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.

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.

I thanked him for the advice and then walked slowly into the kitchen to find a sharp enough steak knife to slit my wrists. My biggest fear had been confirmed. See – I wasn’t crazy. Other people thought I was hideous, too.

A year passed and I decided that well, I just couldn’t do anything about my looks. Bad DNA. But, I knew I was funny. Funnier than just about anyone. So, every chance I got I would approach women and make them laugh. I’d stand next to them and point something out that was going on and goof on it. Comedians call it observational humor. Eventually I became so good at it, I decided it was time to try to parlay this skill into romance.

One day I met this girl and I made her laugh. She was about the prettiest woman I had ever seen. I wanted to ask her out in the worst way. But I didn’t want further confirmation that I was un-datable, which I was convinced would come if I asked her out. So, I told her, “We’re going out on Saturday. The lead singer of my band is in a play. I’ll pick you up at five.” See, she couldn’t reject me if I never asked her out. She laughed and said she was looking forward to it.

We went on a few more dates and one night she said, “You know, you’re really handsome.” I replied, “Look, that’s very sweet, but there’s no need to lie to me. I know what I look like.” She stared at me like I was nuts. “Uh, no. You’re good looking. My friends think so, too.” From that moment I no longer considered myself ugly.

My point is that sometimes change comes from the outside. I know every self-help book would like you to think, “You won’t feel pretty until YOU believe it!” and yes, that’s technically true, but it doesn’t mean that something external can’t tip the scales.

Allison Arnone and I can be that external source. Are you a man/woman struggling with a gock/gunt? Is your hairline receding? Did you join the Spanx of the Month subscription service? How about those ashy elbows? Do your teeth point in every direction but north and south?

I’d like to point out that we don’t think any of the above conditions are “bad” or need fixing. If you’re happy with your physical appearance and its many, many imperfections, congratulations. But I’d bet there’s a few things that annoy you when you look in the mirror. We can help solve those issues.

Also, remember, the form is anonymous. Feel free to share your most insecure physical issues. We won’t ask for a photo, and I don’t really want to see your superfluous third nipple anyway.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to brush my hair one hundred times while staring longingly in the mirror.

Click here or fill out the form below to submit your issue about your physical appearance!

“I’m going to have something made to send out to all the people that write in questions for our column!” Allison responded with, “Uh huh. Have fun.” Okay, she wasn’t into it. In fact, I’ve witnessed more excitement in line at a salad bar. Now, to be fair, Allison’s and my communication mostly consist of me writing stupid things on email or instant message and then waiting for her to get annoyed. Just yesterday I was drawing up the graphic for our newest column. As a goof I created an additional one which I emailed over with, “Next month, I have our topic.” This was attached.

Allison’s entire reply?

*sighs loudly*

Deep down I believed she laughed. But she doesn’t want to encourage me. Allison thinks my ego is big enough and has made it clear that someone needs to dress me down. So, even when I have what I think are great ideas, she’s often lukewarm. And, to be fair, her compass is well-tuned. Over the holiday break I ran with this idea that I would come up with something to send out to the people that write in questions for our column. When I landed on, “Stickers! We’ll send them a sticker!” Allison was confused. “Nobody wants a sticker, D.J. Least of all, about us.” However, I had already paid someone a few shekels to draw caricatures about us. I figured once she saw the end result, her opinion would change. After a week the artist completed the job. I emailed over the proof for Allison’s approval. As expected, she hated it.

“Once again, I’m really not excited about this idea. Nobody needs another sticker and, by the way, that doesn’t even look like me!” I replied with, “It looks exactly like you. Now shaddup.” And, it does look like her. Way more more than mine. At least she doesn’t resemble an early-forties lesbian. I was going to ask the artist to draw in chest hair, which would have made people vomit, but at least confirmed my masculinity.

To me this was a slam dunk. We’d sign a bunch of these in advance, and then if when we answered questions we’d mail out a sticker. It’s a goodwill gesture and us showing appreciation to the readers. I’m not unrealistic, however. I’m aware someone would receive this sticker and deposit it directly into their garbage disposal. But that didn’t matter to me. I wanted to go above and beyond for the people nice enough to support us. And, in theory, it is a good idea.

