Women's shirts make messaging hard

A woman approached me yesterday and asked, “Do you like my tee shirt?”

There was a message on the shirt, stretched across her chest, which is always awkward for me.

Her request amounted to something like this:

“I’ve purchased a shirt with a clever message that I’d love for you to read and admire. Unfortunately, the message is stretched across the curvature of my chest, requiring you to essentially stare at my chest while reading, and you might really need to stare if the message is in any way obscured by the curvature of my chest, which isn’t exactly flat and ideal for messaging.

Of course, you know that staring at a woman’s chest is not at all appropriate. Your lifelong exposure to the “My eyes are up here!” joke has made that abundantly clear, and as a decent human being, you probably know this anyway. No woman wants to be leered at in that way.

Except this time. Go ahead and stare because I think the message that I’ve stretched across my chest might make you smile in a non-sexual way, so please. Stare away. As long as you need to. Just this time.”

And that’s when I’m specifically invited to stare.

Just imagine how fraught and perilous these situations are when there is messaging on a woman’s shirt that you’d like to read but haven’t been invited to stare.

Worst moment ever for an author

Elysha and I stepped into a bookstore a couple years ago, looking to spend a little time browsing before heading home. As we entered, I noticed an author standing in the cafe to the right, speaking to a small audience of readers. He stopped speaking for a moment as I passed through the doorway, and for the briefest of seconds, we made eye contact.

Then he turned and resumed his talk, and I turned left to begin browsing.

A minute later, I couldn’t help but become curious about the subject of the author’s talk. He had written a book on the writing of memoir - sort of a how-to for the fledgling memoirist. Being someone who makes a living sharing his life onstage, and also being in the midst of writing a memoir myself, I was interested in what this author had to say.

Then it became apparent to me that what he had to say was also what I have to say. This author was describing the strategies that I teach in workshops and write about in Storyworthy, including Homework for Life, in great detail.

Really, really great detail.

A second later, Elysha was standing beside me. “Can you believe this?” she whispered. “He’s stealing all of your stuff!”

“Kind of,” I thought. “It’s absolutely my content, but he’s butchering the hell out of it.”

Still, I couldn’t believe it. It was like listening to a less articulate, less impassioned, less effective version of myself, trying to teach storytelling in the way I’ve been doing for years. It was my strategies for sure, but they were coming out all wrong.

I felt the sudden urge to shout out and correct him.

As he continued to speak, I made my way over to the display of his books to see if he had also included my content in his own book.

As I began flipping through the pages, the author spotted me again. He stopped speak, started again, and then stopped and said, “This is kind of crazy, folks, but Matthew Dicks is actually here right now. The creator of Homework for Life and the author of a great book on storytelling is in the house.”

He pointed, and heads turned. I waved.

The author continued. “Much of what I’ve learned about storytelling has come from Matthew. I can’t believe he’s here right now.”

No kidding.

I pushed away the compliment, wished the author luck, and retreated to the stacks to further examine his book. To my relief, it was absent of my content. While his book was about the writing of memoir, his talk did not match the material in his book at all.

He might be stealing my content in his talk, but he had at least left it out of his book.

Then again, I’ve trademarked Homework for Life, so if he had stolen my content and published it, I could’ve sued for trademark infringement.

That would’ve been fun!

Elysha and I often wonder what that author must’ve been thinking that day. In the midst of a talk on storytelling - one that presents many of my strategies as his own - I suddenly walk into the store.

What was he thinking?

“Oh my God. Someone told Matthew Dicks that I’m stealing his content, and now he’s here to bust me.”

“That’s Matthew Dicks. How is this possible? Matthew Dicks just walked into the store. What the hell am I going to do?”

“Am I the unluckiest person on the planet right now, or is this just karma biting me in the ass?”

It must’ve been quite the moment for him as the bell above the door tinkled and I walked in.

Many people - professors, teachers, social workers, psychologists, storytelling and speaking coaches, and clergy members - have written to me, asking if they can use Storyworthy and my methods when teaching their classes and working with their clients. My response is always, “Yes, by all means. Please do.” These folks always offer to credit me, and they often purchase my book for their classes and clients as well. Storyworthy is currently being used at least a dozen universities that I know about around the world as their primary text on public speaking and storytelling, and I couldn’t be more honored.

Use my content. Please. Just don’t steal it. Don’t pass it off as your own. And for God’s sake, don’t butcher it.

It’s also come to my attention that at least one teacher of storytelling is using some of my content when teaching workshops, but like this author, this person is also passing off my methods as their own. More importantly, this person is also doing a terrible job at presenting it.

“Your stuff for sure,” in the words of one of this person’s former students. “But not entertaining and not compelling and not engaging. Just not the same.”

That’s the thing:

You can steal someone’s methods and strategies, but it’s more than just the content. Unless you can teach or write about these methods and strategies in an entertaining, engaging, and authentic way, you’re going to sound like a cardboard version of me. Unless you live and breathe this methodology - utilizing it everyday to great success - you’re just a fraud, and probably an uninteresting one at that.

They say that imitation is one of the best forms of flattery, and I agree. The problem is that imitation is hard. Maybe impossible.

