One of the most horrifying and disgusting things that has ever happened to me couldn't spoil my day

We went to Boston yesterday for a whale watch. It was the first whale watch of my life, and it was the first for the kids as well.

We were excited. Most of the day went exceptionally well.

One moment was exactly the opposite of exceptionally well. 

We stopped at Jeff Kinney's bookstore in Plainville, MA on the way down. Kinney is the author of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, which children adore and buy in bushels. We explored the shop. Perused titles. Bought books. I saw Jeff Kinney and waved. He was busy with customers and we were in a hurry or I would've waited to chat with him. Maybe next time.

And yes, he didn't have any of my books in stock, but I'll forgive him for that. Perhaps he doesn't know that I lived about two miles from his store for a good portion of my life. Perhaps he doesn't realize that many of my books mention the area of Massachusetts where is store is located and I have actually set my next book in his neck of the woods. Maybe he just hasn't gotten around to reading any of my books yet. There are a lot of books in the world and a limited number of hours. Regardless of the absence of the works of Matthew Dicks, it was a beautiful store.   

Opening a bookstore is a dream that Elysha and I have shared for a long time. It was a little inspiring to see his shop doing so well. Now all I have to do is sell a bajllion books and build a store of my own.

The whale watch was excellent. The ocean was extremely choppy, with swells of 3-5 feet, but we saw humpback whales breech over and over again. They flapped their fins and tails at us and came along side the boat, close enough to almost touch. The crew told us that they haven't seen this many whales breech all season long. Apparently the rough water is tough on the stomach but excellent for whale watching.  

The bartender also told me that in the ten years she had been working on the ship, this was the first time she felt like she might throw up. The swells and cop were that bad. In fact, people all over the ship were getting sick. 

This explains why our three year-old son, Charlie, threw up about nine seconds after he ate a piece of chocolate. Thankfully, he was sitting about a foot away from me and managed to contain the mess to his own clothing. We stripped him down to his underwear and he was fine. Bounced back like a champ. Onward to the whales!

Later, when he and I were at the front of the boat, watching the whales together, he threw up again. This time it wasn't so good. I was holding him in my arms, and he managed to almost completely cover me in vomit before throwing up into my mouth. It was horrifying. It was disgusting. It was perhaps one of the most disgusting moments of my life. 

But it was Charlie, so somehow, it was okay. I never felt sick. Never felt angry or annoyed. Just bad for the little guy, even though I was covered in his wretch.

Parenthood boiled down to its essence.  

We were about 90 minutes from port, so I washed my clothes in the restroom sink, put them back on soaking wet and stinking, and enjoyed our ride home while Elysha, who also wasn't feeling well, slept and Charlie sang and Clara drew. 

You might think that spending hours in vomit-infused clothing would ruin my day. You might think that having your son throw up in your mouth might ruin your life. 

But no. I waved to Jeff Kinney. Bought a book. Ate fish and chips at Legal Seafood. Saw enormous whales leap from the ocean and wave to me with their fins and tails. Ate some macaroni and cheese on the way home. 

A gallon or so of vomit couldn't ruin a day like that. 

Sequel protection service: Alias

There once was a show called Alias, and it was great. Created by J.J. Abrams, it starred Jennifer Garner as Sydney Bristow, a double-agent for the Central Intelligence Agency posing as an operative for SD-6, a worldwide criminal and espionage organization.

Then halfway through the second season, the series changes significantly. Some describe it as a reboot. I don't want to spoil it for you, but suffice it to say that you will know when this moment happens. It will feel like the story has come to a conclusion and a new story is beginning. 

Stop right there. Do not begin the new story. 

The new story is fine, but it is not special. It is frankly kind of ordinary. The show moves from an ingenious conceit to a standard plot that we have seen many times before.

I can't imagine why J.J. Abrams chose this path, but it was a mistake.

Here's the good news:

Alias ran for five seasons, piling up more than 100 episodes in the process. The first 35 episodes are outstanding and completely worth your time.

Go watch them. 

