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.

I remember thinking after that procedure, “Well, gee, I hope my next surgery is more thrilling.” Maybe I’d be lucky and get my hand chopped off in a lumber mill accident and have to get a cadaver hand sewn on. (I don’t work in a lumber mill, but a boy can dream, no?) What if the donor’s hand was more tan than me and the coloring didn’t match at the wrist? Or what if they gave me a woman’s hand because that was the only one in the freezer at the time? What if after the surgery I was at an important business meeting and I went to shake someone’s hand, and my new hand came right off my arm and the other guy stood there shaking an orphaned hand? That would be embarrassing.

As it turns out, my second surgery wasn’t much more exciting than the first. It was just a boring old umbilical hernia surgery. I wish I something way cooler to report. But I don’t. I only had like a 2% chance of death while in the operating room. Snore. I didn’t even bother to update my will beforehand.

So, what is an umbilical hernia and how did I develop one? No idea. I guess it just happens. A natural part of aging, the surgeon told me. I didn’t even bother Googling it after the diagnosis, that’s how boring the thing is. How I found out that I HAD an umbilical hernia is sort of interesting, however. Several months ago I was dating a woman named Maureen and she was staring at my belly button one evening (as women do). All of a sudden Maureen’s face turned sour and scrunched up. I asked her what was wrong. She said, “You have something wrong with your belly button.” I looked down because, well, I wanted to see what she saw.

I’ve probably only looked at my own belly button one other time in my life and that was back in high school when I at a party and poured a shot of Early Times whiskey into it and asked if any girl would care to slurp it out. No takers.

But when I looked down, at now forty years old, to examine my navel for exactly the second time ever, I sort of saw what she was referencing. There was something wrong. My belly button wasn’t totally fucked up or anything. But it wasn’t, well, normal, either. It was misshapen. The best I can explain it without having you retch all over your Pumas is that some of the inside parts started making a dash for it. A move toward the light. To freedom!

I could have showed 20 of you my belly button at the time and 18 of you would have said, “Dude, you have a really sexy belly button. I mean, aside from the dark hair surrounding it. Wait, aren’t you blonde? Shouldn’t those stomach pubes be lighter?” In other words, to the non-medical professional, it looked no different from the male models gracing the cover of Men’s Health. Well, a little different. Less ab definition. I’m talking about the actual hole. It’s a pretty killer hole, if I do say so myself. And I do. Or rather, I just did.

But now it was less killer. Like an aging Hollywood starlet, it had lost symmetry. And like an aging Hollywood starlet, there was only one reasonable option – surgery.

Oh wait, let me go back to the discovery. I’m not good at linear storytelling.

So, Maureen, being a senior graphic designer at a prestigious advertising agency, knew a fucked-up belly button when she saw one. That previous sentence was meant to be sarcastic, because Maureen had no medical training at all. Her best skill was designing print advertisements for the largest cheese distributor in Utah. A noble skill, but not one that included the hippocratic oath. But since I believe virtually anything anyone tells me, I assumed she knew stuff about hernias.

I started freaking out and ran to the bathroom to see my now-imperfect belly button staring back at me. I yelled over to Maureen to ask why she was confident that I had a hernia. I pressed my right index finger directly into the hole, because I thought hernias were supposed to hurt. I was a little grossed out, but there wasn’t any pain. She replied that her last boyfriend had the same shape in his belly hole and it turned out to be an umbilical hernia. She went with him to the hospital for the procedure. Also, nursed him back to health. She promised she’d do the same for me.

The next day I called a surgeon that knows about this stuff. I walked into his office and fifteen seconds later he confirmed what my ladyfriend had asserted. I had an umbilical hernia. He told me there was nothing I could have done to prevent it and that it was not a big deal. He suggested I get the surgery, but said I didn’t have to do it immediately. I had a suspicion that Maureen was on the verge of dumping me and I wasn’t about to go back out in the dating world with a messed up belly button. It’s hard enough being single. The doctor told me to think about it and I said, “No need. Let’s do it!” He didn’t say so, but he must have been impressed by my decisiveness. It was an act of leadership.

On the way out, I casually mentioned to the surgeon, “Actually, doctor… I’ve had a hernia before. TWO, actually.” He stopped and said, “Oh, really?” And yes, that much IS true. I did have a double hernia once. But, to be honest, I was just showing off. I told him that when I was born the doctors screwed up my mom’s epidural and hit her spine with the needle. It immediately put her in a coma. I was born and hustled off to my two grandmothers while she recovered. And from day one, my two grandmothers put me on human food. A tactical error in hindsight. My dad probably didn’t know any better (I was the first child), and he was probably bummed his wife was in a coma. So, he didn’t notice I got fat pretty quick.

