What if?

Whoop Whoop!

We got good news! A. does not have any manner of fatal or dibilitating plague! Big fancy neurologists have narrowed the issue down to things that are treatable and/or manageable and would almost be boring if the symptoms hadn't led us to believe she could be dying. The flood of relief is overwhelming.

We've been in "what if?" mode for months, which has of course had me slithering around  in the murky depths of my dark and twisty imagination where I store my encyclopedic knowledge of worst-case scenarios. It's been crunchy, for sure. But whatever, now it's awesome again! My catastrophic What Ifs have receded and my usual mix of oddly specific, fantastical, and generically anxious What Ifs are back on the scene.

Now that I've got my blogging pants back on,  I'll use this post to take a more interesting, less emotionally gutting look at the day-to-day What Ifs that populate my imagination. This is only a sampling, mind you. People as cursed with my special combination of anxiety, perfectionism, inappropriate humor and a highly analytic thought process as I am spend vast portions of our existence firmly planted at the bottom of theWhat If rabbit hole. I'll just take you for a quick tour. You don't want to linger there. It's a massive time suck, and it causes muscle tension.

Without further ado, here are my top non "my-spouse-is-probably-dying"-related What ifs:


1.  What if my cats could get their shit together?


I don't even know why I torture myself with this one; it's never going to happen. All three felines are irreparably self-involved, destructive to our personal property, and entitled beyond your wildest imagination. They are lazy as hell and contribute zero effort to maintaining the household. Even our black lab licks sticky spots off the floor, and he's not even smart. But what if they got their shit together?

If I could wave a magic wand there would be no further "litter crumbs" on my bedspread, nasty vomit-y hairballs on my dining room table, or mammoth, regenerating hair tumbleweeds on the bathroom tile requiring me to dust-bust several times a day. They would immediately cease whatever inane behavior results in all those weird kibble chunks in the water bowl. Berkeley would stop sleeping on my face and I would no longer fear suffocating in my sleep on a blob of ginger cat ass. Koa would stop hissing at shadows and alienating the dog. And Ashes, by far the most functional pet, would step the hell up with some leadership and stop dicking around on the windowsill all day.


2. What if I won the lottery?


This is a no-fucking-brainer: I would quit my ER job, buy a farmhouse back in Vermont near where I grew up, pay a bunch of people who need work an exorbitant amount of money to restore the shit out of it, and move A. and I over there where I would be a fabulously balanced and joyful writer and mother and she would run a collectibles business. We would also take all our peeps on a swanky vacation somewhere warm and lazy. And I would pay off all the student loans of everyone I know. And I would start a foundation that gives scholarships to rural kids from small schools. And I would buy us the fancy sperm from the expensive sperm bank so I can get pregnant with top-shelf sperm and not the discount sperm from the outlet mall  sperm bank we are currently using.

And I would buy a summer cottage on a lake or the ocean. And a sailboat. And sailing lessons. And then I would put all the money in an awesome credit union and hide it from our top-shelf kids so they don't know we have it and become all entitled like the goddamned cats. Come to think of it, I need to go buy a Powerball ticket...


3. What if my hair dryer dies?

This just can't happen. It just...can't. I will completely lose my shit.

I have had my hair dryer for almost 12 years. It is missing a piece silver plastic inlay and the air screen on the back falls off about 50% of the time. It blows the exact temperature and speed required by my hair styling approach, and every other dryer I have ever tried is either too strong, too loud, too hot, too weak, too weird to hold, or otherwise woefully inadequate. One of my most gripping irrational fears is that my hair dryer will bite it soon and I will be left alone, unable to achieve appropriate body, fullness and shape. I have tried to prepare for this day by testing other dryers. I have gone window shopping for new units, but I just can't pull the trigger because deep in my heart I know that there is no hair dryer like mine and I will never be satisfied with a lesser appliance. I know I need to cowboy up and steel myself for the day that I have to adjust to an inferior model, but I'm not ready. In fact, I'm getting a stress headache just writing this.


4. What if I had been born in the Olden Days?

Guys, I would have killed it in the Olden Days. No joke.

 I was born to milk goats and make quilts. I have the exact combination of rugged individualism, non-nonsense Protestant work ethic, and affinity for DIY that the Olden Days requires. In fact, when I was a kid, I often pretended I was Laura Ingalls Wilder or a member of Massachusetts Bay Colony for days at a time in my head without anyone noticing, even at school. I spent hours pretend chopping pretend wood, pretend spinning yarn from pretend wool, and making pretend stew from the last of the pretend potatoes and onions that we'd had to stretch through the very REAL (this was Northern Vermont IRL) long, cold winter. My family used to have frequent campfires in the summer and I learned to build a quick, perfect fire specifically to enhance my skill set for playing Olden Days. As an adult I have advanced my abilities to include basic gardening, sewing and animal care. Seriously, I would fucking thrive in Olden Days. My people would be warm and fed and no one would succumb to TB or the plague.

Other people would flock to my homestead seeking advice or aid and I would become a leader in my community, helping others to rise above hardship. Like an Olden Days Social Worker. I would also have the best dresses and pantaloons. Duh.