If you want to watch the show, I've just reduced your commitment significantly and saved you the disappointment of the final three plus seasons.

Actually, in the spirit of full disclosure, I have yet to finish watching the final season. It was too weird and ridiculous and implausible to continue. In the spirit of completion, I may get to it someday, but I doubt it. 

Time is far too valuable to waste on bad television.

How to annoy a child

As an elementary school teacher for the last 17 years, I have learned many ways to annoy a child. Here are just a few:   

1. If asked, declare that you have no favorite number.
2. If asked, declare that you have no favorite color.
3. Refuse to divulge your own middle name.
4. Ask a child how many fingers he or she has. When the child says ten, point out that he or she only has eight because two of their digits are thumbs. Then seriously question the child's intelligence. 
5. Say popular catch phrases in the most robotic and uninspired way possible while pretending like you are trying your best to say the phrase properly.
6. Explain that the unicorn is not an imaginary animal but an extinct animal. Use the existence of the narwhal, the rhino, and all other horned land animals to support your assertion. 

For the record, I have no favorite number or color. 

I have a middle name but often provide children with a false name.

And I have convinced dozens of children that unicorns were once real before laughing at their naivety. 

Even I was silenced by this horrific scene of sexism and misplaced cold drink cups

Yesterday I saw an older man standing at the counter at a McDonald's, with an empty, medium size McDonald's cold drink cup jammed into the breast pocket of his button-down shirt, admonishing two young women about the clothing that they were wearing, reminding them that clothing and appearance sets an important first impression.

"You look like you're dressed for a night out on the town, and it's not even nine o'clock in the morning. Where could you possibly be going dressed like that?"

The two women looked astonished, embarrassed, and a little frightened. 

I am normally quick to jump into moments like this. I kind of love doing so. I was made for these moments. 

But even I was too dumbstruck to say a word.

I'm so disappointed in myself.

“If you’re going to have a difficult life, it might as well be childhood, since it’s so short” might be the dumbest thing ever said.

Someone recently told me that “If you’re going to have a difficult life, it might as well be childhood, since it’s so short.”

I disagree. It’s the percentage of life that is difficult that matters most, and a difficult childhood skews that percentage for a long, long time. 

If you have a difficult childhood, that means that 100% of your life up until a certain age is difficult, and these are fundamental years upon which the foundation of our lives is often set.

This alone is exceptionally damaging to people. 

Equally important, it takes a long, long time for that percentage to even shift to a 50/50 split.

If you're life was difficult until the age of 16, for example, you won't attain a 50/50 split of difficult to not difficult until you're 32 years old, and that is assuming that none of the years between the ages of 17 to 32 were difficult, which is unlikely.

Even if that's the case, you've now only reached a 50-50 split. Half your life was hard. Half was not. You're still not looking back with rose-colored classes.  

You'll need to reach the age of 48 before two-thirds of your life wasn't difficult and 64 before three-quarters of your life wasn't difficult, and all of this is assuming that none of the years between ages 17 and 64 are difficult, which is, of course, a ridiculous assumption.

No, if you're going to have a difficult life, make it anything but childhood. I wish every person on the planet a childhood filled with love, joy, learning, productive struggle, and great success. 

If it's then followed by hardship, at least the foundation will be solid and coping strategies will be in place, and the person experiencing the hardship will be able to lean on the memory of those childhood years with a sense of what has been and could be again. 

Do you know what kind of person thinking that if you’re going to have a difficult life, it might as well be childhood, since it’s so short?

It's a person who experienced a childhood free of hardship and has no understanding of the long term impact that 100% of your life being difficult can have on the remainder of your life. 

My daughter manages money better than most Americans. And unlike me, her savings weren't eaten by a dog named after a video game.

For almost a year, my six year-old daughter, Clara, has been saving her allowance and birthday money for a dollhouse that she saw at Barnes & Noble one day. 

Clara receives $1 per week (plus additional quarters for the completion of additional chores), of which she divides amongst her long term, short term, and charity jars. She is required to put a quarter in each jar and put the remaining quarters wherever she wants. For months, all of her extra quarters (and birthday money) have been going to long term savings.

