a small sum.
So, here’s my new proclamation – from now on I will now pick up EVERY coin I see lying in the street. I will donate all cash at the end of the year to something so I’ll feel like an ever bigger shot.
See what I did there? Clever, no?
I'll never give this child another cigarette, pinky swears!