There were a few problems, however. First, we don’t ask for anyone’s email in the question submission form. This is by design because often people write in anonymously with personal details about themselves or their families. So, I’d have to add that field to the form, and then email them asking for a mailing address. “Hey, muskassistant@tesla.com, thank you for your question about how to handle your boss’s infatuation with staring at your butt when putting away files. Where should we send this thank you sticker?” It sort of undermines the whole anonymity premise of the column.

I assumed Allison’s reluctance was a smokescreen for her true feeling that she didn’t like the caricature of herself. So I ignored her complaints and almost ordered a few hundred stickers. But, the truth was she just didn’t think it was a good idea. I disagreed, but after I reflected on it, she was right. Most people aren’t going to want to provide their personal information and, even if they do, aren’t going to get excited about a dopey sticker.

So, the sticker project is scrapped. I’m working on some other ideas to thank our readers. Here’s a prototype I’m toying with. A thank you throw pillow. Practical and classy!

photo credit: Bill David Brooks iphone 6 Plus Elon Musk Wallpaper via photopin (license)

Who goes to Iceland for New Year’s Eve?

When my sister sent out a blanket email to her friends back in June, I was in a terrible place in my life. Weeks before I had just been dumped by the woman I thought I would marry. I had sold my condo to move into hers but after the breakup found myself in a high rise rental nursing a broken heart. I’m a big believer that during crisis I’m best off doing what others tell me. The email my sister sent said simply, “Who wants to go to Iceland for New Year’s Eve?” My mind flashed to instances where people vacationed to Reykjavik and reported that it was one of the best vacations of their life. It took less than thirty seconds for me to reply. I was in.

I believe the original group was seven, but in December I learned that it would only be my sister, her husband, and me. We picked up a few books about Iceland and started reading. My knowledge of the country was nil. I was familiar with a few Bjork songs and knew they had the world’s first woman president. Oh, and something about the northern lights. That’s it.

We spent six days in Iceland exploring the country. The weather was better than Chicago and averaged around 32 degrees. Cold but not miserable. At this time of the year the sun comes up around 11:15 am and departs at 3:15 pm. If you wanted to see stuff without flashlights, you needed to plan your day.

I’m going to focus on a few events and sights, but spread over a few posts. Let’s start with Iceland’s most popular attraction, The Blue Lagoon. This is not to be confused with the Brooke Shields film of the same name where she plays a nude fourteen year old who falls in love living in the jungles of the South Pacific.

By the way, how did that movie ever get made? Must have been the pervy-est pitch meeting of all time. “No, don’t worry – we’re going to tape her long hair over her cans so you can’t see the nips. It’ll be classy!”

Iceland’s Blue Lagoon is about an hour’s drive from Reykjavik. Because it’s so popular you can’t just show up – you need an appointment. Oh, I haven’t told you what it is. It’s the world’s largest geothermal spa. Crap, you probably don’t know what a geothermal spa is. Well, I don’t either, but here’s my best attempt at explaining. 100% of Iceland’s power comes from renewable sources likes sun, wind, and water. Because of the volcanoes in the country, the lava underground heats up the natural water. Power plants take in the hot water and harvest electricity and then ship the water back out into the earth. Near the Blue Lagoon is a power plant. Instead of just feeding the water back into the ground, somebody figured it would make for a fun spa experience and built a huge pool. The water leaves the power plant and tunnels into the Blue Lagoon where it swishes around for two days before naturally returning to the earth. It’s a milky blue color and averages just under 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

When you arrive at The Blue Lagoon the first thing you notice is how many other people are there. There’s hundreds of other tourists running around and if you are looking for a relaxing spa day, this isn’t going to meet your needs. Odds are your idea of relaxing is not to swim around the world’s largest jacuzzi while it snows on your face. Because that’s exactly what happened during our trip. Well, it actually did much worse than snow on my face. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

My brother-in-law and I booked massages and I thought we’d be shuffled off to private interior rooms with folding tables, patchouli incense and bad new age music. Nope – this massage would be done in the water. Outside. We quickly showered (a requirement before entering the lagoon) and stepped outside to find the water-massage area.