And if uncredited, it’s also a lousy thing to do.

"I don't mean to insult you, but..."

I was speaking to an auditorium filled with high school students about storytelling. After completing my remarks, I asked for questions. A young man in the front row raised his hand. When I motioned in his direction, he stood and said, “I don’t mean this as an insult…”

I stopped him right there. “I want to hear the rest of your question,” I said. “But consider this a little life lesson. Statements that begin with ‘I don’t mean this as an insult’ are almost always insulting and better unsaid. But fear not. I am impossible to offend, so go right ahead.”

So he did. “So I still don’t mean this as an insult, but your life has been awful. Like really, really hard. How did you manage to survive all that stuff and stay positive and become who you are today?”

Not only had the young man heard some of my stories over the course of the previous hour, but he and his class had studied me online. Watched many videos on my YouTube channel. Read Storyworthy. Even subscribed to my blog. He didn’t know me well, but he knew about some of the struggles of my past. Arrested and tried for a crime I didn’t commit. Homeless. Kicked out of my childhood home at 18. Died twice. Victim of a violent armed robbery. Shared a room with a goat. Worked 50 hours a week while attending college full time. Slandered on a public scale by an anonymous coward in an effort to destroy my career. A lifetime of PTSD. Left handed.

All that messy stuff that has been my life.

When he finished his question, I laughed. “I was wrong,” I said. “That wasn’t insulting at all.”

There were many things I could’ve said to that young man. I could’ve spoken about my desire to do great and interesting things. I might’ve mentioned an ongoing, overwhelming existential crisis that has made me relentless. I could’ve talked about how the struggles of my past have afforded me enormous perspective today, so I’m able to shrug off problems that paralyze others. I could’ve talked about the structure and strategies for productivity and efficiency upon which I have constructed my life. I could’ve discussed how living well is the best revenge - a fact I think about every day when I step into my classroom.

Instead, I said this:

“I never forget how lucky I have been.”

The auditorium erupted in laughter, and I understood why. At that moment, I seemed anything but lucky.

I pressed on. “No, I’m serious. I’m an exceptionally fortunate person. Think about it. I’m a white, straight man living in the United States. Do you have any idea how many advantages those simple things have afforded me? If I was black or gay or a woman, my road would’ve been a hell of a lot harder. If I was born in Mexico or Afghanistan or Ethiopia or Syria, this life that I enjoy today might’ve been impossible.”

I paused to allow this to settle, then I continued. “In addition, I’m healthy - both in mind and body - and reasonable intelligent. I grew up in Massachusetts, which is near the top of the country in public education. I’ve deliberately avoided illegal drugs for my entire life, but I could’ve become addicted to alcohol, but I didn’t. And my heart stopped beating and I stopped breathing twice in my life, and both times, trained medical personnel saved my life with CPR. How lucky is that?”

More laughter. But also nods from the black kids in the audience. The girls, too. Also the female teachers.

I finished with this:

“I’m not saying that your road will be easy, but if you’re a white, straight, American man, you have the easiest road of anyone anywhere. I hear this nonsense about reverse racism. I hear young, white men complaining that they are the victims of a system designed against them. These are stupid people. Try being black or Hispanic for a day. Try being openly gay. Try being a woman. Try being physically disabled or struggling with a mental illness. White, straight, healthy American men have no idea what kind of discrimination and hatred and harassment and obstacles that people unlike us face everyday. Yes, I’ve had a tragically eventful life at times, and yes, I had to fight like hell to get where I am today. I was relentless and positive and forward-thinking and willing to do whatever it took to survive and thrive, but no one was holding me back because of the color of my skin or my sexual preference or my gender. My biology has afforded me enormous privilege, and I’m quite certain that more than anything else, that has been the greatest factor in my success.”

And I believe it.

Warmer days ahead

The weather has turned cold in New England.

Frost on windshields.
Leafless trees.
Demands that Charlie put on real shoes and socks before heading outdoors, damn it!

On mornings like this one, when I’ll be forced to don a hoodie before heading outside and won’t be able to play golf until well after has risen, I like to scroll through my photos, back to a time when things were a little warmer and a little easier.

I stumbled upon these from last summer.

My beautiful wife, sitting on our friend’s deck on the edge of Puget Sound, playing her ukulele and singing.

I like the change of seasons a lot. I couldn’t imagine watching the Patriots play in balmy temperatures or celebrating Christmas with palm trees. I’d hate to lose the joy of a snow day or the excitement of sledding down a hill alongside my kids. I love watching the leaves change colors and that first real day of spring when you toss your coat aside drive with the windows down.

I love it all.

But it’s also good to have something to aim for in the future. When you’re scraping a windshield or shoveling snow or layering up for a long, cold day in Gillette Stadium, it’s good to remember that there is something different on the horizon.

A return to something glorious and lovely.

This is what I will be aiming for this winter when things get especially cold and hard. A return to a day like this.

These two posts make readers the most angry

I’ve been writing a blog post every day without missing a day for nearly 15 years, and almost 11 years on this platform.

That’s 4,696 days worth of blog posts, More than 4,696 actual posts, since there was many days, especially in the past, when I would more than once on a single day.

