The answer to "How dare you?"

I hate "How dare you?" I hate it so much.

How dare you is a meaningless bit of outrage. Argumentative spittle. A waste of three words. A ridiculous rhetorical question designed to express overdramatized personal outrage.

We must stop "How dare you?" in its tracks. Bring it to an end. Remove it from the lexicon.

When faced with, "How dare you?" your response must always be to answer this stupid question. 

Something like this:

"How dare I? I'd hardly call what I said daring. I'd characterize it more as a valid argument contain vast amounts of truth and wisdom. How dare I? Who even says that? Who relies upon rhetorical questions of such little meaning to make their point? How dare I? I dare with the strength and conviction of a person who knows he is right and is fighting for truth, justice, and the American way. That is how I dare. Now perhaps you could say something of substance and meaning rather than spitting rhetorical drivel."

Maybe not exactly that, because it's a lot, but something like it.

In the case of Kellyanne Conway, a simple, "How dare I? I dare because children are at stake, and I am a journalists whose job it is to ask hard questions and point out bigotry, intolerance, and cruelty wherever I see it. I dare because it's my job to be daring." 

I would've loved that so much. 

So practice. Prepare yourself for verbal combat. Be ready to fire off a response when faced with this stupid bit of rhetoric. I've had the great pleasure of pulling off a "How dare you" rant more than once (including a college classroom once in the midst of a debate), and it is truly a glorious thing.  

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Constantly frowning and avoiding dogs at every turn

Grammar is important, especially when it comes to the design of memorial plaques. Ignore a few basic rules of grammar and you could end up with this:

A woman who both never saw a dog in her entire life and never cracked a smile.

Quite the departure from what this foundation was presumably intending. 

When I asked my nine year-old daughter to read this and tell me what she thinks of Nicole Campbell, she said, "A grumpy, dead person."

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The best way to rewrite this plaque is probably this:

In loving memory of
Nicole Campbell
Who never saw a dog that didn't make her smile

"Who never saw a dog without smiling" also works, but I like the seemingly irresistibility of dogs that the first option implies. 

Either is far better than portraying Nicole Campbell as some unsmiling monster who managed to avoid dogs for her entire life. 

When the words are important and permanent, you need to get it right. 

The Trump administration has been the most type-ladened organization that I've ever seen. Not only is Trump's Twitter feed ("official statements" according to his press secretary) filled with capitalization, spelling, and punctuation errors, but typos abound in this administration.

Just last week, Sarah Huckabee Sanders read a statement containing this:

“Iran has a robust, clandestine nuclear weapons program that it has tried and failed to hide from the world and from its own people.”

Unfortunately, the "has" was supposed to be "had."

Big difference. 

A statement from Sanders’s office on the death of former first lady Barbara Bush was dated April 17, 2017, a full year prior to her death.

A White House press release last May said that Donald Trump was traveling to Israel to promote “the possibility of lasting peach.” 

A lasting peach sounds great, but not quite as good as lasting peace in the Middle East. 

An ever-updating list of public typos and spelling errors, verbatim, from the Trump White House, can be found here.

 My favorite so far is Trump's official inauguration portrait. At a time when he was forced to lie about his lackluster inauguration attendance and his post-inauguration parade route was so visibly devoid of human beings, Trump released his portrait containing a typo so obvious that you had to wonder if anyone in the new administration had a brain. 

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"Once or twice" is the sign of a lie

I overheard someone say on a plane last night say he had visited Africa "once or twice."

I didn't believe this person. I almost never believe someone who claims to have done something "once or twice."

There's a big difference between doing something of significance (like visiting Africa) once or more than once. Had the man said, "I've been to Africa three or four times," I would've accepted his statement. Even "two or three times" would've been okay with me.

But to be uncertain about doing something of import once or more than once?

No way. I don't buy it. 

 I think that when someone says they've done something of meaning and significance "once or twice," they've actually done that thing just once but want to give the impression that they may have done it more.

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It hurts to ask sometimes.

You've heard the expression, "It never hurts to ask." Right?

I'm here to report that this expression is nonsense. It hurts to ask.

At least some of the time. 

I despise this expression because some of the people who I find most annoying in this world are the ones who ask. Not for your occasional favor. Not for the unlikely rescue. Not for the appropriate request. 

It's the pushy people who annoy me. The nervy folk. The ones who ask for things that shouldn't be asked for. The ones who ask again and again even after being rebuffed the first time. The ones who ask for things that any sane and decent person would never think of requesting. The ones who make requests that cause everyone around them to cringe.

