Everyone wants to love what they see staring back in the mirror. And, I’m not referring to that inner-beauty nonsense that isn’t real. Well, inner beauty can be real, I guess. But your outer beauty is always being evaluated. Mostly by you. And I’d bet, if you’re like near everyone else on the planet, that you focus on the imperfections. When we check out our crooked nose or thinning hairline, it’s a reminder that not only are we imperfect, but we’re imperfect and aging. Those are two very heavy trips, dig? So, we asked for your questions about how to cope with said imperfections. Allison Arnone and I did our best to lighten your load. Read on, where we help you co-exist with your warts and all. (Oliver Cromwell reference, sucka!)

I hate the bump on my nose and wish I didn’t have “white girl butt.” Should I get them fixed or just deal?” – Jen

Allison – When I was in Jr. High, I decided I hated my nose.  It’s a ‘family’ nose; I come from a long line of folks on my mom’s side who don’t exactly have cute little pug snouts and instead have pretty substantial schnozes.  I never wanted a Sweet 16 party (believe it or not I don’t like that kind of attention) (no, seriously) so I half-jokingly asked my parents for a nose job instead.  They always laughed it off, and guess what?  I got older, and I stopped caring.  My nose is fine.  It’s fine!  It’s not adorable or cute or little and it’s certainly not perfect but when I see my other family members rocking similar honkers, I’m glad I didn’t fix mine.

So, yeah. I’m willing to bet that bump on your nose is more of a tiny speed bump that only you notice and no one else – so I say leave it.

As for the butt?  Yeah, I have that problem, too.  I don’t know, guess you could do squats?  Wear butt pads?  Get that surgery that all the Kardashians have but deny having?

D.J. – Hi Jen. Here’s the thing about certain body parts – you literally never see them. I believe it’s the reason why so many women have horrible back tattoos. I’ve dated 27 women with horrible back tattoos and I always go, “That’s a horrible back tattoo.” And they go, “Yeah, I know. I should get it fixed or lasered off.” But they never do. Why? Because they never see it. Out of sight, out of mind.

But you have to stare at your nose bump for the rest of your life, every morning while applying foundation. You can’t escape it. And it’s going to piss you off every morning. Life is hard enough. Get the bump fixed, but not for vanity or sexiness – but because it makes you feel crappy and feeling crappy is not a great way to start the day.

As for your butt being “white girl” I’m assuming you wish it were bigger. Let me quell your fear. I have never heard a man say, “Ugh, my old lady’s fanny’s too small!” Not once. But (pardon the pun) we do complain if it’s too big. Less is more.

My husband and I have a great/healthy relationship, but he always “jokes” about how I should get breast implants. I’ve had a relatively flat chest my whole life and clearly it wasn’t a deal breaker for him, but should I consider surprising him and getting them?? -A-Cup

Allison – Do YOU want breast implants?  Feminist rant time: we’re currently living in a world where a bunch of men are trying to make decisions about women’s bodies.  Cool!  Personally, I have this crazy little rule where I only do things as it relates to my own body/mind if *I* want to.  You want to go from a 32A to a 34DD?  Go right ahead!  But do it because you want to join the Big Titty Commitee and not because your hubs “jokingly” pressured you to.  Also, have you “jokingly” let him know about all the penile enlargement procedures that are out these days?  Haha, what fun jokes!

D.J. –  Your husband sounds like a true delight. Joking about a woman’s breast size is a universal no-no. It would reduce even the most confident feminist to a pile of tears. I’ve dated As to DDs. Real and fake. And you know what? None of it really matters. If you’d feel better with giant bombs, go ahead. Or just tell your husband that joking about your cans isn’t cool. I’d suggest you make fun of his physique but I’m sure he’s already got six pack abs and a massive wang.

I look too much like my parents, who are toxic and whom I’ve recently cut out of my life. – Tits McGee

Allison – Yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiikes.  I’m sorry you have a bad relationship with your parents, but hopefully it’s not to the point where you want to full-on alter your appearance.  But if you DO, I suggest using whatever surgeon the Kardashian family uses, since they all did a good job of obtaining brand new faces that don’t even remotely resemble the ones they were born with.  (I’m aware I’ve mentioned the Kardashian family twice already, but… #relevant)

D.J. –  Okay, but Ms. McGee, were your parents attractive? Because if Brad and Angelina’s oldest emancipated, that kid would still look like Brad and Angelina. Which is not the worst lot in life. Now, if your parents had unfortunate jawlines and asymmetrical eye heights, then you should probably get on that face transplant list. You usually have to be attacked by a rabid monkey to qualify, but if you’re ugly enough, you might already look like that. Get a new face is what I’m saying.

I want (need) to lose weight, but I don’t want to diet. Or exercise. HALP -Dee

Allison – Girl, same.

D.J. –  Easy – cut out sugar and grain. The weight will peel off within days. And let’s face it, you’ve eaten enough bread and Skittles for a lifetime. Oh, and you should sell your car and run everywhere. Now, I know you said no exercise. But if you don’t have a car, running seven miles to the Piggly Wiggly is just called “getting groceries.” It’s a brain trick, yo!

