Advicesticles

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 8, Verse 6

"Listen to me!  For I have important information for you.

Everything I say is right and true."

---

CHIPPED WISDOM:

A while ago, I wrote a blog that contained some pearls of wisdom that came before swine and left be bruised and battered like a buffalo from Ikea with shallots and a Bearnaise sauce for tuppence a bag.  And, because some folks said they enjoyed it (they didn't say it in the Comments section, nobody does, NOT THAT I MIND, MY SWEATY LITTLE FORESKIN-GATHERERS, NO, I DON'T!) and because I kind of like giving advice, I figured I would do that again.  These are some things that I want to tell you-- if not advice, then declarations about life that I've picked up from being alive for thirty-three years that I thought you might like to know about.  

Aren't I special?

POCKETS

If you're a man, and you own trousers that have regular pockets that you slip your hands into from a diagonal angle as well as jeans or jean-style corduroys, where the hands descend into the pockets at a directly vertical trajectory, be aware that, the day you change from one style to the other, your brain is going to tell your hands to do the wrong thing-- i.e., you're gonna shoot those hands straight down like you're settling into the pockets of a well-loved pair of Levi's and your hands are going to just smooth out the front of your pants.  And, when you do that, you're gonna look like a fucking idiot.  So, if that's something you're not okay with-- you've been warned.

BREATH MINTS

Hi.  I don't "do" breath mints.

Sorry.

I understand that I drink (decaf) coffee and that I eat garlic-encrusted rhino tongue and that plaque likes to cuddle up inside the little crevices of my knocked-about teeth and I don't brush after every meal or every quarter hour like my 11th grade history teacher did but, do me a favor-- don't offer me a fucking breath mint.  I will always turn it down with a forced little smile that says, "HEY!  I know why you're doing that!  And I don't care!"  You wouldn't offer to rub some rose petals and cinnamon sticks on the underarms of some sweaty intern at a board meeting, would you?  No, you'd sit there and pretend not to notice.  So... try that, and shove your breath mints up your ass-- CUZ YOUR ASS SMELLS LIKE ASS!

GAWKER

I remember once a little while ago we had a speaker come in to our place of business to give a talk about sex addiction.  Unlike most inservices, which are actually designed to make long for death and are, therefore, rather poorly attended, this one was packed.  The guy was a licensed clinical social worker I think, and from what I remember he managed to make sex addiction sound not terribly interesting, which, I guess, is a real knack in and of itself, but he shared some anonymous client stories and that was enjoyable.  One thing that struck me, though, was his tale of a client who came to him for help because, "He was a gawker.  I mean, he had this problem.  He gawked at women."

And I remember sitting there thinking, "Wow.  I didn't know you could bill for that."  

Not that I can remember specifically who was around the table at the time, but I was probably gawking at at least three different women during the course of that presentation.  I certainly wasn't GAWKING at the presenter, who probably needed a BREATH MINT AND CINNAMON DEODORANT.  

Look, I get it.  I realize that we live in a society where every moment you're alive is at the very least a faux pas and at worse a bombastic damnation of the highest order-- but, gawking?  If gawking at women is a symptom of a psychiatric disorder, then fine-- just put me in a fucking straight jacket.  But make sure the buckles are loose enough so that I can still-- you know.

SHORT MEN

I'm six foot tall and, therefore, I own this fucking cheese.  I didn't realize I felt that way about my stature until only recently when I've noticed that, when a particularly short man walks into the room, I furrow my brow and scrunch up my face GAWKING at the guy with a look that says, "Why isn't this Oompa Loompa getting me a danish and waxing my car?"  And it's funny, because I have no muscles other than the essential ones I need to turn my car's power-assisted steering wheel and step into and out of the bathtub-- I'm not particularly overbearing or intimidating, and yet, when the short guy walks out of the room, I shake my head a little and look up to the sky as if to ask, "Why did you bother making that?  He can't pick apples or help Mildred at the market reach the Sun Chips."

YOUR WIFE'S BIRTHDAY

I don't know about your wife (but I'm GAWKING at a mental image of her right now) but my wife's birthday is in two days and I'm so fucking excited I COULD SCREAM!

(Sorry.)

If your wife's birthday isn't your favorite day of the year, there's something wrong, and you should immediately look into that.

That's the end of that bit-- there's no joke.  I'm serious.

CHAIR

With $329 of my Bar Mitzvah money, I bought an enormous blue, crushed velvet La-Z-Boy recliner that could have provided shelter for a family of sixty-seven Mexican illegal immigrant field mice.  I loved that chair like I don't know what.  When you have enough disposable income that you want to shed some of it and don't know what to do it on: buy a nice chair.  Doesn't have to be some white trash recliner, it can be something from Dane Decor or Macy's-- something that fits your life and your lifestyle, but parking your sorry ass down on a nice, comfortable, well-made piece of furniture is always going to be worth the money.  

Particularly if it vibrates. 

And now, some pearllettes...