I'd like to think my What If tendencies are exclusively reflective of my creativity, optimism and general strength of imagination, and not also about my anxiety-fueled urgency to "future trip" and predict and plan for every possible outcome in life.

Yeah, I'd like to think that. I'm going to keep thinking that.

Because what if I don't?

Gay Man, Teenage Boy, or Dyke?

Well, friends, it's been a while.

Things have been all cruh-zazy up in the LEON household due to some significant health issues A. has been having. We had to get all serious and focused-like. Frankly, I haven't been feeling very fucking  bloggy. I especially haven't been feeling artistic, and although my "drawings" may lack, uh, any shred of a certain level of talent, they still require me to be in a doodle-y, silly mood. Life has been a bit low on silly moods of late. So no drawings for you. None. Zero. Nada. No whining. I mean it.

The good news is that I have been seeking distractions and ways to blow off steam which has lead to the welcome resurgence of a beloved game I invented back in my 20's up on Cap Hill (aka "The Gayborhood") around happy hour. I was waiting for a blind date, and after several false alarms I realized that every goddamned person who walked by looked the same. It was like the entire city of Seattle was wearing an ironic vintage t-shirt and grey hoody.  I was soon catapulted to a deeply uncomfortable and confused place when I accidentally flashed my sexiest  "nice to meet you" smile at a decidedly-not-legal male skateboarder who shuffled hastily past me like I was a deranged pedophile. Awkward.

I started wondering how often this happened to other people, and informal polls of my lesbian friends revealed that this guessing game was a fairly common occurrence. Apparently, this phenomenon is well documented. I started keeping my eyes peeled at the bus stop, in coffee shops, at the movies, and--in cases where the individual could be sufficiently confirmed as a gay man, a teenage boy, or a dykey lesbian--I developed an impressive record for speed and accuracy. Out of this mini-obsession grew the official game:  Gay Man, Teenage Boy, or Dyke? Or, "GMTBD" as we playahs call it.

This game can be played anywhere you find good people-watching, and is spectacularly challenging here in the Greater Seattle area, as I imagine in will be in most diverse urban centers. It could prove challenging in rural parts, too! GMTBD can be played with friends or alone, requires no equipment or preparation, and is sure to provide hours of entertainment! Amazeballs!

Here is how it works:


1. Spot a difficult-to-identify stranger, typically facing away from you and/or at some distance away from where you are.


2. Guess if that person is a gay male, a teenage boy, or a dykey lesbian.


3. Wait until you can tell, then rejoice in your success or suffer the sting of defeat.

Here, let's try a practice round:

 Casual hoody? Messenger bag? Short, breezy haircut? It's a mystery!

I won't keep you in suspense. The verdict is..........(drumroll).......:

DYKE

MSNBC's  Rachel Maddow

At this point, you're likely thinking: "Hey, LEON, this is bullshit. Rachel Maddow was dressed like a teenage boy. No fair."  To this I say: There is no "fair" in GMTBD. Let me illustrate:

GAY MAN

Singer Adam Lambert

TEENAGE BOY

The Biebs, AKA teen heartthrob Justin Bieber

DYKE

DJ Samantha Ronson

GAY MAN

Actor TR Knight

TEENAGE BOY

Twilight "actor" Taylor Lautner

DYKE

Comedian & TV host Ellen Degeneres

GAY MAN

Actor Zachary Quinto

TEENAGE BOY

Nick Jonas of The Jonas Brothers

DYKE

"L Word" Actor Kate Moennig

See? It's like half the planet is shopping at Aeropostale. 

The trick to GMTBD success is to play your odds. What are the odds that a couple of gay men are attending a lesbian parenting lecture? How likely is it that a couple of adult dykes are practicing jumping their dirt bikes off a ramp? Is it common for teen boys to hit the tanning salon? You get the picture. Two caveats on the common sense front: A) obviously, teenage boys can be gay men-in-training, so expect some cross-pollination in clues; and B) should you find yourself at a "mixed culture" event such as, oh, say, a "Glee" Tour concert, you may as well pack it in as you are basically S.O.L...

OK, so let's get guessing! Answers are at the bottom.

1.

2. 

3.

(The answers are waaaaaay down there)

















(Keep Going)

















(Almost)








OK!


1. GAY MAN!

Actor Wentworth Miller

2. DYKE!

Comedian Rebecca Drysdale

3. TEENAGE BOY!

American Idol sensation David Archuletta

Let me know how you did. And please, share GMTBD with your friends and neighbors. In these tough economic times we all could use a little low-cost entertainment, non? Pay it forward, y'all. 

(PS. Thanks for your patience in my absence. I know it's not really cool to launch a blog, drag you all into reading it, and then disappear for a couple of months. Lame. Please forgive me...you're super pretty.)

                        

Unsolved Mysteries

You might not know it to look at me, but I am a thinker. I have been since I was a kid, when I would spend an hour or two staring at the weird flower pattern on my bedroom wallpaper pondering great mysteries like why those kids on You Can't Do That on Television didn't just say "I'm not sure" to avoid getting green slimed. Or what would happen if the tooth fairy and Santa had to come on the same night. Would he share the cookies? Would she let him out the front door? Do they even know each other?