We found our courage and stepped out into the air, glancing around for the water-massage area. It was a good fifty yards from away and the cold air pierced my body with impressive force. I couldn’t run because the deck was littered with snow and ice and the risk of slipping was very real. Plus, it’s important to look cool in front of other people, so I shuffled over at a pace that suggested “Huh, is it cold? I hadn’t noticed.” I’m sure the other tourists were impressed with my ruggedness. Meanwhile frost had developed on my chest hair and I could no longer feel my feet. We reached the massage pool and quickly stepped in the water. The water was so warm that within a minute I no longer noticed the outside freezing temperature. I was comfortable. There were eight masseuses, seven of them men. My brother-in-law and I both prayed we’d be assigned to the one female. Nope. We got dudes.

Let me explain the water-massage setup. It’s a pool where the massage recipient lays on a flotation mat, face up. There is a blanket on top of the body to protect exposed areas from the cold. Each masseuse wore a thick bodysuit and wool winter hat. The men have dense beards. While I didn’t snap a pic of my masseuse, he looked exactly like this.

My masseuse, whose name I didn’t catch but I’ll call Magnús (because it was probably Magnús) hoisted me onto the float raft and draped a heavy blanket across my chest. He asked if I wanted a towel to cover my face. “No, Magnús. Did you not see how I strolled over without discomfort even though my left pinky toe went into frostbite?” He shrugged and started the massage. I was a few minutes in and starting to relax when the first piece of hail hit my cheek. Within seconds my face was being pelted with small, stinging pieces of ice. “Uh, Magnús, I’ll take that face towel now.” He laughed and a few seconds later a towel draped over my eyes protecting me from the ice bullets. The next thing I knew I felt the face towel came off and I saw clouds. Instantly I snapped back into consciousness and realized the session was over. I had fallen asleep. In a hailstorm. Face up and in a pool.

I shook hands with Magnús and exited the massage area. He didn’t say how impressed he was that I could brave the elements, but I could sense it on his face. However, I will not be joining any viking armies to further prove my masculinity, but that’s just because there aren’t any decent viking wars going on right now. Which is a bummer because I’m certain I’d be excellent at pillaging. Plundering, too. I do, though, get seasick like you wouldn’t believe. I’d be heaving my guts before we left port. Bonine – I’d have to bring a shitload of Bonine. Or those tabs you put behind your ear. Oh, and I’d have to grow a beard, I guess.

The Blue Lagoon part II is coming next.

photo credit: acase1968 Johan Hegg of Amon Amarth via photopin (license)

Let’s face it – everyone’s family is nuts.

Yes, even yours. And I don’t mean your twice-removed aunt that shows up on Christmas Eve clearly off her meds. Even the “normal” members of your family are crazy. How could they not be? There’s decades of dysfunctional family history stored in everyone’s hippocampus. Quite frankly I’m impressed you turned out as well as you did. Let’s face it – you’re a survivor. And then every December you voluntarily go back into that den of insanity! After what they did to you! I wish I was half the man/woman you are. To go back and face your antagonists, wow. Just wow. I moved the laptop to the top shelf of my bookcase – right this second – because I needed both hands free. Yes, I’m clapping for you. That’s what you do for heroes. You clap.

This holiday season is going to be both fun and horrible. And while you can handle the fun stuff (eggnog, presents, throwing a snowball packed with an ice at the back of your grandfather’s head), you may need some assistance around the horrible. Allison and I can help you cope.

Don’t think for a moment that Allison and I are master coping gurus. Our stats are worse than yours. However, we’re really competent at telling other people how to fix their stuff. In short, we tell you the truth most people wouldn’t. And we’ll pepper it with a few dirty jokes to help soften the blow.