That’s a lot of writing, as the folks who are currently redesigning my website have recently discovered. In that time, thousands of people have responded to my writing. Some have become loyal readers who subscribe to my feed or stop by the blog regularly, perhaps bookmarking it so they can return with a simple click. Others find my posts on social media. Still others are directed to my blog via search engines when my content matches their need.

In all the years I’ve been writing this blog, two posts more than any other garner more comments than any other, and in almost every case, those comments are angry, outraged, and often filled with profanity and name calling.

The first is a post I wrote back in August of 2016 titled I spent a week backing into parking spots to see if it made any sense. Here is what I discovered. In an attempt to engage in behavior that thought was foolish, I spent a week backing into parking spots. At the end of the week, I found that I was correct.

Backing into parking spots is silly.

Boy are people angry about this opinion. I don’t know how they find this post, but three years later, they still do, and I receive comments, emails, tweets, and Facebook messages on it regularly.

Never in agreement.

Apparently people don’t take well to having their driving preferences criticized.

The second was a post entitled Why I think professional wrestling is stupid.

Boy does this make people angry, which I find so strange. If someone told me that Buffy the Vampire Slayer or The Office was stupid, I wouldn’t become angry. I might question their taste in culture, but I’d probably do so silently. At best, I would seek to determine if they had given these shows a chance, since I thought Buffy the Vampire Slayer was stupid at first, too.

I certainly wouldn’t swear at the person. Or threaten his life. Or call him terrible names. All of which has happened to me as a result of this post.

Disagree with me? Absolutely.

Attack my argument and propose one of your own? I’m all ears.

But launch a profanity-laced tirade at someone because they think differently than you? Threaten the writer’s life? This makes no sense to me.

These are the two posts that stand out above all others, both in terms of volume of comments and overall vitriol.

Driving and wrestling.

I don’t get it. Are these taboo topics? Do these topics engender angry responses in the real world, too? Do these topics attract a certain type of reader - one more prone to lashing out?

I’m not sure.

But I’m always happy to have readers - angry or agreeable - so as long as they keep reading, they can continue to call me all the names they want.

And expose themselves for the lowlife cretins that they probably are.

Perfect pair

Three ways that clearly indicate how Elysha and I were meant to be together:

1. We both eat our hot dogs plain.

2. We are both vehemently opposed to finding out the sex of your baby prior to birth.

3. We both firmly believe that Buffy the Vampire Slayer are the Battlestar Galactica reboot are the two best television shows ever made and simply can’t decide which should be ranked ahead of the other.

Sometimes it’s the little things that speak the loudest.

Twenty-one Truths About Love!

Best cardboard box of the year showed up at my doorstep yesterday.

Copies of my next novel, “Twenty-one Truths About Love,” have arrived. This is my fifth novel and my sixth book, and honestly, it was just as exciting as opening the box and seeing my first.

There will always be a part of me that still lives in a time when publishing even a single book seemed like an impossibility.

Despite my good fortune, I’ll also always be that frightened boy in high school, desperately wishing that someone would talk to him about the possibility of college. I’ll always be that homeless young man, trying to find ways to eat while awaiting trial for a crime he didn’t commit. I'll forever be that McDonald’s manager, wondering if managing restaurants and flipping burgers was the best I’d ever do.

A part of me will always be that 12 year-old boy, writing political cartoons on Easter Sunday in his grandparents’ living room, hoping an aunt or uncle might notice. I’ll always be that 19 year-old kid, kicked out of his childhood home, struggling to make ends meet, writing columns on early, localized versions of the Internet, hoping to get someone - anyone - to read what I wrote. And part of me will always be sitting at my desk in my classroom on a Friday afternoon twelve years ago when my agent called, telling me that Doubleday had made an offer on my first book.

The journey was long and hard, and I’m happy that it’s something I won’t ever forget. Those small parts of the past - still alive and well inside - make the opening of a cardboard box containing my sixth book a moment just as exciting as the day ten years ago when I opened that first box and saw my name on the cover of a book for the first time.

A lot of feelings for my children today

My 10 year-old daughter, Clara, is teaching my 7 year-old son, Charlie, about author Mary Shelley and the writing of Frankenstein.

Also about the feminist implications of Shelley’s work as it relates to her position in both the world and her marriage during her life.

At 6:19 AM.

While playing Minecraft.

I’m not sure if the boy is really listening.

Also, I’m an English major. I am well aware of Mary Shelley, but I didn’t learn about Shelley until I was sitting in a class at Trinity College.

Also, Clara seems to know some stuff that I don’t know about Mary Shelley.

It’s weird when your daughter makes you feel both proud and stupid at the same time.

I’d feel sympathetic for Charlie for this early morning, uninvited, probably unwanted history lesson, but I’m still annoyed with him for siding with Clara on Sunday when we “stopped” at Starbucks for hot chocolate and the kids insisted that we sit for a while and read like the weirdos who talk about coffee like it’s not just a caffeinated beverage but some culturally significant way to spend time in public spaces.

Look at them. Squint a little and you could mistake them for old people.

Ridiculous.

Optimism is kind of like eating kale

I am an eternal optimist.