 As you can see, I was quite the budding intellectual.

Three decades later, I have acquired as many degrees that confirm my brilliance. Yes, friends, you are reading the wise words of a woman with BA's in both French and Sociology (Mon dieu!), and a graduate degree in Social Work. Pretty swank, huh? No need for trivial things like computer science or international economics, no sir. I spent my years and extensive financial aid dollars at elite institutions fine tuning my conjugation skills and reading up on methodologies for dismantling The Self. Cha-ching, baby, chaaaaa-ching.

Lately I've noticed that, no matter how hard I get my stare on or how long I ponder, there remain certain questions I simply cannot answer. Some of these questions persist day after day, sometimes year after year, and pick away at me, even keeping me awake a night. I thought maybe this blog post would be a good way to invite others to please, please share some insight into these maddening mysteries. Please.


1. Is Alanis Morissette a total idiot or a fucking genius?
Speaking of You Can't Do That on Television, this Alanis Morissette issue really chaps my ass. The mystery is simple: in her seminal 1995 hit "Ironic," Morissette lists off situation after situation which she refers to as "ironic", but none of these things is actually ironic. This song is so maddening to me that I literally feel like I'm going to stroke out when I hear it. "Rain on your wedding day"? Um, shitty luck but not ironic. "Good advice that you just can't take"? Also lame, and possibly an indication that you are fucked up, but still not ironic. "No smoking sign on your cigarette break"? Yep, not ironic. And don't even get me started about the ten thousand spoons...

So the question is: is Alanis Morisette (in the words of my high school German exchange student) so many cups short of a cupboard that she--and her entire production team, apparently--doesn't realize these lyrics do not in fact represent irony? Or, does she know they are not ironic and use them anyway, thereby rendering the entire song truly ironic--meta ironic--because it's called "Ironic" but there is no irony in it, which would make her brilliant?!

I have worked this one over time and again, even talking about it with various friends, and we just can't come to consensus. I deeply want for her to be brilliant, but a little voice inside tells me she is really just a tool with a limited grasp of the concept of irony and has no idea that her big hit sends more learned listeners such as myself into full-on conniption because it is so fucking daft.

2. What is the deal with tail-on shrimp and how are you supposed to eat it?
I don't get you, tail-on shrimp.

I mean, what is your deal? Unless you are going to be featured in shrimp cocktail, where I will pick your tasty ass up by my fingers, you perplex and irritate me. I find it confusing when you are in my scampi or stir-fry. How am I supposed to eat you without getting my fingers all gucked up in my food from getting your tail off? Am I supposed to eat you with the tail on, and somehow spit it out? You make no sense. I've tried to de-tail you with just my silverware and it's impossible. Why are you even here? Are the chefs just lazy and can't be bothered to remove your tail?  Is there some special benefit to cooking you with tail on that is important enough to justify asking the diner to dig their fingers into their food to remove you at the table? If that's the case, why don't you come with instructions? You are so delicious that I continue to order you despite the fact you are an epic pain in the ass.

Fuck you, tail-on shrimp, fuck you.


3. Why the hell does Autocorrect infuse people's texts with filth and nonsense?
Ok, first off, if you don't know what I'm referring to here, let me fill you in: Autocorrect is a smartphone program that "predicts" what you are trying to type into a text message and fills it in for you. Nifty! Except it tends to fill in everything with words and phrases that are pornographic, bizarre, and/or nonsensical.  It throws in shit like "Manboobs" instead of "Monday" and "Poophole" instead of "pool" and typically renders the unwitting texter frustrated if not mortally embarrassed. To be sure, I find replacing the word "purse" with "pussy" as funny as the next person, but c'mon, this program is rigged! I've heard it said that Autocorrect fills in your texts with words you yourself commonly use, but that is a lie, since I personally have had all manner of explicit body parts and weird pop culture references "predicted" into my own texts messages when I know for a fact I have never before typed those words.

So what the fuck? Are the Autocorrect programmers just a bunch of childish frat boys sitting around flooding the dictionary with gems like "assmunch" and "dickinabox" while they share a spliff? Or does the dictionary somehow populate with the words most commonly used by all text users? And if so, who are all these people writing texts with words like "afterbirth" and "manjuice" with such frequency that they would get added to the damn program? Who??

I implore you, LEON readers, if you have any reasonable theories or direct information about these unsolved mysteries, for the love of god, clue me in. I have other more pressing matters I would like to devote some thinking to, like how to get my dog to stop eating cat shit from the litter box and new strategies for getting A. to change the toilet paper roll, for starters. Help a sister out.

Defying Gravity, aka Fail Blog #1

So, I'd been working on a post about Do's and Don'ts for when you have to go to the Emergency Room, but something is weird about it and I'm not sure it's that funny. I could make it a lot more funny, but to do so would require violating some professional boundaries and possibly HIPAA, so given that I like my job and hope to remain employed, I'm shelving it for now. (If you're interested, here's the take-away: If you want a pleasant, quick and medically helpful ER visit, don't lie, act right, and try really really hard not to shit your pants.) 