* If you ever get a chance to talk to a crazy Haitian guy, take it.  If possible and practical, record it.

* Just once, apply for a job with a resume that is 100% fictitious, including your name.  Keep the right phone number, though, just to see if their H.R. bitch calls.  Guarantee you she will.

* Donate a respectable money to a charity you know or care absolutely nothing about.

* Skip down a crowded hallway.  When someone confronts you or makes a comment, stop directly in front of them, grab their head firmly, and lick their eyebrows.

* Get rid of your iPhone.  It makes you look stupid.  It makes me look stupid, too, and I hate looking like you.

* Learn six banjo chords.  I did-- it's a hoot.  I think learning a 7th would completely spoil it.  Don't you?

* Watch documentaries, particularly ones where they interview old men.  Old men know EVERYTHING.

* What old men don't know, 33-year-old bloggers do.  Don't believe me?  Ask my mom.

* STOP GAWKING AT MY MOM, YOU SONOFABITCH!

Okay, I'm done now.  Go get yourself a breath mint; you fucking stink.

Knight Terror

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 27, Verse 9

"Friendly suggestions are as pleasant as perfume."

 

--

 

CHIPPED WISDOM:

 

I remember when I was younger, people used to come to me for advice.  About issues.

 

Issues, man. 

 

And it's funny that that happened, because, as things went, I was a pretty sheltered kid and, later, a pretty sheltered guy.  Even today, there's much of the world I haven't experienced.  Sure, I've dated a Catholic girl and I've been to Indonesia, I've owned maybe thirteen cars or so, but, all in all, that's not saying very much.  Those aren't things that necessarily qualify one as "worldly". 

 

And yet, people came to me.  They sought me out.  I didn't set up a fucking lemonade stand and sit there looking erudite.  It kind of just happened.

 

Maybe it's the glasses, or the tucked-in shirts.  The conservative haircut.  The way I'll look you in the eye.  There's something in there that people trust.  On my good days I think, well, yea-- they should.  They should trust me.  On my bad days, well, my bad days are bad. 

 

I have bad days.

 

I can remember back in high school, my peers would come to me asking for relationship advice.  I was answering questions about and giving advice on relationships before I'd even had one myself.  It was pretty ridiculous.  And sometimes the advice I gave wasn't half bad.  I never said anything outlandish like, "To spice things up, wear underpants made of Fruit Roll-Ups," or "Show up to the prom in blackface and a kilt".  It was all pretty run-of-the-mill

 

---

 

So.

 

I started this post around twenty minutes ago. 

 

My son cried.  It stopped after a minute.  I re-initiated blog 2.0.  Then my daughter started.  She did not de-escalate.  She did not calm down.  She did not nuzzle her boo-bear bankie and drift off into that good night.  She didn't descend into the ether.  She screamed. 

 

Fucking screaming.

 

That's what I remember most about those first few weeks.  Okay, months.  Incessant, unholy screaming.  They were bananas, those kids.  And you had no idea what the problem was.  Even if you knew and could fix it, it didn't matter.  It was too late.  Always too late. 

 

YOU ARE ALWAYS TOO FUCKING LATE A CHILD NEEDS TO BE SERVED YESTERFUCKINGDAY DON'T YOU GET IT YOU DUMB SHIT

 

?

 

She's quiet now, so I'm writing again.  About that now.

 

When they would both go off at the same time, I would close my eyes and silently pray for my own death. 

 

I've only really ever prayed that I would die one time in my life before, and it was when I was a sophomore in college, and I was dating that Catholic girl.  She had some kind of bizarre allergy to sugar.  To lots of things, but sugar?

 

Come on.

 

Anyway, I bought her a birthday cake from Dairy Queen.  A diet birthday cake.  Or pie.  It was a diet ice cream pie.

 

Why do such abominations before the Lord exist?  For weird Catholic chicks, I guess.

 

Anyway, this diet ice cream pie was really, really good.  So I ate A LOT of it.

 

An hour later, I was curled up on the toilet of the all girls dormitory with sweat streaming down my entire body.  My hair was soaked.  Head, body hair, pubes, ass hair-- sopping wet.  I was shaking.  Shivering.  I was so cold.  My intestines felt like they were warehousing an intoxicated worm colony dancing the cucaracha down to my colon.  I prayed, quite earnestly, for death.  I wanted nothing more than for the floor beneath that girls dorm toilet to open up and send me down the shit-n-slide to hell. 

 

Please, God, make it come now, I thought, give it to me.  I can remember that feeling coming back holding two infants, screaming the bejesus out of themselves, directly into each of my ears. 

 

The sickening helplessness, the impotence, the blinding fear.  They would scream so loud sometimes I would see colors.  Spots.  Stars.  Things. 

 

I saw things.

 

When my children are sick, I don't know what to do.  I think I do, but then my wife thinks something else, and I don't know.  I doubt her.  I doubt myself.  The websites.  The chatter.  My instincts.

 

They're not so good.

