If you don’t think you’re a dork, give me five minutes to convince you otherwise.

A dork is someone who is weird, has odd interests, and occasionally executes social faux pas. You might immediately think of classic dork personas and their antics, such as Screech Powers repelling girls and jocks alike at Bayside High, or Steve Urkel proving to us the human is boundless in pants waistline height and affinity for cheese. If I’ve dated myself with these characters it’s because I’m not sure who the token sitcom dork is nowadays, since I don’t really watch much TV. I think only being able to make references about stuff that happened 20 years ago qualifies me as a dork.

But this is supposed to be about you and why you’re a dork. And I assure you that you are. We like to pretend that just because we have friends and can make decent conversation, we are normal. But we do so many odd things it’s almost weird to do something normal. Just think of what you do with your body. Do you ever spend minutes at a time assembling the hair on your head to optimize your bald spot? Dork. Ever take a bath with guacamole on your face and slices of cucumber over your eyes? Dork. Ever bite your nails or peel skin off a callus and assemble the little pieces into an organized pile? Super dork.

By the way, your social group is not immune to dorkiness. It’s typical for jocks to razz the Trekkies, but you’re not off the hook, sports fan. If you know the shooting percentage of the starting five of your team, you are a dork. If you scour the Interwebs for fantasy insight and tweak your roster every time you use the bathroom, you’re a dork. Do you obsess over your favorite player? I’m sure you know everything, from his favorite Asian noodle to where he procured his gold-plated bidet. That is so dorky you just grew a pair of taped-up, broken-framed bifocals.

And don’t think you’re cool, Batchelor fan. You had a “Finale Party” with chocolate and wine and you obsessed over the humdrum nature of a Venezuelan mimbo named Juan Pablo. You’re following Batchelor families you don’t know on Instagram, celebrating their adoption of a new cat or “liking” a potholder their granny knitted. 30 million viewers, 30 million dorks.

Oh, and nerds. You’re not getting off the hook. You’re a dork and you own it, which means if dorkiness was ever cool then you’ve uncooled it. The World of Warcraft session has carried on far too long and it’s time you took a shower. Clean up the Doritos bags and see what a piece of fruit tastes like.

I could go on, but the point is that you and I do all sorts of strange things, which everyone else observes and concludes that we are weirdos. Even if you are a really cool guy and have excellent hair gel, you looked like a freakin’ dork putting that crap on your head. Even if you’re a highly attractive female who constantly garners the attention of boys, your best friends know that you obsess over eyebrow plucking and your awkwardness in high heels leaves you prone to crushing your ankle at any moment. Think of the least dorkiest people in existence. George Clooney? Ryan Gosling? You tellin’ me they don’t pick and flick their boogers in private? C’mon, don’t be naive! Those homeboys are dorks!

So even though you’re a dork, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re a dork because you’re a human, and all humans are weird. Certainly there are varying degrees, but instead of instantly judging folks who are different than us, let’s admit their less subtle quirks probably aren’t too different from the goofy things we do in private. Own your goofy stuff and bring it into the light. After all, dork self-actualization is the coolest thing going.

 

If you’ve had kids and pets long enough, then you’ve been programmed to spot a mess and fear the worst. The worst kind of mess is one that can’t be erased with cleaner, paint, or scrubbing. You know the kind of mess I’m talking about: the carpet stain.

We can see it across the room. Our nice carpet with a small spot of something that shouldn’t be there. Up to this point as parents, we’ve witnessed almost every disgusting thing imaginable, so we rapidly assume the worst-case scenarios.

First I’m thinking it’s permanent marker. Why do we keep Sharpies in our house anyway? We are practically inviting the little creatures to destroy our property. Oh, you guys are looking for the perfect item to ruin my carpet and my day? Well here’s some pitch black, nuclear war-proof ink for you…

But it’s not permanent marker. Still looks dark. Oh crap, blood stain. Who’s bleeding? Is my son presently coloring random parts of my home with an open scab? Did my dog chew a wart off her paw? Could this in fact be a bloody booger? ‘Cause that would be better. If the mucous to blood quotient is favorable I can remove that sucker in no time…

But no. It’s not a bloody booger or blood at all for that matter. Of course, it’s poop. Because that’s what we do in this family. We poop on the floor. Surely someone has simply reached into their diaper and executed a smear campaign upon our carpet. When was the last time we let the dog out? Yesterday? Anyway, this is certainly disgusting but seeing as how I’ve handled poop nearly every day since we started adding family members, I can take care of this problem before you can say “I smell poo.”