I have always been overweight and I think it makes me look hideous -Monica

Allison- This makes me sad.  If you’re truly unhappy, make some changes.  I wrote a blog post about this (click HERE if you want to read) where I talked about changing the things in your life that you actually DO have control over, since there are so many things we actually can’t control.  One of those things?  If you’re truly unhappy with your body, you can eat better and exercise.  I certainly don’t think it’s easy – in fact I know it can be very hard – but it is doable, especially when you’re ready, willing and motivated.  Good luck!  And don’t be so hard on yourself!

D.J. –  Chicks have it tough with their bodies. Us guys can lose weight easily just by cutting calories and hitting the gym. You birds have all sorts of hormones that screw with water retention, fat storage, and metabolism. So, at the end of the day, there’s probably not a ton (pun INTENDED) you can do about your weight. Might just be genetics. Now, here’s the good news – your mind really only cares about effort. If you bust your ass in the gym six days of seven and say no to the office danishes, you’re going to feel awesome. Because you did something hard. Just keep doing hard things, and let the physical chips fall where they may. You’ll be happy regardless.

I have a cowlick just to the left of center at my hairline. It has been tormenting me my entire life. It is a wild, untamed beast. IT MUST BE STOPPED. What would you do? – Alyssa

Allison – I, too, have a cowlick right where I part my hair on the left.  I once cut bangs and it was glaringly obvious that I had rogue hairs that would NEVER be tamed and go where I wanted them to go, so I quickly grew the bangs out.  Now?  I just kind of deal with it because these are very scary times we’re currently living in and cowlicks should be the least of our problems.  Also, whenever I picture an actual cow licking someone’s face I laugh because that’s kind of adorable.

D.J. –  Since I only made it through two years of Harvard Medical School, and I never got to the cowlick lecture, I’m not wildly qualified to answer this question. But, from Catholic high school I learned that God can fix just about anything with miracles. But he never did much with hairlines, from what I read. Moses, however, did part the seas for the Jews. And all he did was ask God for a little help. So, I’m guessing God can part your hair correctly. So throw your hands high to the heavens and ask that HE answers your prayer. Report back. Bonus tip – God responds well to flattery so maybe start with a compliment about his booming voice and how it’s really sexy sounding.

In the new year, I am trying to (surprise, surprise) lose weight. I also am trying to date more. That is where the problem lies! How can you be healthy while dating? So far, I told one guy on a first date and he did everything to sabotage me and I couldn’t lay the law down because I am trying to be nice… TRYING… Lol. That didn’t last. I definitely don’t want to be a cliche “I’m on a diet girl” when dating… Help! -F

Allison – Ugh.  Men want us to be all cute and skinny but they ALSO want us to gorge on chicken wings and pizza with them.  MAKE UP YOUR MIND, BOYS!  I think there’s a happy medium here.  Go on a first date and get a couple of drinks (nothing too sugary or high in calories) and if you DO get food, don’t completely go batshit and eat something terrible.  You don’t have to eat a plate of kale but you also don’t have to split sky-high nachos, either. Keep in mind there’s also something called “living a little” and “cheat days” so don’t go too nuts if you’re putting in work the rest of the week.  Good luck!  (with both the dieting and the dating, cause they both suck.)

D.J. –  Am I the only guy that loves it when you take a date to the best steakhouse in town and she only nibbles at her petite filet? You know why that’s sexy? Because I know she wants to wolf it down like a pig, but she’s showing restraint. That’s attractive. Ooh, but here’s the pitfall of that strategy – don’t leave 95% of the steak for the busboys. Tell the date, “I’m eating this tomorrow” and get a take-home bag. Nothing pisses us off more than when I woman orders a $75 ribeye and then leaves it. So, as long as you’re willing to walk around the rest of the night with a smelly piece of rotting steak in your Kate Spade clutch, you’ll have an awesome breakfast the next day.

Do guys really notice small things like eyebrows and nails?? -Fran

Allison – I’m not a guy so I’ll let D.J.  take this one.  But if I had to answer I’d say, “who gives a shit?”

D.J. – Not only do I not notice such things, I don’t even notice eye color. I’m not kidding. I’ve had many long term relationships and I’m not confident which of them had brown eyes or green. In fact I just had to double check my own. They’re blue.

Nails? I’ve never once thought of a woman’s nails. Neither has any man. Just don’t get too weird with it where you’re painting each one with a stenciled design and when you look at them all together it spells your name or something.

What is the best way to make sure I don’t have resting double chin face while in public? -Double Chin City

Allison – Hope you have an Amazon Prime account cause this bad boy is designed to take that double chin and transform it to the single variety.  And it’s not weird looking at all.