On Sunday, her total in the long term savings jar exceeded $90, which meant that she had the $89 need to purchase the dollhouse.

When I was ten years-old, I saved $100 selling lemonade, leftover food from my grandfather's picnic, and my brother's toys (I don't think he knows about this even today), only to have my wallet and all but $6 eaten by my dog, Pac-Man. 

I had been selling my grandfather's barbecue chicken, and some of the sauce had gotten on the money, drawing Pac-Man's attention.  

I cannot tell you how impressed I was with my little girl. She made a plan, demonstrated patience and perseverance, and it finally paid off. I know many, many adults incapable of saving money and waiting like she did. 

When we arrived at Barnes & Noble, I immediately went to the cashier and warned her that my daughter would be buying a dollhouse and paying in about $20 worth of quarters and many small bills. I thought it was important that Clara use the actual money that she had saved when buying the dollhouse. I wanted her to connect effort with reward.

The cashier's response should have been a smile and congratulations to my daughter, but instead I received a scowl and a complaint that she didn't have any quarter rolls.

I was annoyed.

Not only was she legally required to accept our payment regardless of denomination, but a little bit of excitement for our daughter;s accomplishment would have been nice. I will never understand who some customer service people don't choose to simply be kind and polite.

Thankfully, by the time we returned with the dollhouse, scowling cashier had been replaced with a cashier who was genuinely excited for my daughter. We counted quarters on the side while she took customers, and once we were ready, she took Clara's money with a smile and many, many congratulatory remarks.  

The way it's supposed to be done.

Clara is saving again. She's not sure for what yet, but she told me that she will start saving while she figures out what she wants next. 

She's also been willing do to extra chores around the house, understanding better than ever how effort can result in reward, and more importantly, what the earned realization of that reward feels like.

I hate this kid.

As a teacher, it's not often that I say that I hate a kid.

In fact, I can't remember a time in my adult life when I really despised a young person.

I don't know this kid personally, but from everything I can see, I hate hate hate him. 

This phone call apparently went well.

Half years are stupid.

I will never understand why adults count half-years when accounting for time.

Yesterday I heard a person asked how long he was at a company. His response:

"Eight and a half years."

Eight and a half?

You're not a toddler, dude. No one over the age of ten counts half years. No one even keeps track of half years. Besides, what even constitutes a half year? 

Must it be exactly six months to call it a half year?
What about four months? Should we round up to the half year or back down to the full year?
What about eight months? Can we round up to a full year? What about nine months? Or ten?

Everyone understands that when you say that you were with a company for eight years, it probably wasn't eight years on the nose. It was probably eight years and some additional weeks or months, or maybe it was almost eight years and you're rounding up.

Stating time in half years makes you sound like a wonk. It's meaningless. No one cares about your stupid half year.    

Clara's Mid-Summer Bucket List

A parental suggestion courtesy of my wife:

Yesterday, with about half of our summer behind us, Elysha asked our six year-old daughter to create a bucket list of summertime activities that she still wanted to do. 

The list is great, and best of all, it's entirely doable.

Backyard picnics. Sleepovers. Trips to playgrounds and beaches.

Not only do we know exactly what she wants to do, but as we check each one of those items off the list, she will feel better and better about her summer.

And we also learned that our daughter isn't a selfish, materialistic jerk face as well. She's content with the simple things of life. Playgrounds and beaches and sleepovers.

Also a great thing to know.   

A mid-summer bucket list: An outstanding idea courtesy of the great Elysha Dicks. 

Are you faithful to your spouse? It's less common than you might think.

Ashley Madison,  the online affair facilitator with the slogan, "Life is Short. Have an Affair." was hacked this week. Hackers are threatening to release the personal information of its 37 million members. 

Did you hear that (in your head, I mean, since I am not reading this aloud to you)?

37 millions members.

That may sound like a lot, but its not. "A lot" doesn't come close to describing this massive number. 