But fear not, friends! A post you shall have! My ER post got me thinking about my own numerous visits to Emergency Rooms over the years. I'm kind of a frequent flier:

Those of you who know me can attest that I am mythically prone to falling down and other acts of violent and dangerous uncoordination, the frequency and absurdity of which dwarf the mishaps and accidents of normal people. I deeply wish this were hyperbole. My body, pocket book, and self-esteem would all be in much better shape if I were just being dramatic here. But alas, I am not, and so I thought to myself, "Self, you have no dignity left in this arena. You lost that on a patch of ice in a parking lot back in 1998. Might as well just broadcast to the entire internet the magnitude of your klutzery." Lemonade out of lemons, kids.

So I identified a sampling of my most memorable fails, highlights from various ages and places, (although two of the fails are from college because, well, it's fucking college and frankly it's impressive that I made it out alive, what will all the tomfoolery, sleep deprivation, reckless abandon and recreational substance use.) I began to notice I was having a hard time narrowing down the list and was ultimately forced to admit that I could possibly create a whole series of posts on this topic and not run out of material. I add to the fail collection often, you see. There is even a good chance that I could acquire puncture wound or broken toe just in the course of writing this post. I tell you, the world is my obstacle course.

So, in the name of good story-telling and metering out my shame over time, a series it shall be. To start us off, I have identified a particularly embarrassing childhood fail. Let us begin...

Fail 1:  Bike Meets Brick Wall Fail, age 8

This fail is near and dear to my heart, as it is one of my earliest and possibly the first time I learned that with great physical calamity comes great humiliation. It started off innocently enough: I was riding my bike down at The Graded School, the large, old, brick school house at the end of my block. (It really was called The Graded School--the name was carved into the front of it. I always thought it was weird to have an adjective as a school name, but I guess that how they rolled in the olden days.) At the time, this school functioned as my town's junior high, so I wasn't old enough to attend, but I knew it well because I lived just a few doors away and all of us neighborhood kids played there regularly. We loved to roller skate and bike down "the hill," the paved drive that ran from the front parking lot along the left side of the building and opened up into the large paved playground area in the back. I use "playground" loosely here, as it primarily consisted of several old tractor trailer tires, a basket-less basket ball court, an open blacktop area salt and peppered with shards of broken glass, and an unobstructed embankment leading down to the leech-filled Passumsic River, which was prone to flood the entire area several times a year. In retrospect, the whole place was kind of a death trap, but in the 80's, this specimen of rural splendor was our neighborhood stomping grounds.

On the day in question, I was riding my bike up and down "the hill" pretending I was Laura Ingalls Wilder riding my horse. Pretending to be Laura Ingalls Wilder was an alarmingly popular activity of mine, and I was so good at it that I would sometimes go for days at a time pretending that I was away at "teacher's college" and my entire family were just the people who ran the boarding house I lived in while I pined to go home to Walnut Grove. Yeah. So I was pretty good at getting into character, which I believe accounts for my general lack of awareness in this fail.

I'm not sure where everyone else in the neighborhood was that day (maybe they fled the prairie) but I had been doing this horse-hill thing for about 20 minutes or so when I had a great idea: it was time to pull my horse into the barn for feeding! The Graded School was shaped like a large capital "I". The original school house was the top of the "I", and then a newer hallway-ish thing connected a large gymnasium addition at the back of the school, the bottom of the "I". The hill I was going up and down was the side of the "I", and the indent part, I was sure, was the barn. 

So, from the top of the hill I began to pedal, with the intention of veering sharply to the right half-way down to park in the barn. Sweet plan!

Except this: when it came time to turn, I was going too fast. My horse would not fucking whoa. I felt myself panicking but the course of my demise was set. I couldn't turn the required ninety-degrees and instead turned at about forty...and crashed, full speed, head-on, into the brick wall of the gymnasium.

I remember little about the impact other than the sound of my crumpling horse-bike, but I suspect my body hit the wall before bouncing back several feet and splaying all over the gravely blacktop, which I hit with a resounding thud to rival any child-body-on-pavement thud. I laid there for a minute and assessed: wind knocked out, head pain, searing knee and ankle, tingly elbow, feeling of utter shock and devastation. I also sensed that I had acquired a sampling of bloody, gravel-encrusted scrapes but I couldn't bring myself to move to check. Before I could muster the strength to lift my head, a figure appeared over me. It was Mrs. E. from across the street. She had heard me crying (was I crying??) and came to see what was the matter. She looked positively stricken. "My god, dear!" she said, so concerned, "what happened?"

Holy shit, people will want to know what happened! Oh my god! How on earth do I tell them that I essentially pedaled myself full-speed into a brick wall? That I was trying to put my fake horse in the fake barn? That I forgot to think about the mechanics of speed and turning and such? They will think I'm a fucking wackjob! That. Can't. Happen. Gaaaaaah!

And yet--perhaps because of head injury-- I couldn't think of a single reasonable lie to tell her that would explain this. There were no other kids around. There were no rogue kitties to swerve to avoid, no disorienting sun glare. I caved:

 I just let it go. I began--or perhaps continued-- to wail. Cried my fucking guts out. Poor Mrs. E.  She had two daughters a bit older that me, who I know for a fact were major contributors to the broken glass situation around here but likely had never propelled themselves into this building.  She gingerly lifted me up, gave me a once-over for protruding bones or severed arteries, and said she thought I "needed some ice." We collected a few pieces of debris--chunks of broken reflector , part of my gear shift lever--and walked me and my bike carcass home. 