Now I am on my knees, bending down to inspect the blemish and expect the worse. And once in awhile, perhaps once in a lifetime, a glorious and unforeseen result is realized. It’s just a sticker. A problem I can take care of without having to hold my breath, or try to remember where I keep the spot remover, or engage in a regrettable confrontation with the child or beast responsible for the mess. This is a problem I can take care of in less than a second and move on with my life. I am giddy as…well…as a man reprieved from vigorous scrubbing duties aimed at ridding my house of one less excrement amiss.

Happiness for the parent can come in strange ways.

I saw a billboard for IHOP that said, “All-you-can-eat pancakes! They’re back!”

Isn’t it fascinating what things come back that make you wonder who ever missed them in the first place? It’s obvious the International House of Pancakes has a target customer who has been anxiously awaiting the return of endless pancakes. Does the billboard serve as some revelation? What sad soul has been languishing in their existence, reserved to some cruel pancake quota? I can only imagine his morning commute leading up to the sign, cursing the world and its unjust carb consumption boundaries.

Oh life. How I despair you. What pitiful meals I’ve been having. No restaurant is in business to give their customers what they want. And you should know what I want! You think ten pancakes will satisfy my hunger? I had ten pancakes before I left the house. I brushed my teeth with Country Crock and and woke up to an alarm of flour bombs bursting in my face. If only people cared about their customers. IHOP used to. With their all-you-can-eat pancake times. They were fully aware that I would enjoy a nice breakfast of 300 pancakes. Ahh the memories. Ahh the glory days. Who could forget the four-hour February feast, or the time I guzzled an entire jar of boysenberry syrup? Or the time they let me back into the kitchen with the fresh, hot pancakes and the cook just flipped them into my mouth until my buttons popped off? Never again. Never a—Wait. Could it be? They’re back? All-you-can-eat pancakes are back?! Ha…Ha…Hahahahaha! Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh. Wha. Wha wha wha?! OK. OK. Calm down. You’re driving man. OK think…Where’s the closest IHOP? Where THE HELL is the closest IHOP?…Yummmmmm. Yummmmmmm. Hold it together man! Grmrmrmrmrm. Grmrmrmrm. OUCH! I’m eating my hand. Stop it! Stop it!…Grmrmmrmrm. Grmrmrmrm. I wish I were a pancake! But I’m not, I’m not!…Yes I am! I am a pancake and I’m back! I’m all I can eat! GRMRMRMRNRM. GRMRMRMRMRM. GRMRMRMNRMRMRM…

And then probably, a horrible crash.

In past years, I have published a “fruitcake blog” at the end of the year. Here’s an excerpt from the first one three years ago, followed by some fresh (okay, semi-fresh) material!

For some reason I can’t throw away these ideas that I’ve jotted down this past year but never used. They were once great in my mind and I can’t help but think they still have some value. Like a good baker who feels confident he has been cooking up some tasty treats, it’s time to clear the crap off the table and bake some fresh goods. And so it is for this blogger and the New Year. My gift to you for reading all year (trust me, I appreciate you) is a dry, stale, crusty fruitcake, consisting of all my ideas that didn’t make the cut to become a main course. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a gem or two in this fruitcake, or as Jim Gaffigan would have it, “a skittle or a treasure map.” Bon appetit!

 

Walk Hard- Not

Recently I picked up a copy of Strengths Finder, a little book that helps you understand your gifts so that you can develop them into strengths. I was surprised to find that one of my gifts was not walking. It’s something I’m especially good at. I realize that not everyone can walk, and that most likely one day I won’t be able to either. I’m thankful I can walk now. And I’m pretty sure I failed to mention how good I am at it. It’s because I have more than 30 years of experience. I’ve done it everyday. You might say I’m a master. When people tell me to walk confidently, I’m like, “No sweat, bro. It’s second nature. I can walk excellently while even talking on my phone or eating a knockwurst. In fact, you should be more confident in my walking. Watch confidently.”

I’ve figured out my stellar walking record has made for a ridiculous and unrealistic expectation. I’m bound to stumble now and then and when I do, I get really bent out of shape. That’s what is so infuriating about stubbing a toe. Days and days on end I’m going from place to place without a hitch, the streak growing and growing to the admiration and applause of bystanders, until suddenly my progress is impeded by a small, immovable force which totally could’ve been avoided, had I not been so wrapped up in my own perambulatory awesomeness.