So, what are you worried about this holiday season? Submit your question here and tell us your problem. We’ll take some time to ponder your quandary (each day opening another window on the advent calendar revealing a delicious chocolate coin!) and return back sage advice. Hey, I like that! We’re sages!

Click her to submit your holiday question that needs fixin’!

I always wanted a writing partner. One with boobs, preferably.

Well, let me back that up. Actually I have never wanted a writing partner.  I’m far too controlling and I believe my creative ideas are superior to others. Or, if someone was more talented than me and I knew it, the unconscious jealousy would cause me to undermine our efforts until the whole thing imploded. Plus, I just do not play well with others when it comes to comedy. Now, that being said, I’ve always still wanted to be around people as funny as me. Or funnier. Years ago I started writing for Aiming Low, when that was still a thing. I was hired on their JV squad with two other humorists. One is a syndicated columnist in 400 newspapers. The other received an “A” from Entertainment Weekly on her recent book. Both are insanely funny. When it was announced I’d be on the team, I became very scared. This is a good thing. It caused me to up my game and compete at their level. Someone thought I had enough potential with literally zero writing credits to my name. That meant something to me. And I wasn’t going to let them down.

These days I write for InThePowderRoom. I pestered the head editor and owner for years before they gave me a shot. In fact, I have a deadline this Thursday and I’m nervous as shit about it. But when I push send in a few days with the final draft, I know it’s going to be fucking awesome. Because that is our agreement. To send in something fucking awesome every month. And here’s the oddest part – it turns out that everything I’ve sent them has been great. It doesn’t take a logician to figure out why. Accountability and Community.

When I have a deadline, I’ll make it happen. When I’m around people funnier than me, I get funnier. Simple.

Okay, now let me take you back to a month ago when my last piece was published on InThePowderRoom. I received a very nice tweet from someone I didn’t know complementing the work. I’m a sucker for compliments, but I’m even more of a sucker for a pretty face. And this woman has one. So, because I’m a guy who likes pretty girls who compliment him, I tapped on her Twitter profile. Turned out she’s a writer, too. With a few impressive credits. I clicked on one. It was good. I read another. Also good. Actually, better than good. Really good.

I wrote her back and we started chatting. This was perfect timing as I was starting the hunt for someone I could write a monthly column with. I pitched her on an advice column. She readily accepted. Her name’s Allison Arnone and I’m excited to announce our first feature. Now, here’s where you come in.

We’re going to pick a topic each month, and you’re going to write in with your issues around it. For example, this month we’re tackling “work”. Maybe you’re curious if you should tell your boss off (you shouldn’t), or if it’s okay to sleep with your secretary (it’s not), or if Cindy in purchasing has it out for you (she doesn’t). Maybe you’re contemplating quitting the rat race and heading to your guru’s ashram in the Himalayas (bad idea). Or maybe it’s a family business and your sister is stealing from the till (catch her on camera and email the evidence from an anonymous gmail account). Whatever your problem is around the workplace, Allison and I are going to solve it.

Allison and I disagree on just about everything. I think she’s crazy, she thinks the same about me. This wouldn’t make for a good marriage, but it will make for a good advice column. Oh, and we have the exact same lamp. We figured this out by accident when I was bragging about a new lamp I had purchased. Some might call this a sign. I wouldn’t because I’m not a moron. It’s a coincidence. A cool coincidence.

So, here is the form where you can anonymously send in your issues regarding the workplace. Oh, and what makes Allison and I qualified to give you help about your workplace (or lack thereof)? Nothing. I mean, we both have jobs, so that’s something. But I’m confident we’ll give you the correct advice. Well, at least I will. Allison can be moody because she’s a girl and girls are moody. It has to do with moon cycles and tides and stuff. So, take her opinions less seriously. This is why she dislikes me by the way.

Once again, click here to submit your work issue. And don’t worry, we’ll be changing it up each month. I’m pushing hard for “body hair” for next month because, well, body hair is funny. But this month is work. So, send those issues in. Help is on the way.