Actually, technically she walked me to my neighbor's house because I didn't want her talking to my mom. I limped into the garage and threw my bike in a heap next to my sister's (We were not consistent kick-stand users in our family) before slinking in the back door and racing to the upstairs bathroom where I sullenly de-graveled my wounds before dabbing them all with a wet washcloth. I knew we didn't have any band-aids. My mother's first aid philosophy centered around the concept of cowboying up and the belief that any non-fatal injury could be healed by "rubbing it" or covering it with paper towels. After taking inventory of my scrapes, aches and at least one hematoma forming on the back of my head, I declared myself healthy enough to avoid disclosure of this incident to my mom and decided maybe it was time to curl up with a good Nancy Drew. I'd had enough Little House for one day.

Over the next few weeks, I will offer up more confessions of LEON's Top Fails in addition to my other material. I think it will be therapeutic. If nothing else, please please take this body of work as a giant, illustrated cautionary tale. Although, let's be honest: there is no prevention mechanism for the particular blend of Little House obsession, physics ignorance, and lack of planning that lead to this FAIL, nor for the many LEON eccentricities that conspire to erupt in all manner of physical nonsense. In any case, stay tuned for Fail #2: Dorm Steps Peach Snapple FAIL, coming soon...Cheers!

PS. If you like LEON, you can like it on Facebook! You'll get all the posts without having to check the blog directly. Amazeballs!

Schmexercise

It's summer!

Or, for those of us with BMIs over 20, "the season of low self-esteem."

 Each year at this time I dive head-first into a shame spiral about how lax I've been about exercising and "getting back in shape." Actually, to get "back" in shape you have to have originally been in shape, and I'm sure that there's some kind of statute of limitations preventing me from using my senior year in high school as a benchmark to return to. Still, to be fair, a few years ago I had lost a lot of weight and was feeling great:
 

But then I did a bunch of life things like falling in love and working like a maniac and I slowly packed back on some of what I had lost. For a while I didn't notice, but then I had to buy new work pants and shit got serious. I started feeling like Fatty Fatterson and the Chubtones every time I had to wear something other than yoga pants. It was time to (sigh) exercise.

For some people, exercising is a wholly pleasurable endeavor. These folks are inclined towards activities such as repeated marathon running, mountaineering, extreme weight-lifting and the like. They can be identified by their ripped abs and glow of self-satisfied vigor:

 Perhaps you know some of these people; I do. I find them completely disequilibrating to be around. These elite exercise enthusiasts are typically oblivious to the fact that most of us have a love/hate (if not full-on hate/hate)relationship with physical exertion. They just don't get why we might prefer, say, laying in our underwear watching a House Hunters International marathon to hitting the pavement for a 12-miler.

First of all, exercise makes most of us really fucking hot.  And sweaty. This is not a good hot and sweaty, like, say, you'd get in a sauna. This is a soul-killing tsunami of physical misery. Your heart is pounding, sweat beads drip into your eyes and ears and your hair gets all wet and disgusting. Your skin flushes and itches and maybe you even get heat rash hives. I suspect that the exercise fiends enjoy this panoply of sensations. Perhaps they find it invigorating and cleansing. Regular folks, however, do not share this perspective. We know this state of sticky despair is our body's way of warning us to abort mission, and we avoid it at all cost.

Secondly, unless you are already fit, coordinated, and experienced, it is almost impossible not to look like a total asshole while exercising. Between the active-wear that exposes your arm pudge, the complete absence of appropriate technique, and the huffing and puffing that serves as a flashing neon sign advertising your lack of fitness to the world, exercising can be an emotionally debilitating affair. It requires the participant's willingness to be humiliated in the name of health. I experienced this recently when I attended my first Zumba class:

This extent of my embarrassment rivaled the time my mom told our entire house full of Christmas party guests that I had just started my period for the first time.

Lastly, it is often those fitness elites themselves who serve as a barrier to exercise for the average person. We are totally sure that they are judging us. Most likely, many of them are completely unaware that we are even there and are focused instead on their own workout and general awesomeness. There are some, however, that we are certain are utterly consumed with taking stock of our every hyper-extension, grunt, and misstep:

We feel their laser eyes boring down on our flabby bodies each time we pause to take a water break. And we feel small. Bad small, not fit small.

All of this is enough to make many of us give up exercise altogether and resign ourselves to our chubby, winded lot in life. But before you throw in the sweat towel and head for the Ben and Jerry's, I encourage you to try the secret weapon I have honed over years of pride-swallowing fitness endeavors. It has allowed me to keep plugging along in all my sweat-soaked glory through all manner of yoga classes, Nautilus rotations, and even "running" my first 5k earlier this year. I call it the "Wonder Woman," and it's very simple: just pretend you are inside an invisible jet.  No one can see you. No one even knows you are there:

Feel like going home after only doing 11 minutes on the eliptical? No problem, no one will know! Drop a dumbell on your foot and burst into tears? Who cares? You're invisible! Cry your eyes out!