Occasionally an addendum is attached to this terrible expression:

"The worst they can say is no." 

Wrong again. The worst they can say is, "No."

And then they say to themselves: "Damn this person is a pushy, nervy jackass of a human being. Who says something like that. I need to cut this loser out of my life as soon as possible."

That is the worst they can say. Not directly to you, but damaging nonetheless. 

Don't believe the nonsense. It hurts to ask sometimes. It hurts the people who you're asking, and it probably hurts yourself in the process. 

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I learned about "onset" this week

I learned something new this week:

"Onset" is a word that signals the beginning of something, but it specifically signals the beginning of something unpleasant.

Unpleasant only.

I did not know this. 

For decades, I've been writing sentences like:

"At the onset of my drive to New York City, Elysha handed me a picnic basket full of bologna and cheese sandwiches, Oreo cookies, and Doritos."

Or...

"At the onset of the long and glorious weekend, Elysha went to 7-11 to surprise me with hot dogs and Ben & Jerry's chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream." 

Or...

"At the onset of our wedding anniversary, Elysha proposed that we spend most of the time drinking prosecco and playing poker naked."

More than one of those sentences might have been more aspirational than realistic. 

"I'll do the salmon" is stupid. I might be, too.

Elysha and I were having dinner in a restaurant last week. The couple at the table beside us was ordering their meal.

The woman said, "I'll do the salmon."

Can we all agree that this is not how regular human beings order food?

I'll "do" the salmon? 

"I'll have the salmon."
I'd like the salmon."
"Could I have the salmon, please?"
Even "I'll try the salmon," would be fine.

Not "I'll do the salmon." Never "I'll do the salmon."

Why? It just sounds stupid. Self important. Pretentious. It's the use of an action verb that has nothing to do with the actual action taking place. 

That woman would not be "doing" the salmon. She wasn't going to catch, filet, prepare, bake, or deliver the salmon to the table. Her entire involvement with the salmon was limited to saying the word "salmon" and then eating the salmon.

While someone else was "doing" the salmon, she would be sitting patiently, sipping wine, nibbling on some bread, and presumably making every attempt to avoid nitpicking tiny language choices that mean little and interest no one because that might make you sound like a stupid jerk. 

Right?

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A sign. A tee-shirt. A business opportunity. A business partner.

Local television anchor Dennis House tweeted a photo of this sign from this hockey rink where his son was practicing .   

This big, beautiful, wonderful, fantastic, brilliant sign. 

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My first thought: Put this sign on a shirt! 

My next thought: Ask kids what they really want to say to adults. Stuff like this. Put that stuff on tee-shirts. 

My third thought: Too bad I have like nineteen jobs because this feels like a good idea.  

My final thought: If you steal my idea, I deserve 5% of your company.

On this Thanksgiving, I choose to be thankful to Taryn.

I've made it an almost annual tradition to spend a portion of my Thanksgiving writing about the people, places, things and institutions to which I am thankful. 

On this Thanksgiving, I'd like to give thanks to just one person:

My literary agent, Taryn Fagerness. 

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It occurred to me while writing the acknowledgements for an upcoming book that Taryn is directly responsible for making my wildest dreams become a reality. 

This is no exaggeration.

When I was a boy, I dreamed of one day becoming an author. The writer of books. A person whose thoughts and ideas and stories would be of interest to others.

It was a ridiculous dream, of course. I wasn't given the opportunity to go to college after high school. At the age of 18, I was already on my own, living without a safety net, struggling to make ends meet. I was managing McDonald's restaurants, working 60 or more hours every week, constantly dreaming of bigger and better things.

But even so, I was writing. Since my senior year of high school, I have written every single day of my life without exception. In those early days this writing took the form of letters to friends, journal entries, zines, newsletters, and even a blog (though it would be years before "blog" would even become a word) on an early, localized version of the Internet called a BBS.      

I wrote constantly. Still, I never thought my writing would amount to anything of value. 

A few years later, I found myself homeless, jailed, and facing a possible prison sentence. I didn't have a penny to my name. My ridiculous dream of one day becoming an author seemed utterly impossible. 

Years later, after a lot of hard work, the impossible became possible again. I finally wrote my first novel. But it turns out that writing a book is only the first step. It's a huge step, to be sure, and worthy of celebrations, but without a champion of your books, it is likely that your stories will go unseen and unread by the world.

Enter Taryn.