D.J. –  I have a far more simple solution. You know how photographers always shoot you from above your head facing downward to eliminate double chins in pictures? Simply make sure that all the people you hang with are taller than you. Sure, it might mean getting a new set of friends, but hey, the current batch probably weren’t all that great to begin with. What was their solution to your double chin? Probably nothing! Ditch ‘em and find better, taller people.. Your new friends will never even see your chins!

How do I make myself look more like the “Wendy” from the Wendy’s logo, and not like my dad, Dave Thomas, in a wig? -Wendy Thomas

Allison – Just so I’m clear, you want to be a young freckle-faced redheaded girl with pigtails?  I’m sure that can be arranged, but I personally think Dave Thomas is a stud. (RIP)

D.J. – I’m hoping that you’re not more that seven years old, Wendy. If you’re an adult I’m sending the men with the white coats to come pay you a visit. It’s for your own good.

What is the best way to hide my wobbly bits during sex? – Anonymous

Allison – Two words: lights. off.  Always.

D.J. – Reverse cowgirl, duh.

Okay, fisticuffs are an exaggeration. I haven’t ever participated in a true, punch-throwing fight. Once in my youth I jumped on top of a guy who was trying to hurt a co-worker of mine and I tried to choke him out. It was fifteen years ago and seemed like the best option at that moment. After the incident (which lasted ten seconds) my co-worker said, “I’ve never seen anyone use a strangle move before.” I must have appropriated that technique from all of the 1980s buddy cop movies I watched as a child. I haven’t been in a fight before or since.

While I am capable of getting charged with anger, I don’t let other people bug me to the point where I need to separate their nose from their face. It’s too much energy. Also, I don’t want to know what the inside of a bail bondsman’s office looks like. I’m guessing stained shag carpeting with a heavy stench of stale Merits.

To prove of how cool under pressure I maintain, I offer this anecdote. Just yesterday while driving to the vet I looked over and a guy was flipping me the bird. Instinct took over and I belly laughed. I don’t know why he was upset since I drive like an old lady, but somehow I had offended his sensibilities. My laughing agitated him and he intensified the speed of his finger-wagging. This made me laugh harder.

But I did find myself ruffled this past Friday at the orthopedic office.

For the first time in my 39 years I have a body ache. Somehow I made it this far in life without a broken bone or dislocated rotator cuff. I’ve never had back pain, tennis elbow or shin splints.

When I’m at the gym and the trainer has me doing the ultra-manly standing squats and lunges, every so often my left knee hurts. It’s uncommon but when it comes I have to stop the exercise. Since I pay good money for health insurance, I booked a consultation with a knee specialist. My personal trainer, no joke, suggested it was all in my head and not real. I didn’t get upset with him because he’s kind of a dummy. He suggested, “Maybe you got a placebo going on. You know, in your head.” I didn’t have the heart to correct him on the definition of “placebo.”

At the orthopedic’s office, before the exam room, a technician was assigned to check my height, weight, and blood pressure. I had to stand on a scale and a measurement thing lowered onto to my head.

Okay, you’re 5’11”.

Wait, did you say 5’11”?

Yes.

Oh, that’s wrong. I’m 6’2″.

That’s not what the scale says. [Points to screen] 5’11”.

Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you, but I’m 6’2″.

Do you want to have the machine test you again?

Sure, unless it is going to show 5’11”. Because then we’ll be right back here and I’ll be telling you I’m 6’2″.

[Points again at screen]

Okay, let’s give the machine another chance at doing its only job. [I step back on scale]

Oh, you’re 6’1″.

No, I’m 6’2″, actually just a few millimeters shy of 6’3″, but in the interest of compromise I’ll go with 6’1″.

[Blank stare]

—

Next he tested blood pressure and I scored a 190/94. That’s high and I’ve never in my life measured anything outside of normal range. It’s possible this was an accurate reading since I was reeling from the height debate I had just lost. I learned that when someone challenges a fact about myself, I do not handle it well. I would bet that my frustration notched up the blood pressure reading a few points. I’m not sure what scam the tech thought I was attempting to pull. I’ve heard women tell me that men lie about their height on dating profile websites, so maybe he thought I was gay and flirting? If I was into orthopedic-male-height-and-weight-techs-with-scary-tattoos-behind-their-right-ear, maybe he’d have a point.

Later in the exam room I joked with the doctors about what happened. I made it a point to make it seem funny because I didn’t want to get the tech in trouble or make him look incompetent to his bosses. I mean, he is incompetent, but everyone needs to earn a living. But I also didn’t want the chart to be wrong. I mentioned that since the machine was off on my height, maybe my blood pressure reading wasn’t accurate either.

They remeasured the blood pressure and this time it was a perfect 180/20. Regarding my pain it turns out I have something called Runner’s Knee. This would be a badge of honor if I placed in Ironman competitions. It’s less cool since I run only three miles on a treadmill twice a week. It’s fixable, however. I have to strengthen a few muscles around the knee and even a tiny muscle in my rear end. They scheduled me for some PT sessions where I can learn the exercises and bring them back to my trainer.