When my mom woke up from the coma a few weeks later and they took her home, I was already obese. A big, fat, disgusting baby. And babies are already disgusting, even when they’re not huge slobs like I was. It was so bad I was raced back to the hospital where the doctors performed an emergency double-hernia surgery on me. The doctor yelled at my mother for letting this happen and said, “I’ve never had to cut through so many layers of fat in a baby before. You ought to be ashamed!”

Funny enough, I’ve never had a weight problem since. I was only fat as a baby. Which is the best possible time to have a weight problem, now that I think about it.

Anyway, after I was done telling this story the doctor laughed. I’m not sure if he believed me, but he clasped his hand on my shoulder and said, “Well, D.J., congrats. You’re about to have a second hernia surgery.” I corrected him and said, “Third.” His mouth started to open to correct me that a double hernia isn’t really two hernia surgeries, but he realized I was just making a joke. He laughed and pointed at me with a look that said, “Good one!”

I left the office and took stock of my emotions. I wasn’t sad. Nor scared. Not even angry. I was kind of excited, actually.

I called Maureen and said, “Remember that thing about my belly button? You were right!” She was in the middle of a cheese video shoot for an Instagram campaign. I told her I’d need a ride to and from the hospital in two weeks. and reminded her of her promise.

My belly button was about to get back to perfect. And, even if Maureen dumped me, I’d once again have a perfect hole and likely a cool scar and we all know chicks dig scars. The only scar I possessed at the time was a two-incher on my butt where I fell through a glass table in high school. It’s not exactly the kind of scar that you’d call a panty-melter.

I was excited. Who wouldn’t be?

… part II coming up …

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.

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 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.”

So, now I was in a predicament. It was obvious to me that this person didn’t want to pay me back, and was illogically angry with me. Also, they must be reading my social media posts and noticing that I do, on occasion, go on a trip. Then using that information as a weapon. I tried one last attempt and suggested they could work out an alternative payment structure and that I was open to suggestions. They told me to screw right off. People are great, right?

I wish I was exaggerating, but I’m not. And if this was only over $300 I would have just let it go. But this was a much larger sum. I felt uncomfortable that this person was analyzing my social posts and using it against me in the future to justify not honoring our deal. I cared about the money that was owed, but was it worth it? I had never blocked anyone on social media. But if I blocked her, would she see this as an act of aggression? I was worried that if she couldn’t see my posts, she’d know I blocked her and use that as a reason not to pay.

After thinking about it, I realized this person wasn’t likely to pay me back, anyway. Even though I had known her for years and had never seen her screw someone over like this, I had to accept reality on reality’s terms. I was going to get ripped off. I made my peace with it and called the person and told them I was forgiving the debt. They texted me back with, “Wow. Thanks!” Then, I blocked them on all forms of social media. I no longer cared if they saw the block as aggressive. I would never have to speak to this person again for the rest of my life. And, in a surprising turn, I felt good about myself. I had exercised kindness. I had also protected myself against their craziness.

If I had listened to my friends, I would have made this decision much sooner. Everyone could see that this person was not the nice person I believed her to be. They had all told me to eat the loss and block all communication. They were right.

So, that’s where you come in.

Are you struggling with a social media problem? Are some people you knew in high school friends posting bizarre extreme religious stuff on Facebook? What should you do when your creepy boss tried to friend you? Curious what to do with those nudes you sent on Snapchat? Worried that the “runway model” you met on Instagram might be a dude living in his mother’s basement? Allison Arnone and I can help you navigate such waters.

We’re both pretty sharp knives, so our advice is sound. You won’t follow it, but you’ll enjoy reading our words. It will bring you a joy not unlike what yogis experience as they achieve nirvana.

Click here to tell us about your social media problem. We’ll fix that stuff. Fix it up good!

photo credit: Giuseppe Milo (www.pixael.com) Practicing Yoga… via photopin (license)

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.

As I think back what strikes me is this simple fact – I have never wanted to actually meet Paris Hilton. Other than for the joke I wanted to pull, she doesn’t interest me. I’m not even attracted to her physically. I suspect we wouldn’t have anything in common, even if we did strike up a real conversation. I’m not putting her down – a friend of mine did meet her a few months after my attempt and he said she was pleasant and sweet. So, why was I so upset that a woman I wasn’t trying to date or befriend didn’t show up at the hotel that evening?