Don’t Judge a Man by His Hubcaps

What is it about hubcaps that make us prideful or depressed about our cars? When my car has all of its hubcaps, I feel put together, a gentleman of the road. I see other drivers missing a hubcap and feel sorry for them. Then my car loses a hubcap. Suddenly I feel poor, ashamed and self-conscious, as if I was driving a stolen car around with a trunk full of banned substances. Then I see a guy with no hubcaps, who probably sees my three hubcaps as an embarrassment of riches and wishes he could upgrade his jalopy to a serviceable piece of crap like mine.

The Critique of Dumb Spam

I love the reoccurring senselessness of Spam mail. Check out this email:

I’m promised a 10-second trick that will change my life, but am instructed to watch a video presentation to do so. A 10-second trick to reverse aging does not take a video presentation. It takes a sentence. “Put a bag over your head and say ‘for reals’ more.” “Make funny faces and give those face muscles some exercise.” “Go to a place with lots of skeletons around feel like a kid again.” If it only takes 10 seconds, just tell me right now. I just took twenty seconds to read your dumb email. That video should be negative 10 seconds just so I can have my time back.

That’s it! The old material is done. You can sit back, swig some Pepto and digest this fruity feast and rest assured I’m bringing the heat with fresh stuff in the new year. Happy New Year!

By now everyone has seen the Direct TV commercials featuring Rob Lowe with a humorous, debased version of himself. The first ones to air featured “super-creepy Rob Lowe”— a leather-clad, unkempt derelict who has cable. While the commercials are indeed hilarious, they frightfully reveal the very slim distance of looking put-together and handsome and looking like the dregs of society. Let’s be honest, Rob Lowe is about as handsome as they get. He is a better version of Ken the Barbie Doll. But with a little makeup and wardrobe change, he looks like the kind of guy who goes to the rec center with binoculars to “watch folks swim.”

Is it not scary how close we all are to being a creepy version of ourselves? It really wouldn’t take very much for me. For starters, I’m not immune to bad clothes. I have bad pants, shirts and jackets as part of my wardrobe right now. They don’t surface often, but if we get slack on the wash around here they could easily find their way on to my person. Suddenly I’m out in my front yard with worn-out sweat pants, a crumply V-neck and a hat with a regrettable label. In no time the neighbors are shooing their cats in and closing their blinds while my property value plummets.

But even if my wardrobe remained tight, my facial hair alone could propel me to instant creepy status. If I gave Movember a go you would understand this. I don’t grow a formidable, bushy mustache but more of a sad whisker village whose few residents live way too far apart from one another. Simply living in a society replete with razors drastically reduces creeper prevalence. We can all be grateful this Thanksgiving for the blade that finds my upper lip region.

Truly though, we can be completely polished with dapper attire and impeccable grooming but if our voice and tone are whacky, people will step away. All it takes is a bad cold. Either your throat gets all deep and raspy and you sound like you’re due for another sneaky smoke break, or you lose your voice and speak in little whispers like everything you’re saying is some grand secret. Either way, you’ll be viewed unfavorably and likely suspected of creeperdom.

So the next time you laugh at the Rob Lowe Direct TV commercials, take heed to keep your stuff tight because you’re not as far as you think from becoming your own doppelcreeper.

I’m pretty sure no one wants to get rich quickly anymore.

To “get rich quick” used to be a personal finance buzz phrase producing over-exuberance that left us thinking if we could push a few magical buttons, we’d become financial gods in about five minutes. Truly, getting rich is pretty hard, so the thought that we could accomplish it while napping and sipping beach drinks was pretty appealing. So naturally, gurus and hucksters alike swarmed in to promote to the masses their ideal of how in a few finger snaps we could get wads and wads of cheddar. And by golly we ate it up.

Until…none of us got rich quickly. We didn’t even get rich slowly. We didn’t even get rich. If you take into account the dumb-ass books and seminars we attended, we actually got poorer! What we really learned was how to waste time and get poor.

So we got skeptical. The dreamy notion of getting rich quickly was supplanted with the not-as-fun yet realistic notion that we were more likely to get duped quickly. The formerly appealing term “get rich quickly” was subsequently derided and associated with schemes and trickery. Yet, there was still something to that “get rich” part.