The Wonder Woman, when properly employed, will allow you the freedom to exercise without inhibition. Go ahead and try that pilates class you've had your eye on. Feel free to take up ballroom dancing or tennis. I can't say you won't be hot and sweaty, but shit, you can stop if you want and no one will judge you. You can lay your ass down in the middle of the gym and take a nap if you feel like it . No one will see! (NB:Young people may prefer to call this technique the "Cloak of Invisibility" for a more age-appropriate pop-culture reference. Be my guest. Whatever works!)

The bottom line seems to be that we've all got to move our asses from time to time or risk dying painful, shameful and preventable deaths from horrible diseases that will consume us and make us wish we'd done more step aerobics. So, use the Wonder Woman. Or come up with your own method for staying active. If anyone invents an anti-hot-and-sweaty pill, I'll be your best friend. No joke.

Five Ways to Fuck Up an Apology : A Primer

Ah, apologies.

Those pesky little moments of humility and accountability where we get to be all mature and remorseful while every cell in our bodies squirms with awkwardness and shame. Or, alternatively, those moments of great deception when we attempt to get the social currency that comes with vocalizing remorse while internally holding fast to the notion that we are right, goddamnit, and the other person is a moron/asshole/baby or otherwise off-base. Apologies can be an opportunities to grow and to build enhanced connections with people, often taking relationships to a new level:

 Often, though, they are characterized by insincerity, minimization, passive-aggression, or other qualities that negate the value an authentic apology may have held, and in fact can even escalate the conflict or leave the other person feeling worse than if you hadn't "apologized" at all.

You'd think since apologies are so important, we'd all be kick-ass at being sorry. Not so, friends! My personal and professional experience indicates that there is almost nothing we handle more poorly in our interpersonal relationships than apologies. I myself am a perfect example. I mean, I'm a therapist  for christsake, and even I have an embarrassing collection of epically fumbled mea culpas that salt and pepper everything from my romantic relationship resume to my friendships. (Sorry about that, everybody. Really. Totally sorry.)

There are two ingredients needed to make an effective apology: actual feelings of remorse, and the ability to appropriately communicate them. If you're missing the first, then your impending apology is already pretty much dead in the water and I urge you to reconsider even attempting a fakey. In addition to being lame and possibly karmically toxic, it can get you into a Boy Who Cried Wolf territory with the recipient; once they are on to your trickery they never believe any future apologies and usually write you off as a narcissist or a douche. (Maybe you are a narcissist and/or a douche, but I encourage you to at least attempt to function like a more authentic, compassionate human being, even if it feels overwhelming. If nothing else, you'll have more friends.)

Assuming you are actually sorry, now you have to figure out how to say so in a way that is effective. Since many apologies need to happen on the fly--say, mid-argument--you don't really have a lot of time to strategize. It helps if you know some common pitfalls to avoid. And guess who's here to help with that? Me, baby. Me. (No applause, really. You're too much...)

So here you have it, free of charge, right from the Mental Health Professional's mouth:

1. The Equivocal Fakey, aka "I'm sorry, but..."

The EF is one of the most common apology pitfalls out there and occurs when you aren't actually sorry at all. Remember my advice above and try to resist the urge (or the outside pressure) to prematurely apologize, or you risk walking off this plank. The EF is basically a gigantic monster blame bomb you are throwing at the other person, insinuating--if not outright saying--that whatever you're "apologizing" for is their fault.  It's completely inauthentic because what you are really thinking is "I'm not sorry at all. You deserved it because of what you did and I think you owe me the apology. I am still mad and I also don't think I did anything wrong." It can be super-destructive to bust out an EF, and it makes you look like a jerky hothead. Avoid this at all costs because you lose points and then you have to apologize for your apology, which is a real drag.

2. The Condescender

The Condescender is a dark and twisty little bugger that worms its way into apologies from people who are self-righteous, judgmental and/or arrogant. Sadly, the person implementing The Condescender generally earnestly believes they are apologizing. These people often have no idea how patronizing and un-sorry they sound. If you tend to find yourself constantly taking stock of other people's flaws, weaknesses, and limitations and never of your own, you may be prone this one. My suggestion is to stick to a script that only talks about you: "I am really sorry I did/said ______. I know I hurt you." The goal is to emphasize the feeling of remorse for your behavior. Again, it helps to actually feel sorry. It also helps to try to be less of an arrogant prick.


3. Enigmatic Mystery Apology

The EMA--popular in frat houses and other arenas where straight men congregate-- is problematic in that the recipient has no fucking idea what you are talking about.  It's hard to have meaningful repair in a relationship when you're not sure if the person is sorry for shooting your dog that time at hunting camp or for banging your girlfriend down in Cabo last New Year's. Maybe s/he is sorry for taking your Garbage Pail Kids collection in 3rd grade, who the hell knows? The EMA can be particularly confusing when you have done multiple crap-ass things for which you are or should be sorry. The solution here is to be specific: "Dude, I am super-sorry I drank all your beer and then painted your computer screen with White-Out." Once you've been clear, you can go back to non-communicating as usual.