Because she is a celebrity. And I find celebrities appealing.

If it was just the name-joke thing, I could find some random woman who resides in Chicago with the first name Paris. But then the story wouldn’t be as interesting. Nobody would care that I proposed to Paris Hughes, a 24 year old consultant who lives with her two roommates in Wrigleyville. It’s maybe a one on the “great story” meter. Paris Hilton would be a ten.

This past week America chose a celebrity to lead our nation.

To me, this is worth spending time thinking about. Let’s say you worked at a company that sold brake pads and due to some mismanagement the financials were in trouble and everyone was spooked. I can’t imagine you’d be celebrating that instead of hiring a competent CEO well-versed in successful turnarounds, the board of directors chose the world’s finest tenor saxophone player to lead the company. You could make the argument that this sax player has great discipline and doesn’t crack during performances. And maybe that could translate into more brake pad sales since those principles might translate. But it’s a stretch. Also unlikely. And the board of directors would be fired immediately for suggesting this replacement.

I don’t look at Donald Trump as a politician. Well, he is now. But I always thought of him as a celebrity. And, for sure, he’s one of the best celebrities that ever was. Very few can stay in the public eye for all those years and keep the public’s fascination. Whether or not you like him as a celebrity, you have to admire his success at the job. It’s something that can’t be argued, unlike his business practices. Some call him a business genius other call him a business failure, but one thing is certain – he knows how to keep the country interested in him. And he’s paid extremely well because of it.

Watching social media this week, there’s a tremendous amount of anger and sadness coming from those who didn’t support him. And, to be clear, I didn’t vote for him, either. Of course I was offended, like so many others, with his rhetoric throughout the campaign. But that’s not the reason I didn’t vote for him. I didn’t vote for him BECAUSE HE’S A CELEBRITY AND I DON’T WANT A CELEBRITY WITHOUT POLITICAL EXPERIENCE RUNNING OUR COUNTRY.

Donald Trump isn’t the problem. Or at least, not the real problem. He’s just one of the most famous people on the planet, and he realized two things that would enable him to win.

1. We love celebrities.
2. We hate politicians.

Now, I’m not a political scientist, and I avoided all those classes in college because it seemed like too much reading. But when a celebrity can beat all the politicians running against him, that’s an impressive victory. And if you don’t think Kim Kardashian could do the same thing in twenty years and win, you’re wrong. She could. You can make the argument that she’s an even more compelling celebrity than Donald Trump. She’s had less scandal, that’s for sure. Also, her business acumen is beyond reproach. But the question is – would you want her running the country? I wouldn’t. And this isn’t a slight to her – I know people who have worked with her at E! and say she’s lovely. But I don’t want a celebrity running the country.

So, what’s the solution? Somehow we have to bring reason and logic back into these important decisions. We have to realize emotional decision making isn’t usually a great idea. Remember the last time you got drunk and texted your ex? I hope it makes you shudder. The problem is that trying to get adults to change is difficult. Most people are in love with their thoughts and beliefs and it’s almost too late for anyone over twenty-one. But kids can be taught. Children can be told to look at problems with less emotion and more objectivity. It’s the same argument I made earlier this year that only members of Mensa should be allowed to vote. It was a joke, but it’s not the worst idea.

And, I’m no better than anyone else. The few times a celebrity has tweeted at me or laughed at something I’ve written has definitely has filled me with excitement that I don’t get from you non-celebs. Hell, I even got pumped when Jackie Stallone told me she was going to read one of my stories to Sly. So, trust me, I understand the celebrity fascination. And while I don’t think most of Trump’s supporters will admit it, his ability at being an amazing celebrity is really what won him the election.

People can change, however. I no longer fantasize about proposing to Paris Hilton. She’s just a person, just like all of us regular people. I mean, I’d still marry her and all, but that’s because she’s rich. Also, she’s blonde and I think it’s a good idea for blondes to marry blondes. We understand each other. Oh, and I just realized she’s a professional DJ and my name’s D.J.. Hmm… this is all lining up nicely. I take it back – I’m totally going after Paris Hilton. LET THE COURTSHIP BEGIN!

photo credit: marco-castelli Marco Castelli_by P.Genesini via photopin (license)

photo credit: Eva Rinaldi Celebrity and Live Music Photographer Kim and Khloe Kardashian via photopin (license)

photo credit: Eva Rinaldi Celebrity and Live Music Photographer Paris Hilton via photopin (license)

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.