We still wanted to get rich, but figured it actually required doing at least one productive human activity, and probably many. Once again, the gurus resurfaced with new, more realistic ways of getting rich. There’s the popular Get Rich Slowly blog, appealing to a steady, reasonable approach to personal finance and offers no help to NBA lottery picks and mobsters. Jim Cramer’s new book”Get Rich Carefully” has a title insinuating there are pitfalls to getting rich, not the least of which is becoming a psycho market junky like Cramer. These resources, among others, appear to be popping up everywhere, and I can only imagine what “get rich” idea will be en vogue next.

Get Rich, Haphazardly– This one is for those who’d like to craft their personal finance strategy around trying to win the lottery. Budgets are burdensome and buying tickets when we get our pack of smokes is so much easier. Trips to the bank are wasteful while trips to the gas station are requisite habits for fostering financial independence.

Get Rich, Hilariously– Offers ideas to become great at something obscure like the World’s Greatest Hot Dog Eater or NFL punter.

Get Rich, Invisibly– Gives tips on how to maintain a low profile publicly while swimming laps in a Scrooge McDuck coin pool privately.

Get Rich, Surprisingly– Teaches you odd ways to amass a fortune such as becoming a yard sale Craig’s List king, or honing uncanny abilities with a metal detector.

Get Rich, Apparently–  Tells you nothing about how to build wealth but everything about how to look wealthy. Take a wild ride on the consumer debt express. Get a new Mercedez for your teen and buy a craft beer at a hockey game you crazy SOB.

What “Get Rich” book are you waiting for?

This past week my parents gifted my son with a karaoke machine for his birthday. Before my Mom bought this one, she bought another one that was, well, kind of effeminate. The machine had lots of pink and even though the logo included a skull, it was donning a pink bow. Mom agreed with us that the machine was a tad too girly, so she returned the machine for something more gender-neutral. And Hudson is totally rocking out to his new toy. Sweet.

But Mom’s first purchase made me think. Hudson is so cool, could he have pulled off the girly karaoke machine? I mean, wouldn’t that have been so rock star of him to be like, “Yeah, I’ll rock out to a machine with a skull and a pink bow. ‘Cause that’s edgy.”? Or, does a pink bow overstep the boundary of edginess and move the rocker into the uncool or humiliating category? It’s hard to know. Whether growing long silky hair, dressing up like a girl, or using flowers in your band’s logo, rockers have historically found ways of making “non-dude” things cool and edgy. Which made me think, what things can not even rock stars make edgy?

Kittens- Wildcats and even adult cats are permissible, but the kitten is rightfully verboten. You can call yourself Def Leopard and conjure images of a predatory feline who’s pissed off that he can’t hear. You can put “Cougar” in the middle of your name like John Mellancamp and shockingly get away with it. But you probably can’t put a big-eyed, purring kitten pawing at a ball of yarn on your album cover. Or even call your band Kitty Thrasher, which is just tasteless.

Poodles- Three Dog Night and Temple of the Dog produced solid canine imagery, but this dog is so stereotyped as froufrou that nothing but ridicule could come from its use. The only way maybe it could pass as rocking is if the poodle was attacking its equally froufrou owner. Even then, the most savage beast in the world can’t be taken seriously with little pink bows in its hair.

Mermen- The reason you’ve never seen mermen associated with rock is because they can’t disassociate themselves from mermaids. Now mermaids would actually work, because they can be sexy. But really mermen are generally seen as non-sexy mermaids. They are like really girly man fish. And girly man fish most certainly do not rock.

Tutus- Lionel Richie penned “Ballerina Girl” but I’ve never seen a rock act cover it.

Crochet- “HELLO CLEVELAND! ARE YOU READY TO HAVE YOUR EYES GOUGED OUT WITH NEEDLES AS WE THREAD YOU INTO A CHECKERED QUILT OF DESPAIR?!?!?” Not. Very. Rocky.

Truly though, you’ve reached the rock pinnacle if you can take something perceived as girly or kiddish and make it edgy. So congrats to Guns and Roses, Queen, and K.I.S.S. We salute you.

Can you think something not even a rock star could make edgy, or a rock star who has totally gotten away with something?

I want you to imagine you inviting me over to your house. I ring the bell, your dog barks, you open the door and let me in. As I walk in, I start to look around and laugh a few times. Then I say something like “whew, that’s a problem.” Then I laugh a little more and say, “yep, that could cost you a thousand bucks to replace.” Would you be laughing? Of course not. Would you care to shove a pair of pliers up my sniffer? Probably and rightfully so.