Later that day at the gym I attempted to tell my trainer about the meeting with the doctors. I believe he was offended because he cut me off with, “I could have told you all that. I’ve been training you a year, so I know what is going on with you.” It’s an odd choice to get defensive over getting some x-rays and talking to a doctor, but again, he’s dopey. Maybe he felt I was blaming him or something – which is insane because I never blame him. My trainer got fired a few years ago for threatening to beat up a client in the gym. Then, he filed a suit against the gym and they gave him his job back. This is not rumor or exaggeration. This is the exact story he told me on our second ever training session. Since then I have been very careful to agree with everything he says.

“Yeah, I know you know more than those doctors, but I just wanted to make get the x-ray, make sure I didn’t have arthritis. Or the placebo.”

photo credit: TRX Personal Trainer via photopin (license)

I’ve been into New Agey crap for twenty years. Most of it is BS but I’ve always found spiritual practices entertaining. Back when I was nineteen I was introduced to the idea of chakras. Whether they’re real or not (probably not) I can still feel all seven of them simply by putting my attention on those areas of the body. Which to me, if they’re not real, is even more amazing. That the mind is so powerful that one can create feelings in certain spots of  one’s physical being.

For years I’ve read about the Law of Attraction which has been popular ever since  The Secret hit. This was a best-selling book that millions embraced because it introduced the idea of daydreaming. Yes, you can have what you want by merely thinking of it! Of course, the real world doesn’t work that way. You need to bust your ass to get what you want.

Or do you?

I’m currently reading a book on manifesting. I won’t mention the name, but all these types of books are pretty much the same. They claim there’s a force in the universe that, when you align yourself with, will bring into reality that which you desire.

The easiest way to defeat this philosophy is to think of all the starving people in the world. Maybe they just didn’t think about food hard enough! Clearly nonsense. However…

What if it is possible to attract certain things just by thinking about them?

In this book you’re supposed to put your attention on what you want (the author said to pick something small that you believe is possible but unlikely to happen) and give it a due date of forty-eight hours. You’re to literally command the universe to produce your wish within two days.

I like bossing things around so I figured I’d give it a try. Nothing to lose really.

I won’t mention what I’m attempting to manifest but it is objectively verifiable. In two days I’ll either have this thing or not. One of the points of manifesting, the author states, is that you have to believe that receiving the item is possible. I’m putting aside all logic and reason and changing my belief system for the next few days.

In my experience to bring something into the world requires hard work and discipline.

But then again, I have also had unusual circumstances where things I wanted just showed up.

In an earlier exercise from the book I attempted to manifest that a brand would contact me to do a promotion. Brands rarely reach out to me – it’s not a common occurrence. Two brands tweeted out to me within the next day. Weird. But could also be coincidental.

The worst thing that could happen with this exercise is that I don’t end up with what I didn’t have anyway. Should that occur, I’ll get back to my normal way of manifesting. Putting my head down and working diligently for a long period of time.

But if it does work I’m going to milk this manifesting thing for all I can get. Riches, fame, fortune? Already on the list.

Also, if the universe was really cool it would hook me up with chiseled abs without me having to do any sit-ups.

I COMMAND THEE!

photo credit: Malingering via photopin cc

I love reading other people’s planners, lists, and schedules.  One of the highlights of my month is reading the “My List” column in  Harper’s Bazaar.  It is simply a list of things a certain designer does in his /her day.  I gobble it up.  Not just because I feel I’ve gotten to know the likes of Tom Ford and Diane von Furstenberg, but also because I get ideas on how I’d like to spend my time.

Because of my illness,  I could never keep the hectic schedules of these successful artists.  But I do have a schedule, which reminds me I HAVE A LIFE…a good life.  So, here it is, my day, a la, Bazaar Magazine…24 hours with tea expert and struggling-to stay-healthy-and positive blogger…Cj….!

I wake up  between 9 and 11 a.m.  I have trouble sleeping, and since I don’t have to be up at a certain time, I let my body unfold naturally and slowly.  On bad days, I lie in bed and check my email and Pinterest on my Android.  On good days, I put on some comfortable workout gear, drag my Pilates mat in to the living room, say hello to the cats and make some tea.
Before I can exercise, I must get a bit of something in my stomach.  Usually, that’s a piece of grilled sourdough bread and  a pot of green tea  brewed Gongfu style, (pronounced Kung Fu, like the TV show!)  I put my tea and toast on a tray and bring it all over to the mat.  I take my breakfast cross legged on the mat, and when finished, I do some reading to increase my knowledge about tea.  Right now it’s the huge “The Story of Tea” by Mary Lou and Robert Heiss.”

After my stomach has settled a bit, I do a 30 minute Pilates mat routine.  I hate to exercise, but I love how these moves wake my body up.  On good days, I’m done with all this by noon.

Then I go change into jeans, usually, and a button down or knit shirt.  My colors are military ones; denim, navy, khaki, grey, olive drab, and camel.  For additional color I’ll use a scarf or my bright purple Doc. Marten loafers. I MUST wear jewelry.  Usually a tiny pearl in a golden cage necklace that belonged to my grandmother and gold hoops.  Rose perfume, lip liner, sunscreen and mascara finishes the everyday look and makes me feel “dressed.”

