There are more offensively worded attacks on your character than someone asking you, “Are you sure this is the hill you want to die on?”. By that I mean only that none of the individual words in this sentence is, in itself, offensive. I believe these words put together are either one of the most loathsome of underhanded comments, or one of the most hilarious of sarcastic verbal smack downs.
You likely have no context for the kind of savage pain the shingles virus can cause. Yes, I’m even talking about you- mothers of babies and dudes who don’t drink enough cranberry juice. Childbirth and kidney stones are a walk in the park compared to shingles. I’ll prove it below with my horror story, which contains (WARNING) disturbing language and imagery.
Nowadays, when people look at the picture at the top of this article, they see only one woman and it’s impossible to persuade them that a second woman exists. This, I’m afraid, represents the death of persuasion and, unfortunately, the end of humankind.
I make mistakes. When I do, they give me the squirms. Even the smallest misstep haunts me. I may, at times, be too hard on myself. If you, on the other hand, have ever justified a lack of attention to detail with the phrase, “Hey, we’re not doing brain surgery here, relax!”, I want you to immediately stop reading this and put a staple in your tongue.
When it comes to dogs, there are two things I have never been: a “dog person”, and shy about sharing my disdain for them and their owners. I know! It’s ridicule that is unfounded, uninformed and unfair. I’ve never owned a dog. But, it only takes one nippy, yappy, smelly, slobbery pooch to swell my ignorance. It also only takes the stench of one deviant un-scooped doggy swirl on the bottom of my shoe to radiate my fanatical furor into a sweeping criticism of all of their cult-like masters. That is, until I spent a month with Hunter. After even just a few days living with this Border Terrier, I discovered my inner dog person, and what I learned is crucial to your success at work and at home.
WARNING: this article contains explicit content that might jinx you. If you’re a superstitious person, read on with caution, or stop reading immediately. If you’re still reading at this point, you’re probably not that superstitious about bringing misfortune upon yourself, or others. Still reading even now? Well, not being superstitious in any way whatsoever might be an indication that you’re a sociopath.
It’s happened before and it will happen again: someone asks me, “You’re a comedian. Why do they even have ‘All-Girl’ comedy shows anyway?”. My knee-jerk response is, “why do you even care?”. But, I know better. My short answer is: because they enhance your experience of comedy, even if you never attend one. Since you asked, the longer answer is: the All-Female comedy show model is responsible for such things as the thriving Canadian music scene and could save television in this country. It’s not like there’s a lot of them happening in the first place, but they should be mandatory.
If my calculations are correct, it will be anywhere from 3 months to 6.25 years before at least one of my kids realizes just how cool I actually am. That approximates the window of time between which my oldest child and youngest child graduate from high school. I’ve based this estimation on the scientific evidence I observed in how the perception I had of MY parents changed upon embarking for a post secondary education. I figure, despite how complex and wildly unpredictable the teenage brain is, there are certain consistencies to the human experience that are reliable in determining when your kids become aware of your true swagger.
Recently I was prepping one of my trivia shows and I came across a “factoid” that I had jotted down years ago about an infamous moment for a celebrity singer. I started crafting a short question about the incident, but stopped myself and wondered- “why would I ask a question about this?”. Sometimes contemplative pauses like this are due to second thoughts I have about the informative and entertaining merit of the “factoid”. In this case, it was because I remembered a promise I made to myself to avoid being carelessly mean-spirited towards people when trying to be entertaining and informative. I call it being “Casually Nasty”, and I believe it’s a more serious problem than being intentionally nasty.
Some memories of my college years are, well, a bit fuzzy. What I remember in vivid detail, however, are the holidays of my first year away at University living in college residence. Attending U of T from Vancouver, I was one of just a handful of students in an entire building who didn’t go back home for Thanksgiving, Christmas or March Break. As a result, the halls of the dorms were unusually quiet at these times. Not in an eerie way, like when reading, “The Shining”, by Stephen King alone in a hotel-like environment, (not recommended). Instead, the distinct serenity of being left behind in residence was liberating. I felt that I had free-run of the space that was otherwise congested with the jocularity, antics and frenetic energy of day-to-day living in close quarters with dozens of other dudes. Reflecting back as a working parent now, I’m astonished that I could open my door, step into the hallway and say my biggest secrets aloud without any repercussions.