I’m not proud here, but I’m back on caffeine. I’ve written about swearing off the stuff a few times. For a month or so I’m off it and then I get back on. Lately, I’ve been using it like crazy.

Most of America is hooked on caffeine, so what’s the big deal? For me, it’s different than the average consumer. I use it as an escape – a way to change my state. A high, as it were. In short, I abuse it.

The problem isn’t that caffeine is ruining my life (it’s not). It’s that I am “on” it most days all day long. Over the past few months I’ve become habituated to the drug and its positive effects are almost nil.

I no longer receive energy from caffeine. Maybe a slight pick me up in the morning, but it fades quickly. I have to increase my dosage for continued alertness. Since a stimulant’s main job is to stimulate, and mine isn’t working, what am I left with?

Well, I’ll tell you because I’m on it right now. I had two Diet Pepsis tonight before writing. For some reason caffeine now makes me anxious and scared. I’m not a naturally fearful person and I’ve never had anxiety problems. Yet as I’m typing this I’m feeling a slight sense of impending doom. Also, caffeine depresses me. It reduces my humor to nothing and induces some less-than-pleasant feelings. It makes me dark and foreboding. It crushes my creativity. I don’t get the rush of ideas throughout the day that I get when off the stuff.

So, with limited upside and a whole bunch of downside, why do it at all?

That’s a darn good question. I guess I’m still hoping caffeine will work – that it will give me pleasure and make me feel good. It did this in the beginning. No longer.

Well, I’m obviously using it to escape – escape what?

I’m afraid of regular, daily life.

Somehow I have the misaligned belief that if I’m not having extreme experiences I’m missing out. Of course 99% of life is living in the middle and not on the edge.

This is what I’m running from. In an effort to avoid the discomfort of regular life I escape through caffeine.

I’ve been exploring this addiction (with me it’s a definite addiction) for a few weeks and I’m about ready to let go of it entirely. Well, first, it isn’t working anymore as I mentioned earlier. But second, I’m retarding my growth. I’m not feeling emotions that would naturally arise. I’m just feeling the effects of the drug.

Today I decided that I wouldn’t buy caffeine no matter how much I wanted it. I walked by a grocery store and didn’t go in. My inner addict yelled, “You’ll feel better on it! It’s going to be fun!” Then, another voice started listing all the ways in which it would harm my day. These two voices battled for a few seconds.

Tonight, however, the addict voice won and I finished off the last two cans I had in the refrigerator. And just as I suspected I am feeling the negative effects throughout my body. They’ll wear off soon, but I’ll have the urge to drink caffeine again tomorrow.

The answer is simple – I must learn how to stay present without escaping. This means sitting in normal day-to-day discomfort. Boredom. Tiredness. Natural states we all experience. The feelings that I am terrified of.

I’m excited to get off the stuff and back to regular life. I’m sure I’ll be battling it over the next few days, but it’ll pass and I’ll be back to my normal non-extreme self. This time I’ll try to stay there permanently.

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.

Once Wikipedia came to prominence I realized nearly everything I had stashed in my memory was inaccurate. Hell, I just learned that I’ve been screwing up longitude and latitude my whole life. Ultimately I gave up committing anything rote to memory. There’s no need to when I have direct access to any information I need right in my pocket. I’d rather look it up than scan the annals of my mind, anyway. Maybe I’m lazy. Or just maybe I’ve stumbled across something brilliant.

Nah, it’s not brilliant. But it’s a good idea, I think.

I believe that I only have so much room in my head. If there’s figures and facts and data swirling around in there it’s not going to leave much space for creativity. See, I believe we have a finite amount of brain power. Now that I’ve abandoned the idea of needing to save data in the short or long term memory slots, that space is now available for other things.

As far as I can tell most of my thoughts are either about fact recall or problem solving or creating new stuff. I’m on a warpath to get rid of fact recall.

I’ve been reading a lot about mindfulness meditation. Basically it’s learning how to get quiet and tune into the mind and body while moving around your day. And with technology I can do this without worry. For example I have no idea what my schedule consists of tomorrow. My calendar is synced up on my phone and computer and will tell me in the morning. If I need to prepare for a meeting I have a thing that pops up to remind me.

This leaves me with all sorts of additional time to devote to creating blog posts or thinking about future projects in my business.

Not that this post is any indication of my creative genius. It sucks. I’m not happy with it. In my mind this whole idea was going to make for a great read. It sort of didn’t. I can own it.

But now I’ll rack my brain to come up with something better tomorrow. And I’ll have the free space to do it!

I don’t.