The work of the typical day involves cooking for my husband and I, tasting and reviewing two or three teas, planning, (I LOVE TO PLAN…it gives me hope for the future…important for someone who is prone to depression,) and housework like laundry and de-cluttering.

At about 2 p.m. every day, my fat, white and grey cat, Ben,  demands to be brushed, so I take 10 or so minutes to spend time  with him.  The thinner, black one-Moses, is out galavanting at that time, so this is my time with Ben!

After 2, I start to get anxious, which is my cue to eat some protein.  I know I should eat BEFORE I get anxious.  I’m working on that.  So I lunch between 2 and 3.  Afterward, I go back to planning, or reading, or writing.  On running days, (an average of 2 times a week) I’ll spend half an hour putting together the perfect play list.  I have to have variety.  Yesterday I bought two Partridge Family songs and “You Better you Bet” by the Who.  Nostalgia and a good beat are good for my brain.

My husband gets home around 6, and he is wonderful about NOT demanding dinner at the same time every night.  Some of our favorite meals are bread and cheese and cured meats and fruit.  I like to have some sort of vegetable or salad prepared.  One can never get too many vegetables, and we often don’t eat enough.

After dinner there’s usually tea, dark chocolate, and more reading or Netflix.  The Last Emperor is top of my playlist.  All this tea has me craving more information about China!  I hope to visit next year.

My bed time is still undefined.  I try to go to bed earlier so my wake-up times will naturally become closer to my husband’s 6 ish alarm.  Yet every time I try, I seem to get anxious and insomniac and I completely defeat the purpose.  For now, I’ll stick with what I have.

I shower at night since showers relax me.  As someone who struggles with sleep, I don’t particularly like bedtime, so I’m working to make it as fun as possible.  I am currently shopping for pretty pajamas that are comfortable enough for me to actually wear.  

Brushed-back satin is the ticket, but harder to find than silky negligees, which are lovely, but feel sticky.

I listen to  audio books about cosmology or philosophy  to fall asleep!  These topic are interesting enough to keep my limbic-brain busy, but removed enough from my life to keep my from being stimulated.  I couldn’t listen to tea books, for instance.  I would stay up all night taking notes or making tea!

No matter what time I got to bed, I usually get to sleep around midnight or one, though I avoid looking at the clock.  Before I know it, the cats are meowing and it’s 10:30 a.m.  Time for tea!    Yay!

I’m back on the bike-to-work routine. I put my suit and lunch in a pannier bag that is attached to my bicycle, and then strap my dog to my back. We jump on the lakefront trail and pedal ten miles to work. It’s not an easy commute. Beautiful, but not easy.

Two things.

First, the fanny. Every year this comes up. My fanny doesn’t get a lot of action in the off season. (insert sophomoric joke here) For some reason the cheeks totally forget what a small bicycle seat wedged up there feels like. After my first day of biking (20 miles total), the next morning is like fire back there. And that lasts for about a week. I’m sure it’s all bruised up and gross – I was about to make a “now it’s black, blue, and brown” joke but that was a little too immature, even for me. (but I did it anyway!) Jumping on the bike every morning is painful for my rear, but hey, I don’t use my fanny for much other than pooping, so I can deal with it.

Second, the goddamned wind. Chicago is known as the “windy city” and yes I know that is really a political reference, but it’s windy as all get-out, too. And, for some reason the wind always blows north which means my ride to work is brutal. I’m overweight, carrying a dog, and out of shape facing a steel breeze. It sucks.

Now to be fair the ride home is usually easier because the wind rarely changes direction during the day, so it’s at my back. But I’m also beat from the day so I don’t get to enjoy it as much.

What I’ve learned by riding my bike is that I don’t really love bike riding. I do it for the exercise. And it’s really tough for me. I’m also, once I start, no matter how difficult it is, unable to stop. If I want to just walk the rest of the way I’d have to hail a cab and figure out how to get the bike in that backseat behind the plexiglass. In other words, there’s no way out. I must keep going, no matter what.

I’ve been caught in 35 mph winds and torrential downpours.

So, at 7:30am if the wind is blowing 20mph in my face (this just happened yesterday), there’s nothing I can do but push on. It’s a great reminder that I am not in control of things. I just have to put my face into the wind and pedal even though I want to quit. Chop wood, carry water, and all that zen bullshit.

Aside from being beaten by the elements the other benefit is that I get to spend two hours a day with myself. Most of the time I just drone it out with music or podcasts. Since I don’t do transcendental meditation or anything that requires silence I really have an opportunity to learn more about myself. This means getting quiet and noticing what’s inside.

There will be a time where I’ll be remarried with children and quiet won’t exist except for when I take naps and lock the bedroom door from the inside. Daddy is sleeping and needs you to hang out near the television for an hour. Watch something. I don’t care. Good luck.