Taryn was working at a large literary agency on the west coast in the summer of 2007 when she discovered my query letter and the first three chapters of my first novel, Something Missing, in the slush pile, alongside hundreds of other letters from hundreds of other hopeful, desperate writers. It was Taryn's job to read through these unsolicited submissions, searching for a diamond in the rough. She liked my query letter, and she liked my first three chapters, so she wrote to me and asked to see the rest of the book. 

Other agents had made similar requests, but as the summer drew to a close, nothing had materialized. After sending letters to 100 literary agents, it looked like I'd be sending out my second batch of 100 letters before long.

Then, on the very last day of my summer vacation, Taryn called and said that she would like to become my literary agent. 

There have been many important phone calls in my life, but as I look back on my life, Taryn owns the top three spots in my personal pantheon of life altering phone calls:

  • That night when she called and became my literary agent
  • The afternoon when she called to tell me that my first novel had sold to Doubleday
  • A frantic, excited phone call she placed immediately after reading the first half of Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend, telling me that I had written something great.

Each of these phone calls changed my life. 

In each instance, Taryn changed my life. 

Yes, it's true that my hard work was also required. I had to write the books. I spent 17 years of my life writing every single day before ever publishing a story. But Taryn has become the champion of my work, and that role cannot be overstated.

Taryn is not only my literary agent, but she is also my collaborator. My co-conspirator. My friend in words. Before an editor ever sees one of my books, Taryn sees it first, offering her advice on plot, characters, and story. 

She makes my stories better. She makes my writing better.  

Taryn is also directly responsible for the publication of my novels in more than 25 countries.

She is responsible for the film options on three of my novels.

When my third novel didn't sell and I thought my writing career was over, Taryn's words to me were perfect:

"You just need to sit down and write your best book ever."

It is no exaggeration to say that the relationship that Taryn and I have is the envy of so many of my author friends. They cannot believe my good fortune. While they often describe their literary agents as difficult-to-reach, slow-to-react, and less-than-supportive, Taryn is exactly the opposite.

I have often described our relationship like this:

Taryn and I own a company together that publishes books. We are partners in the creation and dissemination of stories. I admittedly own more shares in the company than Taryn, but the company would not operate without each one of us doing our job. 

Taryn is my business partner. She is also my creative partner. She is also my friend. We stand together. We make stuff together. 

On this Thanksgiving, I give thanks to Taryn Fagerness, a person who has made so many of my dreams come true. I have become the thing I never thought I could be. 

I hope you are all lucky enough to find your champion. Your creative co-conspirator. Your dream-come-true maker. 

Just the kind of conversation I want before sunrise

Nothing to see here.

Just a pre-sunrise conversation with my eight-year old daughter, Clara, about what the word "stillborn" means, followed by a flood of tears over the fate of Elizabeth Adams, the stillborn daughter of Abigail Adams.

I love parenting.

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"Don't you dare..." are words most frequently uttered by morons

This is a tweet from Pastor Greg Locke, an outspoken, mouth-breathing conservative who opposes the rights of gay, transexual, and transgender Americans and has gone so far as to call them mentally ill and criminal. He's also a supporter of Donald Trump and many of his policies. 

Yesterday Locke tweeted this:

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If you haven't heard, Eminem produced a freestyle rap about Trump that has gone viral. It's angry, clever, pointed attack on the President and (more surprising) his fans who support Trump.

I have two comments on Locke's tweet:

1. His description of Eminem is ironically a near-perfect description of Donald Trump.  

2. More important, Locke did that stupid thing that people do.

He writes, "Don't you dare lecture us..." 

Don't you dare? He already dared. He produced a four minute freestyle rap video that clearly lectures about politics and that you clearly watched. How can Eminem not dare to do something that he's already done and you know he's already done?

Do you think he has a time machine? 

It's sad and stupid when someone uses this meaningless, overly dramatic rhetoric to try to make a point. Proper retorts to the "Don't you dare..." nonsense include:

1. Too late, wing nut. I dared. And you know I did. That's why you're talking about it. What is wrong with you?

2. Hey dumbass, this isn't a reality television show. The "don't you dare..." middle school melodrama doesn't play well in the real world where cameras aren't running and the words are meaningless. Give it a rest. 

3. Look at the angry little man, everyone! He's trying to tell someone who's already done something to not do that something. How transparently powerless and pathetically ineffective of him. What a train wreck of a human being. Kind of makes him look like a President who promised that Mexico would pay for a wall, Americans would have beautiful, inexpensive healthcare, the Dreamers immigration status would remain unchanged, the LGBTQ community would be supported at every turn, and that he would release his tax returns. All talk and no action.