I realized this fact on Christmas Eve during our family’s annual holiday party. Carolyn and Laura are two sisters who grew up in our neighborhood. They’re both very successful. One’s a realtor and the other an attorney. The attorney (Carolyn) stated she always picks up change she stumbles across in the real world. Laura does not.

That led to a quick poll of the room.

About half of those in attendance said they picked up coins. When asked why they together barked, “Why not?” The picker-uppers didn’t have more explanation than that. Laura said, “Carolyn, you’re an attorney for God’s sake! You don’t need to pick up a penny.” Carolyn replied, “Yes, but now I’m one penny richer!”

What was interesting is that both camps did not understand the behavior of the others. We both thought each other was nuts.

To me, the idea of grabbing a penny off the ground doesn’t even register as something to do. I don’t use pennies in my life. I don’t use any change. The only time I used a coin in the past year was for a parking meter in a Chicago suburb. Oh, and also when my cat peed on my comforter and I had to go to the laundromat.

I pay for things in cash less than one percent of the time. Here in Vegas at a conference I do carry cash – for tipping. But other than that, it’s all credit cards. I want the airline miles!

I, with pride in my heart, whipped out my Mastercard two days ago at Walgreens for a $.37 purchase.

Now, I find coins on the ground three times a week minimum. Living in a big city, they’re everywhere. And I never bend down and grab them. Even if it’s a quarter, the holy grail of free change, I pass on by.

I started asking myself the tougher question. Like Descartes pondering existence, I wondered at what amount I would reach down and grab free cash. What is my threshold?

Pretty sure that Descartes joke is going to fall flat. I’m leaving it in.

The minimum amount is one dollar. If I ever come across a paper note, it’s going in my pocket. This has never happened.

So, now the question is begged – do I think I’m too good to pick up ground-change?

I’d like to say no, that it’s the dirtiness of the coins or that I’d hope someone else less fortunate finds it and puts it to use. But that shit ain’t true. I have no problem with dirt and grime, and I could always donate my change at the end of the year if I felt guilty about grabbing it.

No, the truth is this – I’m too good to pick up change.

I wish I weren’t typing that but it’s a sad reality. I feel powerful when I walk by a penny and refuse to stop. Like I’m a big shot who doesn’t have the time. And doesn’t need it.

Now, there’s no reality here – I’m not so wealthy that I don’t have the time. True, finding change isn’t going to speed up my retirement, but I’m not above visiting the CoinStar once a year to receive a small sum.

So, here’s my new proclamation – from now on I will now pick up EVERY coin I see lying in the street. I will donate all cash at the end of the year to something so I’ll feel like an ever bigger shot.

See what I did there? Clever, no?

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.

This time it wasn’t my fault.

I was heading home from a fantastic evening with the woman I’m seeing. We had been to a musical and, on the way home had missed our exit, ending up about a dozen blocks south of where we were supposed to be. As I drove into an intersection a car traveling the other direction decided to turn just left in front of me. He was supposed to yield to my car, naturally. He did not. I slammed into him at a pretty solid clip. Well over twenty miles an hour. I think I had time to jump on the brakes but I’m not sure.

Strangely, I wasn’t afraid in the seconds before the crash. I felt an immediate adrenaline rush as the two cars became one. It didn’t feel, however, that we were ever in danger. We collided and my hood crumpled. Mind you I drive a huge old lady car. A 1999 Jaguar XJ8 that my parents were nice enough to gift. It’s a tank. But now it was smashed to shit.

His vehicle went spinning across the intersection and ended up about thirty feet from mine. I checked to make sure Beth was okay (she was), and I got out of the car. I yelled over to the guy, “Hey, I had the green light!” He yelled back something unintelligible. I was angry. The red dissipated immediately as I realized the experience was over. My car was fucked. So was his. That made me feel a little better.

Thankfully a cop had been cruising by at the same time and pulled over. That started the lengthy and boring process of waiting for the police report. The fuzz talked with me for a minute asking what had happened. It was clear that the fault lay with the other driver.

A slimy pickup truck operator had been listening to the police scanner’s accident channel and showed up within minutes. He eventually won the business of the other driver. The cop told me not to use a private tow service as my insurance has their own vendors.  I was on the phone with the insurance company for about thirty minutes and then their roadside assistance team.

During much of this time Beth was trapped inside the front-passenger seat. The side panel had crumpled back and blocked the door’s ability to open. She eventually slid out and bullshitted with the cops and tow jockey. She stayed faithfully there and kept me in good spirits. It would have been easy to steal away into a cab, but she didn’t. That’s a good woman.