I’ve been told - many times - that this is empirically ridiculous given the life that I’ve led, but wait.

Yes, I was arrested and tried for a crime I did not commit, but I was also found not guilty.

Yes, I’ve twice stopped breathing and my heart stopped beating, but paramedics restored my life both times.

Yes, I was homeless, but I was also rescued from homelessness by a family for Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Yes, I was robbed at gunpoint in a brutal and horrific way, but those same men had killed other restaurant workers days before my robbery, but they did not kill me.

Yes, a small group of disgusting cowards attempted to destroy my career through lies, public shaming, and deceit, but I’m still working in the same school, in the same classroom, just as happy as ever.

Yes, it’s true that I have experienced some unfortunate moments in my life, but I’ve also managed to overcome them all.

I’m not sure if this is why I’m an aggressively optimistic person. I tend to think that it has more to due with my general disposition than anything else. Even as a child, I was optimistic. Part of this was my dogged determination to be like everyone else despite my less-than-ideal circumstances. When my parents sent me camping in the middle of winter without the clothing or sleeping bag designed for the frigid temperatures, I simply assumed that I would find a way to stay warm because I was going to be like everyone else, damn it.

I knew I could somehow make it work out, and I did.

During my senior year of high school, when my friends were preparing for college and I was waiting quietly for someone to mention the word “college” to me, knowing that I was going to be forced out of my home after graduating, I was still optimistic that I would someday find a way.

I wish I could’ve gone to college right out of high school and had the college experience I had always dreamed about, but I eventually made it. It took five years, and I was forced to work full-time while attending college full-time, but in the end, my dreams of teaching and writing came true.

See? Optimism.

This is not to say that everything in life works out well or that things are meant to be. I’m well aware that the world is filled with tragedy and disaster, and I have witnessed my share. The optimist does not believe that the world is sunshine and rainbows. The optimist simply expects more positive outcomes than negative ones.

It turns out that if you can find a way to be optimistic, it will also be better for you in the long run.

Researchers analyzing the results of two long-term studies with tens of thousands of participants have found that after controlling for factors such as diet and exercise, a positive outlook was found to be linked to better long-term health outcomes.

Women who were in the top 25 percent with regards to optimism lived an average of 14.9 percent longer than more pessimistic participants, and optimistic men lived 10.9 percent longer.

Optimistic women and men were 1.5 times as likely and 1.7 times as likely, respectively, to reach age 85.

Optimism seems to equate to a longer, healthier life.

Kind of like eating kale. Or practicing yoga.

This makes a lot of sense to me.

If an optimist and a pessimist are both facing a layoff at the end of the month, the optimist will tend to believe that everything is going to work out just fine, while the pessimist will naturally assume the worst. Even if the pessimist is correct and both lose their jobs at the end of the month, the optimist will spend the month with decidedly less stress and angst than the pessimist, and that reduction in stress is probably much better for your health.

The outcomes may be negative, and the pessimist might ultimately be proven correct, but for the optimist, the time leading up to that negative outcome is much less negative.

In other words, the optimist doesn’t extend the effects of the negative outcome into the time that precedes the negative outcome.

That makes a lot of sense to me.

Can starting your day with a smile really change your mood and improve your heath?

I read that smiling when you wake up can be very beneficial. Supposed health benefits include:

• When you smile your body releases the feel-good neurotransmitters dopamine and endorphins. This means that by smiling first thing when you wake up you’ll be starting your day in a better mood.

• In addition, when you smile your mood is further lifted by the release of serotonin.

• Smiling strengthens the immune system, so by smiling first thing in the morning and remembering to do it throughout the day you’ll be warding off disease, specially during flu season.

This is all supposed to happen even if your smile is forced. I’ve written before about how you can trick your brain through biofeedback (including smiling), but I really couldn’t see how a fake smile early in the morning would change anything about my day.

So I tried. Back in July, I ran an experiment. Every morning, while I put on my socks and shoes, I forced a smile. Some days were easier to do this than others, but thanks to the cats, who like to chase my shoelaces as I tie my shoes and are almost always underfoot during this sick and shoe process, it turns out that smiling wasn’t hard. It was almost always initially forced, but the inspiration of the cats often transformed a fake smile into a genuine one.

Did it change my mood? Make me feel better about the coming day?

Maybe.

This, of course is a hard thing to measure. I’m also fairly excited about the beginning of every day. I practically leap out of bed every morning, thrilled to escape the bed, usually without the need for an alarm, sometimes between 4:00 AM and 5:00 AM. On a typical morning, I was feeling pretty good already, but I have to say that forcing a smile on my face, even when completely fake, did seem to make me even happier and more optimistic about the day. It felt lighter and more energetic, and the world seemed a little bit brighter and more hopeful.

Maybe this was simply wish fulfillment taking place, but I began the experiment thinking that the idea that forcing a smile could brighten my day was ridiculous, so I didn’t expect or even want this research to be proven true.

Either way, it seemed to work for me. My forced smile improved my mood and general disposition.

So much so that I’m still doing it. Every day. It’s become a part of my routine.