I am challenging myself this year to turn down the music and listen to what is going on within. Hopefully there’s something worth reporting. If not, it’s back to my medley of John Mellencamp songs that I’m embarrassed to have on repeat.

Within a week my fanny will be healed, my legs will be back in shape, and I’ll be digging the ride. For now, it’s uncomfortable.

Oh, and I don’t wear those lame skin-tight spandex clothes, so you can’t goof on me for that nonsense. Old Budweiser t-shirts and crappy gym shorts is my thing. But I do have a seven pound chihuahua in a backpack, so I imagine that is something to laugh about.

If you commute like me, good for you. Unless you’re a rollerblader. All those guys are dicks. It’s true.

photo credit: thisisbossi via photopin cc

Every other Sunday I reward my taste buds with seven strips of bacon. I look forward to this ritual of destroying my arteries. It’s good fun and a great way to start a Sunday feeling amazing and terrible at the same time.

I believe in my appliances. I like to exercise their ability to do things they were never meant to do. Stretch their mechanical muscles. I routinely put whole rotisserie chicken carcasses in my garbage disposal. This goes against good judgment and common sense. But I’ve conditioned the disposal and now it can take down a full chicken in about thirty seconds. I even made a video and put it up on YouTube. I believe in my appliances.

In this same vein I put fully dripping grease pans directly into the dishwasher.

First, let’s talk about tinfoil. Sure it helps with the mess, but I have a totally unfounded belief that it cripples the bacon’s ability to perfectly crisp. I don’t like it, and I don’t use it. I can appreciate that you flip foil up on the edges to catch all the grease. That’s a good thing – if you’re a total pussy who’s afraid of getting grease on a five dollar baking sheet, that is.

Me, I take the bacon, defrost it, and carefully lay the strips directly on the pan bottom. I’m not afraid. If it burns a permanent mark into the aluminum, I can handle it.

About two years ago I realized I had completely destroyed the bottom tray in my toaster oven because I put food directly on the rack without tinfoil. I went online to see how much a new bottom was going for – $7 with free shipping. I ordered three and sullied forth.

I have these SOS pads under my sink that must be from 1998. I’ve never used them. I’m not into digging around to remove every black speck that’s stuck to my pots and pans. It seems like way too much work plus the texture totally freaks me out. I can’t even handle cotton balls,  much less it’s tougher big brother, steel wool.

I cook the bacon in the oven, remove them from the pan and then place the whole burned, greasy mess into the dishwasher. No fumbling around in the garbage for a discarded can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew to catch the oil. My dishwasher can handle it.

Well, at least it could until this past weekend.

I was doing a normal clean after my fondue date and I noticed some disgusting yellow shit water at the bottom of the dishwasher. It wasn’t draining. I said a prayer to St. Joseph and ran a full cycle again. Nope. Then I ran it two more times over the next few hours. I’m sure I wasted some water, and I can understand how you don’t appreciate my conservation. I’m just being honest. Still wasn’t draining.

I thought, “Well, it’s been a good run. I regret nothing!” and reached for my plumber’s phone number. Before I called I decided to try to plunge the drain hole. I ran it once more. It drained.

I’m not 100% sure the line was clogged with bacon grease. Could have been any one of the foodstuffs that was attached to my plates. I don’t rinse before putting on the rack. I live on the edge. But I know it’s time to adjust my plans. You don’t come back from the dead twice. My dishwasher headed toward the light and God sent it back to me. I respect this.

I’m not sure exactly what to do next. Tinfoil? Soup can? Become a Muslim and disavow pork products?

Odds are that I’ll just start dumping future bacon grease directly into the garbage disposal. Go ahead and cringe and praise Allah that you’re not married to me.

My friend Suzanne and I (that I’ve known since the fifth grade) pick a movie on Friday nights and then both download it. She lives in Dallas, I’m in Chicago. We watch it and send texts to each other throughout the film. I will complete your next thought – yes, right after the movie I go and shave my vagina.

Now, onto other news.

I just figured something out in this, my thirty-sixth year. I’ve written extensively about how, since I don’t drink, I get high off pizza. Then, like when I did drink too much, I’d crash by 11pm. Well, I think the cycle of self-destruction has finally been broken! I figured out that I can still eat a whole frozen pizza if I buy a thin crust. This works perfect as it gives me the manly satisfaction of “beating” the pizza with only two thirds the calories. I’m still sleepy but I’m not passed out in the dog bed in the family room.

I almost rode my bike to work today. It was in the fifties and last night I was really excited to be able to do this as I’ve received no exercise since November. Well, that’s not technically true, but close enough. I even woke up extra early to put on all the warmer clothes, get the suit into the pack- thing, etc. When I looked outside it was raining. Instead of shaking my fist at the sky and yelling at Jesus for his misdoings, I simply put on my suit, strapped the dog in the backpack and stepped outside to walk to the subway. I didn’t use an umbrella as an act of defiance. Jesus must be taught a lesson!