Signs should not have attitudes. They should also be grammatically correct.

This is a sign in the parking lot of a local Starbucks. It's a stupid sign.  

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Signs should inform and instruct. They should not have an attitude, and this one has an attitude. 

See it?

After politely but sternly warning that "Continued use of these spaces will result in your car being towed," there is a pause, indicated by a dash, and then sign shouts at the reader:

" - at owners expense!!!"

Read it aloud. Begin with the polite but firm tone of most signs, followed by a pause, and then a melodramatic attempt to shock and awe the reader with surprise, anger, and volume.

- at owners expense!!! 

"Oh no! At the owner's expense? In that case, I'd better not park here. I was thinking about ignoring this stupid sign and leaving my car here even though I'm not a customer, but then that sign yelled at me. It sounded so forceful and authoritative. So now I've changed my mind. I'm moving my car right now and transforming myself into a law-abiding citizen. Thanks, sign!"

Stupid. 

Added to the stupidity of this attempt at attitude is (of course) the stupidity of the missing apostrophe in word "owners" and the added stupidity of three exclamation points. 

Volume does not increase in the reader's mind with each added exclamation point. Sentences do not change with additional marks of punctuation. One exclamation point is always enough. The use of three exclamation points indicates one of two things:

  1. You are under the age of 12.
  2. You are a moron.

In this case, I suspect the latter. 

It's hard to make so many mistakes over the course of three simple words, and yet this sign manages to do just that. Remarkably so.  

Among my many business ideas is an online service where you can send me the text of your planned sign so I can review and eliminate any grammatical mistakes or lack of clarity. Spare yourself the embarrassment of a sign like this with the simple click of a button.

Not only would it help businesses look more competent and professional, but it would make the world a better place.

But I suspect that the kind of person who makes this sign is the kind of person who doesn't know they need help.

Being a moron is one thing. Knowing you are a moron is quite another. 

Northeast School is a stupid name for a school. Three times over.

I drove by Northeast School in Vernon, CT the other day. Lovely little school filled with teachers who are undoubtedly doing an excellent job, but Northeast School?

With the opportunity to name a school after any of the people in the world worthy of recognition, the town of Vernon decided to name their school based upon its geographic location in town?

That is sad.

Even worse, there are THREE schools just in Connecticut that are named Northeast School. Bristol and Stamford also chose to name schools based upon where they are situated in town. 

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The town of Vernon is actually guilty of naming all of their schools poorly. Instead of honoring a Connecticut luminary or perhaps an underrepresented or unrecognized war hero or civil rights activist, the town named all of their schools based upon simple geography: 

  • Rockville High School (a section of Vernon)
  • Vernon Center Middle School
  • Center Road School
  • Lake Street School
  • Maple Street School
  • Northeast School
  • Skinner Road School

Vernon, CT isn't the only town guilty of wasting this opportunity. Many schools, streets, and other structures bear meaningless, oftentimes geographically oriented names. 

I just happen to be driving through Vernon recently. 

Naming a building or a street or any other public structure is an opportunity to bring recognition and praise to a person deserving of celebration. A town or city should be excited about the chance to honor someone deserving. 

Squandering an opportunity like this is just dumb.

Not unisex. Omnisex.

Like me, my friend, Charles, agrees with the implementation of unisex restrooms but makes an excellent point about the naming of these spaces. 

Shouldn't they be called omni-sex restrooms?

"Uni" is a prefix meaning "one, or having or consisting of one. 

"Omni" is a prefix meaning "all, of all things."

He's right. 

A unisex restroom is intended for all people, and yet the name we currently use implies that it is for only one person. 

All gender restroom works, too, but definitely not unisex.

Someone go fix this. Okay?

The New York Times use of honorifics must end.

I like the New York Times.

I'm an online subscriber to the New York Times.

Despite Trump's insistence that the New York Times is failing, digital subscriptions are at a record high, the stock price is near a 52 week high, and Trump gave a long and damning interview to the paper just last week.

Thanks to the New York Times, we know more about the Trump administration than Trump would ever want the American people to know. They have broken important story after important story. 

I like the New York Times a lot.

But enough already with the damn honorifics.  

In a quaint vestige of a dying era, the New York Times still uses honorifics like Mr., Ms., and Dr. when writing about people in the news section as a means of demonstrating respect for the people on whom they report.