4. The Relapse

Like The Equivocal Fakey, The Relapse also occurs when you are not really sorry and/or not yet calmed down. It is characterized by repeating the behavior you just apologized for. If you do this, you are either devoid of even a minimal level of self-awareness, or you are still angry and amped up for a fight. The Relapse comes in two forms: short-cycle, like the example above, and long-cycle, such as when someone apologizes for cheating on you and then cheats on you again. I'm just going to spell this out so there is no confusion: If you apologize for something, you need to make every effort to avoid ever doing that thing again. Otherwise, you are a shitty person.


5. The Time Bandit

The Time Bandit is the granddaddy of the apology fuck-up. It has the capacity to deal a fatal blow to the relationship. The Time Bandit is an apology given at the absolute most stratospherically inopportune moment possible, when the receiver is either completely unavailable/incapable of responding to the apology or will be forced into responding in a constrained fashion for which s/he will resent you until the end of days. Examples include apologizing for infidelity right before your partner takes the stage to accept an Academy Award and broadcasting your apology on the Jumbo-Tron at the nationally televised play-off game. Ninety-five percent of TB's typically start with a shocking confession at the helm and come from  spineless, sackless, cowardly gits who intentionally chose an inappropriate moment in an attempt to manipulate the recipient into a small reaction,  quick forgiveness, and minimal discussion.  (The other five percent of TB's are made by people who are too socially inept, disoriented or impaired by altered mental status to even have noticed how inappropriate the timing on the apology was. Those folks get a pass, and frankly, should get points for apologizing at all.) If you have considered--or worse, utilized--a Time Bandit,  the only course of action I can recommend is a swift self-flagellation. That, and grow some fucking balls.

So there you have it, friends. Be honest, be specific, avoid blaming, keep assholery to a minimum, and try not to sabotage your recipient with shenanigans that will make them hate your fucking guts.

Happy Tuesday!

Pork Chops

When you're a kid, your brain is kind of amazing. You are absorbing information, synthesyzing it and putting it to use more rapidly than you will ever be able to do again in your life. As a therapist, I specialized in Child & Family Mental Health, and one of the most interesting and challenging things about working with kids is that the responsibility for what and how they learn--at least when they are very young--lies primarily with the adults in their lives.

So, you've probably met a lot of adults in your life. Should we really be allowed this much influence on brand spanking new human beings?

Take it from me, we should not.


Thinking about child development and learning reminded me that there are several stratospherically ridiculous and/or erroneous things that I believed as a child. I was a reasonably smart and developmentally mature kid and my parents were actually quite good about being honest, educational, and generally aware of making sure we were learning about the world. The problem is that no adult can ever possibly manage everything in their own life and be constantly monitoring a child's developing mind for misinformation that gets processed as truth. It can't be done. Meanwhile, a kid's brain fills in the blanks with all kinds of creative, imaginative and often highly logical pieces of info all on its own. Additionally, young minds are incredibly flexible and forgiving, which is how more than a third of us ended up buying the notion that a fat, white man in a sleigh can fly around the world in about 8 hours with the same nine reindeer annually for eternity, enter select people's homes and leave gifts while somehow not upsetting the 65% of the planet that doesn't celebrate this holiday. 

Still, when I think about my childhood there are some examples of embraced falsehoods and magical thinking that I attribute less to normal "kid think" and more to my own emerging propensity to jump to conclusions. I was a classic oldest child, often praised for being very bright and independent, so I didn't like to ask adults to explain things unless I absolutely had to. This "no, I'm cool. I've got it" attitude directly contributed to the following mistaken beliefs:


1. Pigs lay pork chops 

If you think about it, it's kind of logical. I knew that pork chops came from pigs because of the word "pork" and its connection to Porky Pig. (See how smart I was?)  And being a Vermonter surrounded by farms, I knew that cows gave milk, chickens laid eggs, etc. So, in my mind pigs copped a squat and squeezed out a pork chop or two each day. The real concern here is not that I believed this, which is actually kind of cute, but that I believed it until I was nine years old. Yeah. Like fourth grade. The only reason I learned that this was not true was because one day when my mom and I were driving to the farm of some people we knew I asked about their "pet" pig and she said "they killed that pig last year." When, in my absolute horror, I asked why on earth someone would kill their pig, my mom gave me an awkward look and was like, "uh, for the meat." When I asked her to elaborate, I learned that not only did pigs not lay pork chops, but that bacon and even ham (ham!) were responsible for these killings. It was a long car ride for me that day.

2. Dan Rather, Bob Barker and Ronald Reagan were triplets

This I attribute to the fact that these three seemingly disparate gentlemen featured prominently into my childhood television viewing repertoire and that they all looked exactly alike to me: tall, white, stately, and graying. I believed that they had different last names because they had either chosen stage names or been adopted out. I loved these men deeply and felt safe when I saw them. Bob Barker was so reliable and always giving away money and making people happy. Plus, he cared enough to remind us to get our pets fixed. Dan Rather had the most strong and reassuring voice I had ever heard and was my lifeline to the outside world, a beacon from far off lands full of exotic things like shopping malls and buildings taller than 4 stories. I watched the CBS evening news with unquestioning loyalty and zeal. As for Ronald Reagan, this was a forbidden love, as my mom thought he was an asshole who "didn't care about regular people". I thought she must be off-base. I mean, who would leave all the glitz and glamour of Hollywood for public service but someone deeply concerned about the well-being of those less fortunate? What a guy! This whole house of cards really fell apart when Bob Barker went completely white-haired while Dan and Ronald stayed more brunette. My foundation of security was shattered.