For some reason I knew I was the ugliest man to walk the face of the earth. Only Rocky Dennis had it worse than me. I’m not sure where this idea came from. I mean, stupid Lisa Gulick rejected me back in seventh grade and I think that I just extrapolated out to every woman. It’s just good science.

Growing up my mother told me all the time that I was handsome. I couldn’t hear it. I had a big head and big crazy blonde hair. I knew better. I was an uggo.

It wasn’t until my first girlfriend in college (at age twenty one) Lisa told me she thought I was really good looking that I started believing I could actually attract a woman. But this story takes place well before Lisa hit the scene.

It was summer break after the first year of college, 1995. I had a job where I was a security guard at a Jewish retirement home. It was not exactly the most dangerous post in the dispatch. Once I spent a night guarding a bread factory in the heart of the ghetto in Peoria. A driver had been held up by gunpoint just the week before. That was scary. I just sat behind a desk and smiled at the nice residents. And secretly wished I was Jewish. For the food. You understand.

One of my friends, Adam lived at his grandmother’s condo. His grandparents were well-to-do and had this nice three bedroom place. It was well-decorated and modern. Adam always had women hanging around him. Whereas the opposite sex scared me silly, they excited him. He had no problem talking to any girl he fancied. Plus, he made a lot of friends with the women at our high school.

Adam was having a small party at his place – just a typical summer soiree. There were maybe ten of us in all. Three guys and the rest girls. Some beers, burgers, that sort of thing. We were nineteen and lived for these afternoons. No real responsibilities or consequences. We all had crappy jobs and either our parents paid for college or we had loans. Either way, it was an easy life.

I was thinking about how great life was at the very moment I fell through the glass table.

I had been sitting on a thin glass table on a tiny balcony having a drink. Not the best idea, because within seconds the glass broke and I fell right through. Blood starting spurting from my shorts and quickly covered my khakis. It was pouring down my leg, too. Since I immediately went into shock, I didn’t notice any pain. It was just like, “Wow – so that’s what blood looks like in bulk!” I hit the ground.

I looked down and around my side and noticed a big shard of glass sticking out of my butt. That was kind of cool. Also, didn’t hurt.

What freaked me out though was everybody yelling. I was on my knees and the party had come to a screeching halt. Since I was afraid of girls, to have them hurrying toward me with towels to mop up my fanny was pretty humiliating. We called the hospital and luckily it was directly across the street from the condo. I watched from the balcony as my ambulance was dispatched from the hospital.

I realized I was going to the hospital and starting thinking of things like, “Can I get arrested for having a few beers? Are the cops coming? Did I have grass in my car?”

I did have grass in my car.

I dispatched a friend to go retrieve the nickel bag of ditchweed and the KISS pipe hidden in my armrest. My parents were going to have to drive this car home, most likely.

From the balcony I watched the ambulance pull into the wrong cul-de-sac. I started yelling trying to alert them than I was in the condo building on the next street over. They looked up at me and realized the gaffe. Then they made their way to over to me.

It was the gurney that I was most concerned about. I didn’t want the seven women to see my bare ass. Well, I did want them to see my ass, but not in this capacity. I was humiliated.

Part II Coming Up!

I gave this a real shot.

I’d been reading about the “no-poo” movement for months before I pulled the trigger. Replace all my shampoo with baking soda? Check! Apple cider vinegar as my new conditioner? Double check! I did it as instructed.

And I have to tell you. It just didn’t work that well.

It was mostly uncomfortable.

Why did I try the no-poo method? I had an itchy scalp and thought this would solve it. And to be fair, it sort of did. Three weeks in and 50% of my itch went away. And before you gross mofos think I’m rocking dandruff, think again. I ain’t no scrub. I take care of mine.

It was just yesterday I realized the weather had changed and that probably affected my scalp. So the probable reality is that the no-poo didn’t do diddly (love that alliteration) for my conditioned scalp. It was just plain old humidity.