Which is why I’m so frustrated by service professionals who come to my house and think my problems are kind of funny. Has that happened to you? Over the years, there have been several instances where I feel like I’m a character in a joke.

I’m sure most of the time, the intentions are harmless. Service professionals are amused by what they see, and they also want us to feel comfortable with what they do. But when it comes to doing work and spending money on my house, I’m in no mood to yuck it up like I’m watching Looney Tunes.

Like the guy two years ago who came to fix a toilet leak and laughed at my duct tape job. Oh forgive me man, is that not what you would’ve done? Because you’re a professional plumber who spends time around toilets ALL DAY? I bet you would’ve pulled out the perfect toilet tool and got that puppy back in order pronto. Congrats sir on your crapper repair acumen. I just love inviting random dudes into my house to look at my toilet, laugh, fix the problem in eight seconds and then charge me $150. Woohoo, now we’re having a good time. Why don’t you open that lid and consider what I really feel like right now?

There was also the bug man, who found a termite mound five feet from my house under a splash block. No lie, he guffawed and then said he had to take a picture for his manager. Oh yes please, and print out out for your break room bulletin board with a picture of my loser face beside it. Here’s the poor soul who has a termite army declaring war on his house. Then, he actually had the gall to recommend a $1,000 termite solution. That’s hilarious. Let me chug this Coke and spew it all over myself because I can’t contain my bellowing mirth. I’ll be right back with my magical piggy bank that’s primed to be shattered for this very occasion. And you wanna stay for drinks? We can talk about how bugs are invading the planet and my home will be a disintegrated pile of rubble in a short matter of time.

Basically, when a pro comes to my home to fix a problem, I want sympathy. They need to know that no matter how much I like people, there are 10 million things I’d rather do than have one come to my house, freak out my dog, take up my space and empty my bank account. Truly, I’m grateful for service pros, but just one time before breaking the bad news I would love for one to shed a tear and say, “Man, I’m sorry. This is the worst part of my job.”

Do you wish your workplace was cool? Like, you could walk into the office and be greeted by a robot offering you an expresso? A quick stop by the break room on steroids, where you consume free bonbons from a magical chocolate dispenser and put on special glasses because the morning news report on the projector screen is in IMAX. And then on to your desk (just past the game room, entertainment room, and relaxation room) where you ensconce yourself in a La-Z-Boy recliner, have Ana the Swedish supermodel massage your shoulders into soup, and begin sorting your emails as “gift certificates from boss” and “gift certificates from boss’s boss.”

Yeah right.

But it’s 2014, most of us don’t work at a paper mill anymore, and we millennials and Gen Yers expect our workplace to have a few toys. But I’m hear to tell you that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, yes, a ping pong table at work sounds ethereal. But when you’re playing ping pong at work at 6 on a Friday, you’re still AT WORK AT 6 ON A FRIDAY.

And there are lots of things like this, things all of us assume would be neat to have at work but really just blur the lines of the office and home. So here are three “cool” things my workplace is missing that I’m OK with:

1. Video Games- This is a really good idea for an office setting never. You can’t have something that fun so close to activities that can be rather mundane. Either I can fill out the TPS report or I can go pretend to fight a monster. Well unless I am allergic to having fun, I’m going to go fight a pretend monster every time. And when I’m not fighting him, the mundane task will seem that much more life-suckingly cumbersome. Plus, gamers have no self-control. If you give him, like, his favorite thing to do in the whole world he is going to abuse it. Yes, the office will be more fun. But when you swing by the entertainment room and see Zach and Dylan noshing Doritos, pounding Five Hour Energys and stinking like stale gym socks, you’ll realize why nothing has gotten done in three days.

2. Beer- It might surprise you to hear that I wouldn’t want beer at my workplace. But if there is time for a beer, then there is time to go home. Or a bar. Or somewhere I can relax without hearing my inbox ding. And there would probably be a rule like you couldn’t have one until after 5. But that’s like sitting in a bar all day and not being able to have a beer.

3. Dog- There’s nothing like a furry friend to keep us company and serve as our resident mascot. But am I willing to put up with a dog at home and at work? I’m really not interested in being late for a meeting because I stepped in something. I don’t want to tell a customer she needs to speak up because Fido is incessantly barking at a Spandexed man riding a scooter outside. I don’t want to be on the brink of an epic idea and lose it because of an unexpected and forceful snout into my crotch. Fido, STAY home.

Do you wish your workplace had something cool? Let me know what it is so that I can depress you back to reality. That’s why I’m here.