3. If you put butter and peanut butter together on the same piece of toast or english muffin, it becomes lethal and will kill you. 

This one I am pretty sure I completely fabricated as a way to get my sister not to do this because I found it revolting. But then, as is the danger with all lies, I began to believe this myself and eventually I would not even butter my bread with a knife that I suspected had touched peanut butter, and vice versa. It's possible that I still believe this since I have never since consumed these foods in unison and insist on one-condiment-only knife use in all of my food preparation.

4. You have to have your ears pierced to go to a funeral. 

This little gem originated when my sister and I were about to get our ears pierced, ages 9 (me) and 7 (her). She snuck into my room the night before so that we could talk about all of the amazing opportunities our newly pierced ears were about to bring our way, when suddenly I blurted out that now we could go to funerals! My sister's eyes widdened and she was all, "really??" And I was like, yeah, really! We've never been to a funeral and it must be because we have no earrings, damn it! But now no one will refuse us entry! We can go to any funeral we want!

5. The giant elevated grain conveyor belt at a local grain silo was really an amusement park ride that I wasn't allowed to go on. 

This is actually quite tragic: I spent a good 5-6 years of my youth driving by this thing and thinking that my parents were just telling us it was a grain conveyor belt so that they didn't have to take us to this fun park. I never mentioned it to my friends at school because I didn't want to stand out as the only kid who hadn't gone on the bad-ass ride, or to the amusement park at all. It's also disconcerting that we lived somewhere so ungodly remote that I longed to ride the grain conveyor. (Btw, if you're reading this and you're from the NEK, you maybe know the place I'm talking about. It was on the right just after you get off 91 and head toward Lyndonville, before you come to the railroad crossing. Kinda by the intersection with the Colonade, only on the other side of rt 5. What did you think it was??)

This tale has a happy ending. As an adult,  I have learned to ask a lot of questions and I  try not to fill in the blanks too much without consulting other trusted sources of information.

You know, like Facebook and Wikipedia.

Asshole N.O.S.

In the mental health field, we use the qualifier "NOS"--meaning "Not Otherwise Specified"-- when we either don't have enough information to issue a firm DSM-IV diagnosis, or when there is something unusual that does not quite fit with the diagnostic criteria for a DSM-IV disorder. (If you are not familiar with the DSM-IV, first congratulate yourself on a wise career choice and then you can  read up on this wonderful  manual that "guides" my profession should you choose.) 


For example, let's say you're having severe mood swings and come to a clinician for assessment. You might get a diagnosis of "Mood Disorder NOS" indicating that you have some sort of mood issue that is causing you distress but that it cannot yet be attributed to a specific condition like Major Depressive Disorder, Bi Polar Disorder, or Generalized Anxiety Disorder.The "NOS" signifies that more information is needed to make a specific diagnosis because we can't yet pinpoint the cause of the mood swings. It let's everybody off the hook re: getting to the bottom of things right this exact minute, which is usually impossible in a first encounter assessment. Generally NOS diagnoses are intended to "expire" after enough time has passed for more information to be assessed, more symptoms to emerge, etc. Sometimes NOS lingers when we just can't put our finger on what's really going on.


But wait! "NOS" has a vastly more relevant and helpful purpose, however, when applied to real life!


 Let me introduce you to a little game I like to call "Asshole NOS." You can play too! It's great for not getting too riled up when the tides of douchebaggery flood your way! Plus, it's free, it reduces conflict, and it significantly reduces the likelihood that you yourself will suddenly act like an asshole. Win-win!


Let's see how it works. Here is an example of an asshole collision in everyday life, with-- you know, just for the sake of this example--my initial internal response. Just hypothetically, of course..

Now, I don't know this guy. I don't know why he's got a Hummer  or why he can't be bothered to drive the additional 13 feet to the parking lot that is empty. I don't yet have enough information to be able to firmly determine the source of this assholery. Maybe this guy is such a dick because his parents were neglectful and weird and his penis is really small so he feels like he always has to prove something. Maybe he is high as a goddamned kite right now and jonesing for feta. How the hell should I know?


 But I ask you, do I need to take this on, get all offended and toxic and vindictive? Nay! Nay, friends, I do not, thanks to Asshole NOS! Let's try it again:

See?? Asshole NOS just saved me 20 minutes of either a) vengefully affecting a disability and possibly escalating this interaction into a full-blown conflict; or b) crankily dwelling aisle to aisle as I perseverate  alternatively on kicking myself for giving him the cart and what I will say next time someone confronts me for feta. Asshole NOS saved the day!


I encourage you to employ the Asshole NOS technique for a few days and see what you think. Make it your own! You can try my other versions, too, like "Annoying as Hell NOS," "Boring NOS," and "Politically Witless NOS." Let me know how it works out. 


Cheers!