The other day I sold my old laptop on Ebay. Tomorrow it goes into the mail to the new owner. I’m not terribly convinced I can wipe out all the personal data I have on there. I’m pretty sure that person is not going to be happy to see four gigs of Brazilian leg worship videos.

I’m kidding, of course. My life is so boring I had to make up those words as I don’t know if such a thing exists. I’m not a sicko. Really.

I definitely get a little buzz each time I give my cat her nightly Prozac. It’s a transdermal gel that I rub into her ears. The directions recommend that you wear surgical gloves during the application but I only wear one type of gloves and you know this – shower gloves. So, it’s nice to get a tiny contact hit off the goo. My neurotransmitters are thankful.

Lastly, I’m joining the single people of this world once again. Without going into details my girlfriend and I have decided to call it quits for now. This has been ongoing for many months and we’ve been traveling through it together in support. We’re both on the same page, and most of the sadness has been processed. After two consecutive holidays without each other, I’m beginning to see that this isn’t the end of the world. So, I imagine I’ll have a date or two coming shortly. While I rarely talk about people I know, if they’re truly nuts, the stories will wind up here. Can’t wait.

photo credit: numberstumper via photopin cc

I did a bunch of research on blue lights to see if they do, in fact, help to alleviate depression. Now, I don’t actually have depression. Well, not in the clinical sense. Sure I cry each morning when I awake, but that’s because the weight of the world is squarely resting on my shoulders! You know, normal thoughts. The blue light was appealing as it could help me to feel better and isn’t a destructive high.

During my research I found that therapy lights are the number one prescribed remedy for seasonal affect at the Mayo Clinic. Well, I’m certainly not smarter than those eggheads. So, now I wake up every morning and while I’m eating my cereal I am bathed in blue light like I’m playing a sax solo set at a jazz bar.

Then I pack up the sonofabitch and take it to work. It’s only a little bit bigger than my fist.  I get to work about fifteen minutes before the other employees and turn it on again.  At home I usually fire it up once more before bed when I’m writing.

Does this thing really work? Who the hell knows? But I do believe there’s something about sunlight that is energizing. The blue light is supposed to do the same thing direct sunlight does through the skin.

When I’m on the subway platform, even in single digit weather, if possible, I stare directly into the sun. With my eyes closed. I’m not a sociopath. There’s something that feels so nourishing to me to get even a few minutes of sunlight. I probably look like a weirdo staring into the sun with my eyes closed when it’s winter. Also I have a dog on my back in a pack. It’s a strange sight.

Tonight I started to think about why I don’t do other things that are good for me like some regular cardiovascular exercise. How I can get up every morning and bike ten miles to work, but when it’s too cold I can’t get to the gym. I know we’re imperfect people but the science is clear if I do a bit of cardio each day I’d have some great stuff pumping through my body – you know, neurotransmitters. The real drugs. I wouldn’t probably need the damned blue light.

I know eating ice cream is pleasurable and quick and easy. But getting an hour workout in is so much better. I believe the quality of my life can be summed up in the ability to make decisions that provide me the biggest benefit. I know some people like to say it’s about giving, but screw those martyrs. Nobody likes a show-off.

So, the question isn’t, “How do I become perfect?” The question also isn’t, “How do I get myself to the gym?” The question actually is, “Why am I choosing not to give this gift to myself?” That’s where the magic is.

When I ask this question I’m overcome with sadness about how mean I am to myself. The feeling passes second later, but I am aware that often I don’t think I’m deserving of good feelings. That stops me from the gym. It’s all behind my consciousness, but I think that’s what is happening.

Getting conscious about what’s going on with me is my work in 2013. That and less farting.

Now, if you will excuse me there’s a little bit of Breyer’s Moose Tracks left in the carton and it’s calling my name. I’ll use my blue light to even it out.

Goal setting, meaning actually writing down on paper that what I want to do with a completion date, has been one of those activities that works for me. I hardly ever do it, however. When I get home at night I have to finish getting current on It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (what’s the gang doing this week?!). Plus, if I don’t stuff myself full of pizza how am I ever to pass out by eight o’clock?

I convinced my boss to pay for the event which is an awesome thing for him to do as it wasn’t cheap.

While I sat there and wrote out some professional goals and figured what I wanted to accomplish in 2013 and beyond, I struggled with a thought. If this was a Sex in the City episode this is the part where Carrie would be at her office desk smoking a Pall Mall and pounding away on a Macintosh.

How much should I be going after stuff I want with conscious force and how much should I be letting go of stuff I want and surrendering to the river of life?

Let me attempt to answer that right now. First, I don’t know anyone that is truly happy and successful that doesn’t bust their ass. Whether they’re a great parent, a leader in their industry, a repectable badminton spiker, or one of those suckers who volunteers each weekend at the mens’ shelter, it seems that hard work is mandatory. And I’m all for that. Feels good to pound one out.

Wow – that didn’t sound right at all.