 

I don't know that I have instincts sometimes.  I have what people tell me and then I feel like I blindly go with something. 

 

She's screaming again.

 

Oh my Christ. 

 

Maybe it'll stop this time.  I don't know.  I don't think so.  Maybe she had too much diet ice cream pie.  Maybe she's having her first nightmare.  When do they have nightmares?  Oh, you don't know.  Nobody knows.  You can't get inside a 19-month-old's skull.  You wouldn't want to.  It's weird in there.  Applesauce and milk.  Who knows.

 

On TV, you pick a screaming baby up and it nuzzles up against you and it goes instantly silent, like somebody pushed the mute button on the remote.  In real life, there is snot and hot, steamy tears and back arching and thrashing and it's horrible. 

 

It's funny to me that this post started out being about advice.  Some people who have children turn into experts and anyone remotely associated with them who has kids has to be subjected mercilessly to their endless pontifications about parenting. 

 

If I may?  Don't ever, ever come to me for advice about parenting.  Or anything.  I don't know anything anymore-- I don't remember.  I am Sir Knownothing.  I am Lord High Asksomeoneelse.  I am broken and funny and desperate and hanging in there kid and supplied and demanded and hungry and aching and I can play six chords on the banjo and make polite conversation and garlic marinated broccoli. 

 

That's it.

 

That's all.

Consulting

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 8, Verse 6 & 7

"Listen to me! For I have important information for you.  Everything I say is right and true, for I hate lies and every kind of deception."

---

CHIPPED WISDOM:

There are two kinds of people in this world....

Don't you wanna fucking gut people who say that?

Yeah.  I do, too.  Want to know why?  Cuz there are two kinds of people in this world: assholes who say "there are two kinds of people in this world", and assholes who don't.  Personally, I more strongly dislike the type of asshole who uses that phrase.  And, since I dislike myself, and I'm an asshole, I'm going to use it too.

Ready?  Watch this asshole:

There are two kinds of people in this world... people who read "Dear Abby", and people who don't.  

I never read "Dear Abby" growing up, though we did get "The Philadelphia Inquirer" delivered to our house every day including Sundays, a sure sign that we were not-quite-so-but-almost-daringly upper middle class.  I can remember perusing the paper avidly as a boy of maybe eight or nine.  While my older sister got Cinnamon Toast Crunch milk splotches on the comics and my oldest sister enjoyed reading about rare diseases she could collect in the Health section, I was busily scanning the obituaries looking for familiar last names.  I don't know exactly who I thought I was going to find in there-- the aunt of my fourth grade teacher, the dad of the guy at the pharmacy?-- but I sure looked religiously.  I guess I learned my obituary reading habit from my mother, whose fear of death was legendary, and from whom I also gained a healthy aversion to airplanes, crime, dust, animals, and college.

While I don't know for sure, I'm reasonably certain that nobody in our house read Dear Abby.  It's hard to imagine my hairy-shouldered Israeli father taking suggestions from some Stepford wife from Sioux City while swilling scalding hot coffee that tastes like a submerged cigar, although it is kind of entertaining to me to imagine him reading, and then religiously following her advice.  Like about sex.  

As my relationship progressed with my wife, I started to realize that she was one of the kinds of people in this world who reads "Dear Abby".  At least, she did.  Very frequently.  On Uexpress, whatever the fuck that is.  Sometimes I would drift into the office while she was reading the column and I would let my eyes fall on a sentence or two, and then a paragraph, and suddenly, I was addicted.  To making fun of it.  A parody of "Dear Abby" became a staple on my old blog, with zany, profane, racist and offensive (maybe to YOU) advice to actual letters that had been sent in.  

And that was all good fun, and we all had a jolly good laugh.  

As I have been searching for a new job for, oh, I don't know, maybe twenty months or so, sometimes someone will ask me "Well, if money or qualifications or practicality were no object (and, believe me, they're not) what would you want to do every day for the rest of your life?" and, sometimes I say one thing and sometimes I say something else.  

Today?  I'd say, "telling you how to run your goddamned life". 

That sounds like as much of a dream job as I can think of.  And I wonder sometimes if Pauline Phillips knew how good she had it, that little bitch.  Sitting at her Underwood with some licorice candy (women like her eat that, you know) clutched in her perfectly manicured digits, clacking out advice with solemnity and purpose, cocksuredness and clarity.  It's hard to fathom that someone like me, with such a dearth of self confidence, could pull it together enough to unapologetically tell someone that their shit stinks and that they need to get a life, and I suppose that's what makes it a dream job.  And the dream is sweet, I think.  I think it's sweet.  

My father, speaking of sweet, is facing a decision in the next year or so about whether to unload his business on some poor fucker or close it up and tank it all.  I asked him, at one of our infamous lunches at the park, what he was going to do with the rest of his occupational life, as there is way too much piss in this man's vinegar to just retire.  

"I don't know, Mummy," he said, "maybe I will consult.  I love to tell people what to fuckin' do."

And he's good at it, too.  Far better than I'd ever be.