It's time to stop.

There are a few reasons that I want this to stop, but primarily, I want it to stop because using these honorifics is pretentious. Precious. A sad clinging to a bygone day. Unnecessary tradition that certain readers would surely hate to see go, but I suspect that those who would object the most are also pretentious, precious, and a little sad.

And the Time already more than a little pretentious. The way in which couples strive to land their wedding announcements in the Times, as if it's some kind of a badge of honor, is a little pretentious and sad. These pages are dripping with stories of the wealthiest, most privileged people in the world celebrating their nuptials and wanting anyone who is anyone to know all about it and them. And unless there is an Ivy Leaguer or a ballerina or an investment banker or a Dr. somewhere in the bunch, you ain't getting in. 

There are websites dedicated to making fun of these people, and rightfully so. 

When plumbers marry teachers in New York, the Times doesn't care.   

I hate this. And it's just the tip of the iceberg in terms of the Times pretentiousness.

But my desire for the Times to abandon honorifics goes beyond that. The use of honorifics also creates enormous inconsistencies and matters of questionable judgement. 

Take this piece about Mo'Nique's and Sidney Hicks open marriage. Because Mo'Nique doesn't use a last name, she appears throughout the piece as Mo'Nique whereas Sidney becomes Mr. Hicks.

This inconsistency is annoying and stupid. And it happens all the time. 

The same is done for someone like Meat Loaf, who the Times could refer to as Mr. Loaf but wisely does not. Also Ice Cube. Ice Tea. Snoop Dog. 50 Cent.

You get the idea.  

Then there's the Times' decision to remove the honorific when referring to someone who is considered exceedingly evil, like Osama Bin Laden, but then not removing it for someone like Saddam Hussein. 

The Times has also stop using honorifics on their sports page, because... I guess athletes don't merit the same respect as Mr. Bieber, a entertainer so annoying that he was banned from China this week? Or OJ Simpson? Bill Cosby? Vladimir Putin? 

The Times recently added the gender-neutral pronoun Mx. to their stable of honorifics, which was a good decision if you're going to cling to the needless tradition of honorifics but will surely enrage the kind of Trump supporter who thinks that our cars should be powered by coal, people should only have sex with opposing genitalia, and women shouldn't be exposing their shoulders in the US Senate. 

Actually, I guess that's kind of a good thing,

Still, rather than adding an honorific to obscure sex and gender, how about just removing them altogether.

Mr. only serves to indicate that the person in question has a penis.

Miss, Ms., and Mrs. only serve to indicate the marital status and presence of a vagina. 

Stupid. 

The only other thing I like about their rules of honorifics related to the use of the title Dr.

"Dr. should be used in all references for physicians, dentists and veterinarians whose practice is their primary current occupation, or who work in a closely related field, like medical writing, research or pharmaceutical manufacturing."

In the New York Times, a Dr. is a doctor. 

A person who has earned a PhD can also request that the Dr. honorific is used, but only if it's related to their current occupation.

I just like the idea that they have to ask. 

"Um... excuse me. I earned a PhD. in comparative literature with a focus on eighteenth century Lithuanian feminist male writers. Could you please refer to me as Dr. Jones?"

I like the groveling that's required to get that precious honorific in the pages of the paper.  

My summer vacation started with pain and fear. Then one man made it better.

My summer vacation, which began 10 days ago, unfortunately started out with a whimper.

I have a tube put in my ear - the same kind of tube that little kids get placed in their ears - and it became blocked and infected just before my school year ended, resulting in an ear infection. While I was suffering from this new and profound pain, my wisdom tooth cracked, exposing a nerve, but for at least a couple days, I assumed the pain was from my ear infection and did nothing.

A perfect storm of sorts. 

Eventually I went to my dentist and discovered the true source of the pain. Needless to say by then the pain and suffering had become quite intense, and because my oral surgeon was out of town and every other oral surgeon was apparently booked solid, I had to wait five days for the tooth to finally be removed.

Not a great way to start my summer vacation. 

The five days of waiting were especially challenging. During that time, I had to teach an all day workshop at a non-profit, perform in a show in New York City, and DJ two weddings.

I also attended a poetry reading by Billy Collins and took care of the kids on my own for a day and night when Elysha left for a Hall & Oates concert in Boston.  

It really was a perfect storm. 

The actual extraction of the tooth wasn't exactly a piece of cake, either. 