Did it also strengthen my immune system? That’s also hard to tell, but I’ll say this:

Since I began the experiment back in July, I haven’t been sick once. Of course, July through October are not exactly the months when people often fall ill, so perhaps my relative health is simply the effect of season and not a strong immunity system.

But maybe it’s a little stronger. Who knows?

Either way, I recommend making the forced smile a part of your morning routine. As I always advise people who are trying to create new habits, attach the new habit to another part of your routine that happens every day. For me, it was socks and shoes.

I’m not asking for much. It requires almost no effort. And according to science, and to me, it works.

Start your day with a smile.

Quarry thoughts

I found these declarations of love carved into rock at a quarry in Dorsett, Vermont.

Being a person in a constant state of existential crisis, I couldn’t help but wonder with some degree of desperation, “Does JM still love DB?”

I know that love can be tragically fleeting, and I also know that based upon a date of 1914 carved into the rock nearby, Pam and DG could very well be dead, but still, I found myself standing over this declaration of love, imagining the effort and time required to carve letters into rock, and desperately hoping that JM and DB were still together today, still holding hands somewhere, smiling.

I felt the same when I found the declaration that DG loves Pam, and maybe even more so given that DG took the time to declare his love in a full sentence, practically shouting his affection to the world.

Did Pam and DG return to this quarry again and again in the future, to admire and reminisce over these words? Did JM and DB bring their children to this place in later years to show them these markers of young love?

Or did the love between DG and Pam ultimately fade. Did Pam return to this spot years after her relationship had ended, recalling the days when she and DG sat on the stones in this quarry, feet dangling into the water, talking about their future? Did DB and JM carve these letters into rock and forget about them entirely?

Do any of the human beings who spent time in this quarry, carving reminders of their existence and their love into rock, remember the days spent sitting atop these boulders and swimming in the small pond between them?

Does anyone remember them? Or have these people - like almost all the people who have ever lived - been forgotten by the world forever?

Yes, these are the kinds of thoughts that plaque me. They plagued me on the day that Elysha and I found these letters and words, and they continue to plague me now.

It’s not always easy being me.

I could run a turn on 10:1, and it was unbelievable

Back in the day, I could run a turn on 10:1 by myself.

10:1 is the meat used in a McDonald’s hamburger and cheeseburger, so named because there are ten beef patties to a pound.

To cook a McDonald’s cheeseburger back in the day, you laid up to 12 patties on the grill and seared them to the surface with a searing tool. Then you turned and toasted the top half of the buns. As the buns toasted, you turned back to the grill, where the meat patties were ready to be turned. After turning the meat, you then removed the buns from the toaster and replaced them with the heels of the buns. Then, as the meat cooked on the other side, you dressed the toasted buns with mustard, catsup, onions, pickles, and cheese.

In order to determine how many cheeseburgers versus hamburgers you would make, you shouted to the person up front, who knew better than you what was needed. “Cheese on twelve?” you’d ask, then someone would respond with a number.

You’d complete the process by removing the meat from the grill, placing each patty atop the dressed buns, and then removing the heels from the toaster with a large spatula, and sliding them atop. Then you’d pass the tray of completed burgers forward, where someone in front would wrap them.

This entire process took less than three minutes. It usually required two people but could be done by one skilled person.

But sometimes burgers were needed at a more rapid clip, so a turn was required. When running a turn, you placed a second set of 12 meat patties down after turning the first and began toasting a second set of buns as the set were removed from the toaster.

Essentially, you completed the same process twice in the same amount of time.

A turn always required two people and often three. One person managed the grill. Another toasted buns. A third dressed the buns and communicated with the employees up front.

But I could run a turn on 10:1 on my own. Solo. I was the only person able to do this, making me exceptionally valuable in the restaurant. Even though I began my career as a counter and drive thru person, I eventually found myself during the busiest times of day flipping burgers in the back because I was so cost-effective in terms of labor. It was so extraordinary that managers from other stores would visit our restaurant to witness my feat and attempt to reproduce it on their own stores with no success, and when I was sent to other stores to work, people would watch in awe as I cooked.

It wasn’t that I was a superhero or especially skilled. I simply had the ability to automatize the process so fully that I never stopped moving and managed to eliminated every single unnecessary step. I was able to work quickly and efficiently with exceptional focus and without pause for lengthy periods of time without distraction.

I also wanted to be great, and this was probably the most important part. Even though it was only McDonald’s, I saw an opportunity to do something that no one else had done, so I did it.

I was named Manager of the Year for three consecutive years in my region, from the ages of 18 through 20 (including my senior year in high school), but the award I treasured more was a pin that my boss had made for me that simply read, “Best Grill Man Ever.”

About a year later, the McDonald’s grill was redesigned. Microwave ovens were installed, grills were converted into automated monstrosities that could cook both sides of a burger simultaneously, and meat was pre-cooked and held in warmers.

The premium on speed and efficiency was gone, and with it, my ability to run a turn on 10:1 was obliterated.

It’s weird to have been the best at something - perhaps one of the best ever - only to have that thing eliminated from the world entirely. Nowadays, the phrase “running a turn on 10:1” is probably unknown or forgotten by almost every human being on the planet.

A Google search on the term results in nothing.