Let's do the math:

While Ashley Madison operates in 46 countries, a "significant percentage of users" are American.

For this post, let's pretend that a significant percentage of 37 million amounts to 30 million.

The population of the United States is 318 million. Of that number, 51 percent, or 162 million are married, which means that almost 20 percent of married Americans are members of Ashley Madison. 

I suppose this number should not be terribly surprising, since research has shown that 15-25% of married people cheat on their spouse at least once during the course of their marriage, but that would mean that every single person cheating on their spouse is using Ashley Madison to do so, and this can't be true. 

So a hell of a lot of married Americans are cheating on their spouses - more than we may suspect - and many of them are using Ashley Madison to do so.

A simple solution for Scott Walker's uncertainty

Republican Presidential candidate Scott Walker says that he doesn't know if being gay is a choice.

I have a simple solution to this problem:

He could simply ask any one of the millions of gay Americans if being gay is a choice and believe what they say, since they would know.

I can't begin to imagine the degree of arrogance and self-righteousness required for a heterosexual man (who dropped out of college with a 2.6 GPA) to completely discount the word of millions of American citizens who would absolutely know the answer to this question.

Does he think that all gay people are liars?

Even better, Walker could stop caring if being gay was a choice, since that question happens to be one of the stupidest questions being asked today.

Do the morons who think that being gay is a choice really expect my homosexual friends to suddenly switch to relationships with opposite sex partners like you might change your order at the local diner? 

Even if being gay were a choice (WHICH IT'S NOT, SCOTT WALKER), who cares?

Perhaps Walker could say that as a conservative politician who believes that government is too large and omnipresent in the lives of Americans,  he doesn't think it's his or anyone else's business when it comes to who a person chooses to love. 

Now that would be a real answer.

The best marital advice you'll ever receive (and some thoughts on same sex marriage, too)

She's only six. I hope she can adhere to this advice in 20 years.

Brace yourself for the cutest thing EVER (not one bit of hyperbole)

And if that wasn't enough, we have the extended cut with both verses:

Dentists need to tell stories, or they will end up with people like me in their chairs.

My dentist told me that I should have two of my wisdom teeth extracted. One of them has a cavity, and it's in a spot that is almost impossible to keep clean.

I asked what the extraction process entailed.

Dentist: We use some local anesthetic and some rocking back and forth, and that's it. Done in an hour.

Me: I have no idea what that means. Could you give me an actual account of the procedure? 

Dentist: What do you want to know?

Me: I don't know what I don't know, so I can't tell you what I want to know because I don't know what there is to know. But a step by step description of what will actually happen would be a great start.  

She looked a little annoyed. 

Me: Look, the entire bottom row of my teeth were knocked out in a car accident when I was 17, and then they were jammed back into place and wired down in the emergency room, which was the worst part of the car accident, and that's saying a lot since I went through the windshield and tore my leg open to the bone. And about five years before that I was stung by a bee and had to be brought back to life via CPR and about 50 shots of epinephrine over the course of a week, so now I have involuntarily associated needles with death, which I know is a little crazy but is how I feel and my therapist - who I don't see anymore - said it's completely understandable. So I'm a little squeamish about my teeth and needles. So I want some detail.

Dentist: This won't be a big deal. People have wisdom teeth extracted all the time.

Me: Yes, but for me, it will only happen once, so it will be a big deal. When someone wants to pull a part of my body out of my mouth, it's a big deal for me, even if it isn't for you

Dentist: I meant to say that we do extractions all the time.

Me: I would hope so, but that doesn't really help me understand the procedure.

Dentist: Maybe I should just refer you to our oral surgeon. 

Me. Great. Thank you.

Dentist: But don't look anything up on the Internet about the procedure until you meet him. 

Me. Why would you say that? That does not inspire confidence.

I know I can be difficult, and it may seem as if I was being a little belligerent, but in this case, I just wanted some information, which left me thinking this:

Dentists need training telling stories. Had my dentist told me a story that was reflective of what what I could expect when my wisdom teeth were extracted, complete with an arc, a splash of humor, and some clear but not graphic descriptions, I might have been fine.