The other driver was cited for failure to yield and then the cops left the scene. We were alone again, waiting on the tow. Thirty minutes went by, and since it was a little chilly we huddled into the backseat. It was kind of romantic in a weird way. It felt like we were far away from the accident and we snuggled up. She kept me calm.

There was one problem when the tow truck arrived.

I had a big purple vibrator in my trunk. Oh, and six packages of lube. The fine people at Trojan had loaded me up at the BlogHer conference a few months back. I always take free stuff, but I never knew what to do with any of these particular goods. At the time I had deposited it into the trunk and never again moved the contraband. The tow truck driver asked if I had any personal belongings I’d like to take with me.

He had a garbage bag in his truck and I filled it with marital aides. In the trunk search I also found two non-alcoholic beers floating around. Took them with me, too.

At the end of the day nobody was injured and it’s just a car that was provided to me free of charge by my parents. While I didn’t expect to shell out god-knows-how-many-thousands on a new car this year, I am an adult. Most of us buy our vehicles like big boys and girls.

However, if any of you want to donate a luxury vehicle I will seriously consider flying out to your location, treating you to a fine steak chop, taking one photo where we’re shaking hands, and drive the car back to it’s new home. I mean, I did spend my money developing the ThoughtsFromParis Apple and Android app. You owe me.

Here’s a few thoughts I had on the bike ride home from work, reflecting on my life…

I found a great expression to get you out of most any trouble. This is especially useful at work. Next time you screw something up and you’re called to the carpet, simply respond with, “It was my understanding that…” You can then follow those words with any string of nonsense you choose. Nobody will call you out on your understanding. I notice politicians do this every week on  Meet the Press. “Boss, it was my understanding that banging the interns was encouraged. Did I have that wrong?” See? You can’t punish a guy when he talks with that verbal jujitsu. Now, thank me, and let’s move on.

Oh, speaking of… somebody is downloading pornography at work. We know this to be true because the boss got a cease and desist email from whomever holds the copyright to  Milfs A’Poppin’  17. Seems that film  was illegally downloading from our office IP. Now, there’s only a few of us in the office and sadly, all eyes could easily could fall on me. Not that I’m a pervert (I’m not), but I am the tech guy at the firm. If anyone would know how to do this, it would be me. Except I know that I didn’t do it. But the problem is, even if you did do it, there’s no way you can fess up. That shit’s a fire-able offense. Anyway, the boss sort of laughed it off. I have a few suspicions on who was downloading the skin flick, but probably it was a guy who just quit a few days ago. Maybe it was his version of taking all the staplers on the way out.

Turning thirty-seven feels like something important. I’m no longer in my mid-thirties. It’s time to get serious and have purpose. Thankfully I’ve already got a lot of this stuff in place. I’ve noticed over the last decade that I’ve, very slowly, reduced the amount of nonsense and drama that used to permeate my life.

This was the first year where I didn’t feel depressed on my birthday in all of my thirties. Now there are plenty of things to get depressed about, and there’s always ways in which I don’t measure up with where I think I should be at this age. But I don’t feel that way now. I guess I’m maturing. Also, I’ve learned how to get honest. Here’s an example.

Recently I had been struggling with a friendship. There was a woman I dated where it didn’t work out. We decided to make it work as friends because we love each other very much. The problem is that as much as I tried, I couldn’t cut out the romantic feelings. I’d hang out with her as friends but want so badly to hold and kiss her. I’d lie to myself and say that this isn’t really what I wanted, that I really only wanted a friendship and that I could stop these feelings. This went on for months and each week I’d talk about it in therapy. Finally, my therapist last said, “Do you want this woman to be your girlfriend?” I said, “Of course not! She wouldn’t anyway, we’re not the right fit, etc.” She stopped me, told me to go inside and get honest. And I immediately said, “Yes! Yes, I want her so badly! I’m in love!” It was the truth and I hadn’t ever spoken it to myself. I owned it. I wanted her as my girlfriend – my heart wanted this. As soon as I spoke it, the flame extinguished and within a few days those feelings left. The simple act of me stating my truth allowed me to move through it. I now believe I can be this person’s friend without the romantic interest mucking it up.

Well, that’s all I got for tonight. It’s not much, nor my best, but it is my truth. Oh, also, I’m still wearing the same sweat soaked shirt that I biked twenty miles in today. Except the sweat is all driedand caked onto the cotton. I should have probably changed  as I got home from the ride five hours ago.

Happy Birthday to me, mofos!