The biggest issue I had with it was that my hair never felt clean. I use a little bit of molding creme every day. I toss my messy shit up and back and then to the front. Kidding. But I do use the creme in place of a brush. So, my hair is always a little greasy from that. As such it needs a powerful cleanser every morning. Baking soda doesn’t cut it, as the proponents of the no-poo method claim. You know how when you clean your hair and it squeaks? Baking soda isn’t that powerful. No-poo’ers claim that squeakiness isn’t a sign of cleanliness. But, at least it is an indication that something is happening.

Washing your hair with baking soda is unsatisfying. You put it in a spray bottle and mix with water. You then spray your hair down in the shower. You’ll swear nothing is happening. It just feels like water being sprayed. But supposedly it pulls the grease out of the hair. But like I said before, it doesn’t feel clean. It just feels greasy.

Then you condition with apple cider vinegar, which I’m convinced does nothing. It’s a nice thought and all, to condition with something natural, and it smells amazing, but it just didn’t renew my hair. The baking soda dried out my hair and the vinegar ain’t exactly Kiel’s.

Then I’d put the creme in, but my hair was puffy and dry. It made my hair huge. And I have a lot of hair to begin with. Also a lot of head.

I wanted this to work. I put in a lot of time. It didn’t work for me. So, this morning I grabbed the Bumble and Bumble off the shelf and shampoo’ed my hair for the first time in six months.

It felt. Well… glorious.

Okay, that wasn’t the most manly thing to write, but it really did. It’s the only word that fit. Of course I only know like 500 words total and many of them are just adverbs (adding “ly” to adjectives).

I’m back on the ‘poo. My hair feels healthier, it’s easier to style, and I don’t have to worry about ruining pillowcases because of the oil buildup. Just for a goof today after I conditioned, I reconditioned with the vinegar just for old time sake. No, didn’t feel any more conditioned, but I did smell like a salads for a few moments. Worth it.

My father on Easter Sunday, during brunch, asked me how much I weighed. I clock in at just a hair under 6’3″. I get away with a little extra weight as it evenly proportions on my body as it gains. Well, my metabolism has finally caught up with the rest of the bozos my age. I can get fat just like you.

I was not proud to admit it but I was at my heaviest of all time. I had checked the scale just before brunch and then announced my score. I was at a robust 224.

Please understand that at my wedding, four years prior, I was at my thinnest at around 175 lbs. Of course I was totally stressed out and not eating much.

After doing a ton of research I’ve determined that the only thing that really matters is what percentage your body fat is at. I could be 220lbs with 8% body fat and be totally ripped. Conversely I could be 190 with a 20% body fat and be unhealthy. All that really matters is how much lean muscle I have and how much fat.

Well, I have calipers which are the things that pinch your sides and give you a readout of your fat. At the time of Jesus’s resurrection   I was at 24%. That is a big, fat boy.

As I told my parents my weight they started laughing. I’ve always been the most fit one in the family. I bike twenty miles to work (which is good), eat like a total pig (which is bad), and have a metabolism that just won’t quit. Since it’s obvious that I had some habits that needed changing, my parents quickly quieted their laughter with a serious tone.

“You need to lose some weight. It’s scary because you don’t look big at all,” my mother said. She was right!

So my dad proposed a bet. My birthday is coming up on June 10th. If I could lose something reasonable, say twenty pounds in ten weeks, then he would pay for my birthday dinner. This is great as we’re going to a pretty expensive place to eat. If I lose, however, the bill comes to me.

Now, instead of getting all caught up in the fat vs. muscle showdown, I realized I needed to peel off some easy weight first. I remember losing five pounds in a week before, when I was younger. Totally thought I would have all twenty pounds down within four weeks. I cut dramatically down on my calories. Not to an unhealthy degree, but enough to have me go to bed a little hungry. I was probably eating 500 less calories a day than I was during my normal  gorging  self.

Well, it’s been five weeks, and I’m down eleven pounds. While this is cause for celebration, it’s also cause for alarm. I only have four weeks to lose almost ten pounds.