But glossing over the removal of two of the largest teeth from my mouth deserves more, at least for me. And I suspect most people would appreciate a clear picture of the procedure but are unwilling to press the matter to the degree I did.

So dentists of the world:

I'm available for hire. Let me teach you some storytelling strategies that you can use to make your patients more relaxed and informed. Very few of us enjoy our dentist appointments, and while this may be inevitable, part of our dislike for our visits is the fear related to what may or may not happen while sitting in that chair. 

Alleviate some of that. Explain your procedures in engaging ways. Entertain and inform your patients. Tell stories.

Most of the time, your patients can't speak anyway. Instead of asking us how the kids are doing while we have a suction tube and an ice pick in our mouths, entertain and inform. 

We have a right to know, and wouldn't it be better if we didn't have to pry the information from you in the same way you want pry my wisdom teeth from my gum line?

The next time you see or hear a story about the British royalty, I suggest this response:

Look, it's a story about Kate Middleton, the possibly American woman married to one of the British princes (I say possibly because I'm not certain of Middleton's nationality and refuse to spend even a second confirming this suspicion). 

Yup, that's her. The princess and her latest baby. Does she have two kids or three now? I'm also not quite sure. But definitely more than one. 

But wait. I don't need to pay attention to any of this. I can change the channel or turn the page in this magazine or close this website because: 

It has nothing to do with my country. 

These people don't have any actual power or influence over anything. 

The whole point of this American Revolution was to break free of the influence of these  entitled people of unearned stature and wealth.

It's a monarchy. Yes, a neutered, ridiculous, fairly pathetic monarchy that a growing segment of the British people believe should be eliminated, but still, it's a monarchy. And monarchies are stupid. Right? We're a republic. We believe in the power of the people. Again, the whole American Revolution was fought to break free of these royal buffoons. What would our founding fathers think of us staring at these royals from afar, obsessing over their weddings and clothing and babies?  

There are people far more worthy of my attention. People who actually accomplished things without enormous budgets and prestige conferred upon them at birth. These princes and queens and dukes are only receiving this attention because of who their Mommys and Daddys are. Maybe I should read about  people who are not exclusively wealthy and white and privileged beyond imagination. Instead of reading about Kate's latest fitness regime, let me go find an article about Chris Gardner or Ursula Burns or Elon Musk or Janet Yellen.

These are people worthy of my attention. Perhaps I might even learn something from them or be inspired by their accomplishments.  

Those are the thoughts that I suggest run through your mind the next time you encounter a story about British royalty. 

First review of The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs arrives!

The Kirkus review has posted online, and I'm thrilled to report that it's a great one.

Kirkus Reviews is a magazine of book reviews published on the first and 15th of each month. It offers a preview of books prior to their publication, as well as a short but critical review of each book. 

It's an important moment in the life of a book. It's a review that booksellers, librarians, and the like pay attention to.    

Of The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs, Kirkus says:

“Dicks (Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend, 2012, etc.) well balances Caroline’s caution against Polly’s pluck, Caroline’s passive-aggressiveness against Polly’s outrage, creating a believable mother-daughter relationship. As each secret comes to light, he shapes their initially fraught ties into strong friendship.

Heartwarming and often darkly humorous, this road trip for vengeance fairly cries out for filming.”

— https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/matthew-dicks/the-perfect-comeback-of-caroline-jacobs/

It's been a week of exciting news in our home, and this was one small but important bit. 

Don Featherstone was an interesting man for at least two reasons. Also, the mysteries of 57 and matchy-matchy remain unsolved, and it's really bothering me.

Don Featherstone passed away last month. He was known for two fairly remarkable things:

1. He was the creator of the pink plastic flamingo that adorns so many American lawns even today. He and his wife kept 57 pink flamingos on his front lawn in Fitchburg, MA.

I have yet to figure out why he chose the number 57 and it's really bothering me. 