For a brief sliver of time, I was able to do something that no one else in my corner of the world could do. My skills were prized and admired, even by the employees who didn’t work in the kitchen.

Then it all went away and was forgotten.

Except it’s not forgotten because every now and again, I find myself running a turn on 10:1 in my dreams, which I did last night. It may not seem like the best way to spend a night of rest, but I kind of love those dreams of a time when something as simple as cooking burgers quickly could be mastered at a high level.

That’s a long way for pizza

After visiting Gillette Castle in East Haddam, CT, the family piled into the car to head over to the neighboring town of Chester, CT for dinner at Otto’s Pizza.

It’s such a glorious thing in today’s world:

Receive a recommendation from a friend for a restaurant one town away and simply enter the name of that establishment into your phone for accurate, turn-by-turn directions.

There was a time - not so long ago - when directions were remembered or hand-written, and life was slightly more complex. Someone like me - with an excellent sense of direction, a constant awareness my cardinal direction, and the ability to find my way through a city using the sun and other landmarks - were prized for our ability to navigate this world without the information that so many required.

Given Elysha’s absence of a sense of direction - she got lost exiting two restaurants this weekend - I think she may have married me solely for my ability to navigate.

But now, with the advent of technology, my skills have been replaced by the phone. Oddly enough, my children will never know what it’s like to be lost, to pull over and ask for directions, or to struggle to find a road that they recognize or a highway that seems familiar. Nor will they feel the self-satisfaction in knowing that you were once lost but now - thanks solely to your wit and wisdom - are now found.

Simply turn on the phone and listen to some human-sounding voice guide you to your destination.

Unless, of course, you are trying to find Otto’s Pizza in Chester, CT. When I entered the name of this particular restaurant into Waze, my options included pizza places in Maine, California, El Salvador, Columbia, and the UK.

Not exactly sure how Waze was even going to provide directions to the UK. Even El Salvador and Columbia seemed unlikely.

Happily, it turned out that Otto’s Pizza in Chester, CT was less than two miles away, and a quick Internet search yielded an address less than 5 minutes away. And our friends were right. The pizza was quite good.

And considering how hungry everyone was, we thankfully did not need to cross continents in order to eat it.

Vermont getaway

I write these words from the sitting room of a beautiful bed and breakfast in the town of Dorsett, Vermont.

Three days ago, I told Elysha that I was surprising her with a weekend getaway to an undisclosed location. “Pack a bag for the weekend. We’re heading north.”

It’s been a glorious three days, thanks in large part to our friends, Kathy and Eddie, who are entertaining our children while we are away, and especially Kathy, who also recommended this particular location and helped make it happen.

This is just the second time in ten years that Elysha and I have gotten away alone. We traveled to Kennebunkport, Maine, three years ago to celebrate our tenth anniversary together, but I had pneumonia during our trip - a fact that I concealed from Elysha until we returned home- so that trip was a little more challenging for me.

This one has been splendid. We’ve met remarkably kind and interesting people and seen remarkable things. We visited Hildene, the former home of Robert Todd Lincoln and the Lincoln ancestors, with its stunning views and fascinating history. We drove to the summit Mount Equinox to take in the views of four states from the top. We’ve visited little shops, spectacular restaurants, and our old friends at Northshire Bookstore. We’ve dined on the sweetness of maple candy and watched the Yankees less-than-sweet loss to the Houston Astros, thus ending their season.

There were a few other bumps along the road, including:

• After dinner last night, we drove around, searching for something called the Festival of Darkness and failed to find it. Perhaps that was a lucky thing.

• We stopped by a goat farm that really didn’t deserve a single moment of our time. Why would anyone think that watching goats be goats could be entertaining?

• We listened to an exceptionally loud server on the other side of a restaurant talk about putting her dog to sleep. She’s retiring tomorrow after a multi-decade career - a fact we also leaned thanks to her volume - so in this case, our timing was off by a couple of days.

• I walked in on one of the other house guest while she was sitting on the toilet, because that is what I do.

Mostly Elysha and I have held hands and enjoyed the foliage of Vermont while thinking about our kids.

Don’t eat children

I told Charlie to hurry up and get into the car “…before the Daddy monster eats you!”

“You eat children?” Charlie asked.

“Yes, I do,” I said in my most gravely voice.

"If that’s true,” he said, “then you eat poop and butts and feet.”

There’s really nothing more impressive than a witty, rhetorical comeback.

My postage stamp mia culpa

Yesterday I shared a series of text messages between my wife and me that did not go well. While standing in the post office, I watched a woman spend five minutes examining all of the possible postage stamps, hemming and hawing, before choosing the one that she liked. As I watched this happen, I sent a text message to my wife declaring that all people who engage in this behavior insane.

She responded a moment later, informing me that she engaged in this very same behavior on a regular basis.

“That’s me,” she wrote. “I love pretty stamps.”

As this post was disseminated on my blog and social media, the response was almost immediate.

Lots and lots of people engage in this behavior, and all came running to Elysha’s defense. Apparently there is an enormous number of people who want to put pretty stickers on envelopes before sending those envelopes away forever.

I was shocked.

