I couldn’t have been more excited the day of the operation.
Only once had I been cut up before, and it was for this laser eye surgery vision thing. It’s not exactly the biggest deal. The doctor doesn’t make you wear a gown with the open fanny area. You’re not doped up with medical grade opiates. You can wear your business suit during the procedure. You open your eye lids, hold still for 20 seconds, and congrats, you now have eagle vision. You’re back in your cubicle by lunch.
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!)
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.
I just blocked someone on social media.
This person owed me money. Quite a bit of money. Since I assume nobody is out to screw me over, I gave them a wide berth in paying it back. After months of hearing nothing, I reached out just to get an update. Their response when I politely asked on the status of the repayment was, “I agreed to that in a moment of vulnerability. I shouldn’t have. You’ll get it when I have it – no idea when that will be.” I stared at the computer screen in shock. This was a financial arrangement we had both decided was fair. The funny part was that I had never asked this person for repayment in the first place. They came to me knowing they owed me money and worked out a structure. Then, didn’t honor it. Before I could respond with a, “This has to be a joke, right?” she wrote, “Oh, and have fun on all those vacations you’re going on – you obviously don’t need the money.”
I almost met Paris Hilton once.
About fifteen years ago I was working as a marketer for a beer company. I toured around the country working with local distributors to set up and run events. I can’t remember exactly where we were (probably Los Angeles), but there was a rumor that Paris Hilton was going to come to this party we were attending. This was very exciting to me. I came up with a bit that I thought was amusing. I’d introduce myself as D.J. Paris and then say, “We should get married because then you’d be Paris Paris!” She’d laugh and we’d snap a picture. I’d pose on bended knee sliding a Ring Pop on her finger. The whole interaction would be less than a minute, but I’d be able to tell that story the rest of my life. Unfortunately she didn’t make it to the party that evening. I remember being pretty depressed.
I crossed over 100k Twitter followers today.
Yes, it’s a not-so-subtle brag. But, screw it. I’m taking a victory lap.
The victory lap equates to a night of eating pizza until passout.
Before the carbs and fat sink my consciousness I’m going to attempt to eek out this post.
The best thing about the internet is that I don’t have to know anything anymore.
There was a time, up until about fifteen years ago where I really needed to know stuff in order to get along in the world. During social engagements I’d rattle off facts and stats about a topic that I knew something about. Appearing smart by knowing information was important. If I didn’t know as much about a subject as I wanted to, in the moment I just might make up some shit about it. I’m not proud of this but it happened.
Do you pick up spare change lying on the ground?
I don’t.
I realized this fact on Christmas Eve during our family’s annual holiday party. Carolyn and Laura are two sisters who grew up in our neighborhood. They’re both very successful. One’s a realtor and the other an attorney. The attorney (Carolyn) stated she always picks up change she stumbles across in the real world. Laura does not.
The same thing happened when I was sixteen.
My dad handed down his Merkur XR4Ti (yes, it had a double spoiler), and the day after I earned my license I smashed into the back of a Cadillac. It was piloted by an elderly couple on their way from Florida to Chicago to see their only granddaughter’s high school graduation. They yelled at me, but good. Old people suck.
I'll never give this child another cigarette, pinky swears!