I also know, however, that everything I do will not “fix” me. To write a book of all new content is 2013 is one of my goals for this website. So is a podcast and a merch section. These are all things that I’ll have to bust my ass to do. But I know that at the end, once they’re finished that I won’t be jumping up and down celebrating for long. It will feel mildly good and then I’ll be moving on.

Let’s look at this year. I wrote every day. 95% of the time I didn’t want to. I had nothing to write about. But I forced myself, and as such didn’t miss. It’s hard work. But here’s the distinction and answer to my question earlier – If I had surrendered to not forcing myself to write, I would have written about twenty times this year. I just don’t generally have great creative ideas. But… I think this was okay for two reasons.

1. I knew that if I wrote every day, I’d have around 500 hours of writing experience done by year’s end and I’d be a better writer.
2. On Jan 1, 2013 I was certain I wouldn’t jump up and down congratulating myself on what an awesome dude I am for writing every day the past year.

Since I was clear on my intention (to get better at writing) and that was in alignment with my vision (to eventually support myself through this blog), I felt good about busting my ass (not surrendering to the river of life).

Now, where I do need to let go and ride the raft atop God’s tears (just made that shit up!) is with respect to relationships with myself.

For example, I have a goal of getting thinner. But that really isn’t my problem. Yes, I eat a little too much. Cutting the extra calories and working out is the solution. However, the reality is, when I try to force myself to do those things, it only lasts a little while. I find myself doing the pizza pass-out within a month. Just did it tonight, in fact.

And it was awesome.

My goal, since I’m not morbidly obese or facing a “cut calories or die” situation is to learn how to actually trust my body’s messages to tell me what I need or don’t need. I do not trust my body’s instincts for food and exercise. If I let go of trying to control it with conscious behavior and tune into the frequency of that internal language, I am clear I would be thin and full of energy. But I haven’t yet. So, that’s one of my goals for 2013. Start paying attention to what my body feels around diet and exercise. See what happens.

I love the idea of having goals you have to bust your ass for and goals you have to surrender your will to, just to see which one comes out ahead. I’ll keep you posted.

photo credit: duncan via photopin cc

I know – I talk about sadness a LOT. It’s enough already. As such I’m not going to lament my currenttale of woe, although I will say that it may have involved running out of peach Fresca at my parent’s house yesterday which is total bullshit. I’m kidding. My problems are much worse than that. Like Africa bad.

Okay, not Africa bad.

Here’s what I know about sadness and I’ve written it a few dozen times already – I need to learn how to stay with it without running until it passes. Okay good. Now, let us move swiftly to talk about what’s going on when I feel sad.

Well, actually I am interested in figuring out what is within my control and what is outside. Here’s a little checklist of what may be bringing on my sadness.

• Genetics – Faulty wiring of DNA or other brain/body goofiness.
• Diet / Exercise – Activities to provide and release energy instead of clogging.
• Nurture – Past unhelpful beliefs installed at young age by family.
• Focus – Directing of my thoughts to either empowering or depressing directions.
• Life Events – Natural to be sad because something crappy happened.

This is the checklist of stuff I go through. For example, I’m having a “life event” issue that I’m not quite ready to share. No I didn’t dropkick my cat through the goalposts of life. I’ll bet 99% of you didn’t get that horrible 70s country song reference. But anyway something crappy is happening that is “sad”  justifiable. But, the question is, am I feeling too sad because of other factors?

What if I ran a few miles? Ate better? Directed my focus to what was not-crappy? Talked to my psychiatrist about a med adjustment?

In other words, what is within my control? And how much of it is just regular old sadness which must be tolerated?

If it sounds like I’m over-analyzing sadness, I’m not. I do want to know, however, what I should be doing to correct and what I should just let happen naturally. For example I’ve come to believe I’m kind of a solemn person in general. I have my moments of fun and joy, but my baseline is sort of neutral. I can learn to accept that. Also I had some bad programming as a child (we all did) by well-intentioned parents. That plays a role, too.

I’m not looking to blame my sadness on anyone or anything. I just want to know what I should be doing. The first thing is to feel it fully and embrace it. Okay – check. Now, at what point do I start a gratitude list or hitting the treadmill? Or do I just let it peter out on its own?

I’m not kidding when I say that I really don’t know how this all works. I feel like I’ve been sad for some time now and I’d really like to figure out a solution. I can get out of bed and perform well at work. You don’t need to hide my electric razor because, well, for one, it couldn’t break skin. Two, I’m do something way more exciting like shoot myself out of a cannon into the next town over.

It would be awesome to just know if this is normal depression and to just ride it out. But I’m not sure it is. I guess I could hit the gym and talk with the doctor. Also my therapist helps with the cognitive parts. I’m just so confused on what’s going on.

No reason to feel sorry for me. My life is actually pretty good. I do struggle, however, with finding happiness. I’m not alone. If anyone knows the absolute answers to this stuff, please let me know. We could bundle it on a 10 DVD video program and sell it on late-night television for $297. I have good hair and white teeth so I’ll be the face and voice. Oh, and the body. I’m kind of the full package.

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