While I would like to officially retract the accusation of insanity, I’d also like to take a moment to explain my faulty rationale. It comes down to one simple belief:

I couldn’t imagine anyone of sound mind wasting a precious second choosing a stamp that will eventually be ignored or forgotten.

In short, I can’t imagine not making almost all decisions based upon the preservation of time.

And yes, I understand that it’s requires an exceptionally short period of time to choose a stamp. I also understand that these stamps often represent works of art. I even understand that the stamp you place upon a letter might even say something about you, but in almost all things - but especially in all chores, tasks, errands, and the life - I always default to the fastest, most efficient method of completion.

It’s why I shop for groceries while almost running through the aisles. It’s why I have experimented to determine the fastest way to empty a dishwasher. It’s why I try to keep my showers under 100 seconds by counting while washing. It’s why most of my clothing decisions have defaulted to set “uniforms” for each part of my daily life. It’s why I live my life by routines that allow for the least number of wasted steps and lost time.

When it came to purchasing stamps, I simply could not imagine spending one second longer in the post office that what was necessary.

I understand that not everyone focuses on the preservation of time like me. I also understand that people value things differently than me. I also understand that running through a grocery store or timing the emptying of a dishwasher or wearing the same thing on stage every night might seem a little crazy, but I think of time as my most precious commodity, and I want to spend as much of it as possible with the people I love and the work that I adore.

This means that I’ll take those flag stamps if it means I can arrive home two minutes earlier and therefore spend two extra minutes with Elysha or the kids or the cats.

I’m not saying that I’m right in this approach. After all, I’m a guy who takes cold showers that are less than 100 seconds long. I choose the shirt that I’ll be wearing for work based upon whichever shirt has migrated to the top of the pile. I try to take the inside lane while walking in hallways and cut corners as often as possible, knowing that doing so might save me a few seconds on my trip.

Perhaps I am the one suffering from insanity, which is why I once again retract my previous statement. If the pretty stamp that you affix to your water bill or perfunctory thank you note makes you happy, who am I to cast aspersions?

A crazy person. That’s who.

This text message did not go the way I had expected.

Shortcomings and Flaws: 2019

Years ago a reader accused me of being materialistic after I wrote about my lack of a favorite number, specifically criticizing me for saying that when it comes to my salary, my favorite number is the largest number possible.

After properly refuting the charges of materialism, I acknowledged that I had plenty of other shortcomings and offered to list them in order to appease my angry reader. Then I did. Then I added to the list when friends suggested that I had forgotten a few.

Nice friends. Huh?

So began an annual tradition of posting my list of shortcomings and flaws, starting first in 2011 (the list only had 10 items that year), and continuing in 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, and 2018.

I'm happy to report that although the list remains relatively long (33 items this year), I'm removing one item from the list.

*** I take little pleasure in walking.

Somehow I’ve managed to find an appreciation for walking. I’d still rather be running, playing golf, or anything else to make the walk more productive, but stick me in a forest or on a mountain and I’ll happily walk.

I also thought that I might remove:

*** I can form strong opinions about things that I possess a limited knowledge of and are inconsequential to me.

Elysha says no. She points out that I enjoy staking opinions for the sake of debate, even when I’m not prepared to stake out a position.

Fine…

I also wanted to remove these two:

*** I drink too much Diet Coke.
*** I wear my wireless headphones way too much.

I’ve stopped seeing either of these as a negative., but I know that the rest of the world does (actually, my doctor has no problem with my Diet Coke consumption), so I’ll accept their assessment for the time being.

Many new flaws and shortcomings were proposed - some in jest - but quite a few in reality. A couple that were seriously considered:

*** I don’t sleep enough.

I’ve certainly heard this one before, but when this accusation is leveled against me, I always respond by asking if I ever appear tired. Do I complain about being exhausted? Am I not productive enough during the day because of fatigue? Do I look like I need more sleep? Did you know that I often awaken without an alarm clock and pop out of bed like a jack-in-the-box? Did you also know that even though I only sleep 4-6 hours every night, I spend almost every moment of that time asleep? I don’t watch television or read in bed, and I fall asleep almost instantly. I don’t waste a moment of time while in bed.

If I felt tired or fatigued or lethargic, I would sleep more. I just don’t.

*** You correct people when they didn’t need to be corrected.

This was something someone noticed me doing to Elysha on the podcast, but I asked Elysha if it was true, and she says no. When I correct Elysha on the podcast, it’s for very specific reasons, mostly related to the fact that thousands of people listen to each episode, and if you allow an error to stand, you’re going to get email about it or mislead people in an annoying direction.

I would expect the same from here.

*** You may be too presumptuous in assuming that your followers (both nice and naughty) care all that much about your self-crested lists of flaws.

This made me laugh, but it’s not an assumption I make. Some of my posts - like this one and my monthly resolution updates - are admittedly written more for myself than my readers. I’m holding myself publicly accountable, but I never think that a post like this will be popular or well read (though my resolution updates are surprisingly popular).

Therefore, for just the second time ever, no new items have been added to the list. I may finally be evolving into a better human being.  

If you would like to propose an addition to the list, please let me know, and it will be considered.