Side note: The fact that his last name was Featherstone and his greatest career achievement was a sculptured plastic bird is a likely signal that we are living in a computer generated world with surprisingly ham-handed naming algorithms. 

2. Don Featherstone and his wife, Nancy, dressed alike for more than 30 years.  

No explanation for this wardrobe decision that I can find, either. It's also really bothering me. 

A brilliant app idea that I'm giving away for free. Take it. Make it. I'll be your first customer.

Here's my vision:

I'm driving down Starr Boulevard in some tiny town in Somewhereville, USA. I come to a traffic light and stop. I remove my phone, click on the app, and instantly, I am transmitted information about the name of this street.

• Why Starr?
• Why the double R?
• Is the street named after a person, and if so, who was it and what did he or she do to deserve the honor of a street name?

I've considered writing a book that explains all of the street names for a random town in the United States. My hometown, perhaps. 

Here's the one problem about my app (and probably my book idea):

I may be the only person in the world who is intensely curious about this topic and desperately wants this information. 

So it might not be quite as profitable as you were hoping.

If I ruled the world, here are 11 laws that I would immediately enact.

If I were ruler of the world, I would immediately enact the following laws in order to improve the quality of life for all of mankind:

1. Drivers who pull their cars alongside each other in the middle of the road and roll down their windows in order to chat (thus blocking the road for sane people) shall have their licenses revoked for a period of no less than 5 years. Get out of the damn car if you wish to speak to someone.

2. If a public building has two or more exterior doors, all such doors shall be accessible and open at all times. If a patron walks into a door expecting it to open and finds it locked, the business in question shall pay the patron a fee of $50,000. If said patron bashes his or her head on the door in the process (a feat I have accomplished several times), ownership of the business shall immediately be transferred to the bloody-nosed patron. Why install double doors if one of them is always locked?

3. Anyone wearing an article of clothing containing a brand name or any assemblage of words on the seat of his or her pants shall be required to remain seated for the rest of his or her natural life. This is the stupidest fashion trend ever.

4. Any parent who dresses or allows his or her child to dress in pants or shorts that contain a brand name or any assemblage of words on the seat of the child's pants shall immediately be removed from the home for psychiatric examination. Finding oneself staring at the butt of a twelve-year old in order to confirm that the word plastered across her butt is in fact “Juicy” is unnerving to say the least. What in God’s name are these parents thinking?

Side note: If I really had my way on all things, I would remove brand names from all clothing items and accessories, since the inclusion of these brand names are merely indicators of the approximate cost of the item and serve no useful purpose other than to advertise for the clothing company while making people who require such validation momentarily happy about their otherwise vacuous souls. 

5. It is hereby forbidden to congratulate a friend on the purchase of a vehicle if that friend exceeds the age of eighteen.  When the purchase of an automobile becomes congratulatory-worthy, priorities must be re-examined immediately.   

6. When going to the gym, one must drive to an open parking spot and park your car immediately. No more occupying the middle-of-the-aisle, directional flashing, minivan lunatics (its always a minivan) waiting for that prime spot ten feet from the doors. It’s the gym. Walk a little bit. Get some freakin' exercise.    

7. It is no longer permissible to refer to any article of clothing as “fun.” You sound ridiculous. 

8. If more than half of your social media posts pertain to your latest fitness or nutritional regime, you are hereby banished to Google+ for a period of no less than one year.  

9. Selfie sticks are immediately banned. It's bad enough that future archaeologists may judge our society based upon things like The Bachelor, Antonin Scalia, and hipsters who wear slouchy winter hats in the summer. We cannot allow the selfie stick to also define us. 

In fairness, Disney World Theme Parks have already banned these ridiculous and culturally embarrassing items, so I'm not the first to suggest this.

10. Movie theaters must be equipped with cellular jamming technology, effectively disabling the phones of every person within the theater at the onset of the film.

11. People who pay by check at the grocery store must take a mandatory class on the safe and effective use of debit and credit cards before being allowed to eat any of the groceries that they have purchased.