As a dental patient, I am a nightmare. I was in a car accident as a teenager that sent me through the windshield and knocked out the entire bottom row of my teeth in one chunk. That chunk was eventually wired down (the most painful moment of my life) and most of my teeth miraculously survived, but it was the start of my battle with post traumatic stress disorder, which was heightened five years later when a gun was pressed to my head and the trigger was pulled in the midst of an armed robbery. 

I've been battling PTSD ever since.

Dental work triggers my PTSD something fierce. Add to this a paralyzing fear of needles as a result of my near-death experience following a bee sting and the dozens of shots that followed and the idea of surgery to extract a wisdom tooth nearly had me in tears. I couldn't sleep in the days leading up to the surgery. I thought about it constantly. I wondered if I could just learn to live with the pain of an exposed nerve and forget the surgery entirely. 

But here's the good news:

Enter Dr. Howard, my dental surgeon. Unlike so many doctors who I have met over the course of my life, Dr. Howard listened patiently and intently to my fears. He validated them, assuring me that he understood how and why I felt the way I did. He spoke slowly and clearly. He repeated his explanations with patience and kindness when I asked. He did not lie to me. He told me what would hurt and what would not, and it all turned out exactly as he described.

He made me feel normal. I was a grown man, struggling with PTSD, nearly in tears over a routine dental surgery, but he made me feel normal.  

This is what a patient like me needs to get through these situations without the panic that can produce three months of nightmares, which is entirely possible following a procedure like this. I found a man who cared about the whole person: mind, body and teeth. It made the surgery so much easier, and I have slept well ever since.

He also called me the next day to check on me, which was both unexpected and appreciated.

A few minutes of genuine empathy, a bit of effective communication, and some much appreciated patience can go a long way, especially with someone like me. If you're in a doctor or dentist office and feeling nervous, afraid, or consumed with abject terror like I was, demand the same treatment. Insist upon it. If you don't receive it, let me know. I'll be happy to chime in on your behalf. 

Words matter. They can make all the difference. 

When one of my former students was battling cancer years ago, I went to New York City to donate platelets on her behalf. The nurse, who had been working in the blood collection unit for 30 years, told Elysha that I was the worst patient of her career.

I don't doubt it. When it comes to needles, I am a mess. 

Years later, I had to give blood for a routine test. In that instance, I encountered a nurse who listened to the reasons why needles terrify me. He said, "I get it, man. That's one enormous negative feedback loop you have going. I'd feel the same way if I was you. Let me help you through this. Okay?"

It was the least stressful blood draw of my life.  

Words matter. Kindness is a powerful tool. Patience can mean everything. 

I'm sitting here now with an ice pack on my jaw. I'm on the mend. My mouth still hurts, but it's nothing like an exposed nerve. My summer is back on track, thanks to a doctor who knows how to remove a broken tooth and knows how to handle a broken psyche. 

"All gender" restroom signs are the best

Another Moth StorySLAM at The Oberon in Cambridge, MA meant another night using an all-gender restroom. This time I brought friends who found themselves in the presence of the opposite sex in a restroom for the first time. 

One of my male friends walked in on four women in the restroom and had to confirm that he wasn't misunderstanding the meaning of "all gender." 

He wasn't.

The general consensus: This is no big deal.

Why has it taken so long for human beings to realize that people with penises and people with vaginas can pee and poop in the same space? 

Even better, the all-gender restroom has spurred some much appreciated creativity when it comes to signage. 

My home state's stupidly misspelled word, and some confusion about misspelling related to pornography

As a writer, teacher, and geography nerd, I was so excited about this map of America's most misspelled words  

Then I saw my home state of Connecticut's most misspelled word (according to Google Trends):  Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

So stupid. Every other state (except for West Virginia) gets an actual word that we use in everyday life, and my state gets a word that I just wrote for the first time in my life.

I'd love to know who is misspelling this word with such frequency as to ascend to the top of the Google ranking in our state. 

Looking at the map, there are also some words that I can't believe made the list.

How do Idahoans misspell "quote?" Forget the u? Start it with a k?
And how in the world do Mississippians misspell "nanny?"
Also, the people of Wisconsin apparently can't spell the name of their own state? 

Then there's this list of most frequently misspelled search terms by state according to a pornography site. In this case, my state's most commonly misspelled word is "amateur," which at least makes a little more sense. 

I admit I had to do some Googling to determine what "henti" and "hentia" were meant to be, and I still have no idea what "carton" is supposed to be.

Thoughts? Don't tell me if I don't want to know.