Matthew Dicks’s List of Shortcomings and Flaws

1. I have a limited, albeit expanding palate (though I'd like to stress that my limited palate is not by choice).

2. I am a below average golfer (but showing rapid improvement this year).

3. It is hard for me to empathize with adults with difficulties that I do not understand and/or are suffering with difficulties that I would have avoided entirely.

4. I have difficulty putting myself in another person’s shoes. Rather than attempting understand the person, I envision myself within their context and point out what I would've done instead.

5. I do many things for the sake of spite.

6. I have an unreasonable fear of needles (though my PTSD definitely plays a role in this).

7. I become angry and petulant when told what to wear.

8. Bees kill me dead.

9. I become sullen and inconsolable when the New England Patriots lose a football game.

10. I lack adequate empathy for adults who are not resourceful or are easily overwhelmed.

11. I can form strong opinions about things that I possess a limited knowledge of and are inconsequential to me.

12. I am unable to make the simplest of household or automobile repairs.

13. I would rarely change the sheets on my bed if not for my wife.

14. I eat ice cream too quickly.

15. I procrastinate when it comes to tasks that require the use of the telephone (visual voicemail has corrected this problem on the cellphone but not on my landline at work)

16. I am uncomfortable and ineffective at haggling for a better price.

17. I am exceptionally hard on myself when I fail to reach a goal or meet a deadline.

18. Sharing food in restaurants annoys me.

19. I drink too much Diet Coke.

20. My dislike for ineffective, inefficient, or poorly planned meetings causes me to be unproductive, inattentive, and obstructionist at times (I’ve adjusted the language on this one to acknowledge that some meetings are necessary and acceptable)

21. Disorganization and clutter negatively impacts my mood, particularly when I cannot control the clutter myself

22. I am overly critical of my fellow storytellers, applying my own rules and standards to their performances.

23. I think less of people who nap (though I've come to accept and even embrace the 10-15 minute power nap in the middle of the work day, I still think that anyone who is napping on a Sunday afternoon for three hours or comes home from work and naps until dinner is at best a disappointment).

24. I lack patience when it comes to assisting people with technology.

25. I don't spend enough time with my best friend (I’m trying like hell to fix this).

26. I have a difficult time respecting or celebrating someone's accomplishments if economic privilege, nepotism, or legacy assisted in their success in some way.

27. I believe that there are right and wrong ways of parenting. 

28. I love saying, "I told you so" so freaking much.

29. I wear my wireless headphones way too much.

30. I consistently screw up my wife's laundry regardless of how careful I think I am, 

31. My blog entries contain far too many typos, despite my loathing of typos.

32. I leave my credit card at restaurants far too often.

33. I don't ride my bicycle - alone and with my kids - nearly enough.

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I'm worried that Frost's poems will someday die

I dreamt last night that the Earth’s orbit was temporarily shifting towards the sun, which would briefly raise temperatures high enough to kill nearly every living thing on the planet.

Great dream, Huh?

Actually, in my dream, Paul McCartney had built some kind of refrigerated house, so he thought he might survive, but experts doubted it.

I spent great portions of this dream trying to find way to avoid death for me and the family while simultaneously imagining the horrors of being cooked alive and watching my family suffer a similar fate.

You can see why I don’t love sleep.

And yes, I know that the orbit of the Earth would never bring it in temporary proximity to the sun, though there might be a scenario in our future where sun spot activity could wipe out most of our electronics and send us back to the Dark Ages for years.

In fact, it nearly happened in 2012, but please don’t Google it. It’s terrifying.

But here was the moment of the dream that interests me most:

It occurred to me - in the dream and now while I’m awake - that if every human being on Earth died, then all of Robert Frost’s poetry would die, too. So, too, would the music of Springsteen and the plays of Shakespeare and the philosophy of Plato and the fiction of Twain and Morrison and Atwood and Vonnegut and Rowling.

All of our art would be lost.

Human beings die all the time, but our greatest art lives on forever. Unless, of course, the human race ceases to exist. Then our art will also cease to exist.

Two roads will only diverge in a yellow wood as long as there are humans alive to read and recite those lines.

The loss of that great art suddenly seems even more tragic to me than the end of our species, and just like that, the timeless nature of our art seems a lot less timeless.

Seeking submissions for my annual list of shortcomings and flaws

Years ago a reader accused me of being materialistic after I wrote about my lack of a favorite number, specifically criticizing me for saying that when it comes to my salary, my favorite number is the largest number possible.

After refuting the charges of materialism, I acknowledged that I had plenty of other shortcomings and offered to list them in order to appease my angry reader. Then I did. Then I added to the list when friends suggested that I had forgotten a few.

Nice friends. Huh?

So began an annual tradition of posting my list of shortcomings and flaws, starting first in 2011, and continuing in 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2017, and 2018.

The time has come to assemble my list for 2019, which means I will be reviewing the 2018 list carefully, hoping that I might be able to remove a few and looking to add any that I think might be missing. 

As always, I offer you the opportunity to add to the list as well. If you know me personally or through this blog or my books or my storytelling or my podcast and have detected a shortcoming or flaw to add to the list, please let me know. I will be finalizing and publishing my list in about a week, so don't delay. 

I look forward to hearing about all the ways in which you think I suck.