The only option other than blatantly starving myself is to beef up the exercise. Increase the muscle mass and do more cardio. This does not come easy to me. I can’t believe I bike to work even now, as during the winter I don’t move at all. So, to add to that is crazy.

But I’m not getting stuck with a huge birthday dinner bill.

I’m glad, though, that this last ten pounds is a struggle. Struggles are good for the soul. It’s a nice reminder that I’m not the all-powerful being I treat myself as most of the time. I’m just a guy whose body is finally shapeshifting. I was going to complete that sentence with some animal, but I couldn’t come up with one. Oh well…

Once I get to twenty pounds, by the way, I’m going to celebrate by giving away twenty copies of my book to my email subscribers.

So tomorrow my lunch will be, not joking, chicken and vegetables. No seasoning, sauce, or anything that resembles taste. And yes, I know I could put a little sea salt or marinade on there, but I won’t. I want to learn to love it bland. It’s not fun, but this is work dammit!

I’m on my first diet ever, folks. I haven’t had pizza or anything too terrible in over a month. I just hope it becomes a lifestyle.

And, if not, I’ll become the jolly fat guy humorist. Hey, that’s a decent niche!

You ever notice how guys that are vegan are total weirdos? You can be a chick and be all the vegetarian you want, but a guy who only eats wheat grass is a bonafide freak. Why is that?

About a year ago I noticed an itch on the top of my head. At first I thought it was my crown chakra opening up to the universe. Then I remembered I haven’t one ounce of spirituality or patchuli oil. This was a dry skin itch!

Now, as a blonde guy who wears white business shirts to work, I’d like to tell you that I don’t have dandruff. I’ve never seen flakes, but they could just be buried among the white cotton lapels. I’m not sure. I goddamn hope not.

When this happened I freaked out. I found myself scratching the top of my head like a spaz. And you have to realize I’m constantly in meetings all day with people. Scratching the top of a full head of hair looks weird. And I’m weird enough without the picking at myself. At the grocery I purchased a whole bunch of products for itch control and dandruff reduction. Nothing worked. Every hour or so I needed to scratch near the frontal lobes.

I was terrified that this was some weird indication that I was starting to lose my hair. Thankfully I don’t think that is happening.

I then wondered about shampoo in general. Even though I use the really expensive stuff like Kiehl’s (my sister works for L’Oreal and hooks me up), maybe it was drying out my hair. I also put in a molding creme that for sure has alcohol in it. That dries it out, too. Well, I can’t give up the creme as my coif needs to be positioned just so. That left shampoo and conditioner.

Researching online the necessity of shampoo I came across this movement called “no-poo.” Yes, it’s about, you guessed it, stopping all bowel movements through radical vomiting. It’s controversial, but effective. No, the “no-poo” movement is people stopping shampooing and conditioning. See, the theory is that there’s this stuff in shampoo called SLS which apparently strips your hair of sebum, which is the natural oil the scalp produces. You replace it with conditioner, but the whole process is damaging and  unnecessary   I’m sure this is all overblown and that shampoo is fine and all, but I looked more into the method.

Here’s what you do instead.

You keep showering like normal, but you use a baking soda and water spray to soak up the extra oil from the hair. Then you use an apple cider vinegar and water spray for conditioner. I know it sounds wild, but that’s the method. People swear that after a few weeks on this their hair has never looked better.

I bought the vinegar and baking soda and spray bottles. Loaded ’em up as per the instructions and went to work. Here’s the problem. The molding creme doesn’t really wash out with just the baking soda. Maybe I need more baking soda, but my hair’s always got a little shit in it, even after the wash. It’s not squeaky clean. That’s okay. It’s not like I’m running my hands through my hair all day long. I’m not that kind of asshole.

But, the itch is gone. I hope it left my head, flew down the street, and landed on one of my enemies. Actually I hope it landed on their crotch.

So, I have an itch-free but probably filthy scalp. If you plan to make-out with me in the  foreseeable future I encourage you not to run your hands through my locks during you ravishing my bodice.