There are six seasons. Not four.

Kurt Vonnegut proposed a restructuring of the seasons that I like a lot.

January and February: Winter
March and April: Unlocking
May and June: Spring
July and August: Summer
September and October: Fall
November and December: Locking

Vonnegut argued that March and April never really exemplify spring. It's still cold. The grass is brown. Trees aren't yet budding, and winter can still offer its last gasps of snow.

Similarly, November and December rarely feel like winter. November feels like the bastard stepchild of fall and winter, unsure about what it should be. And white Christmases are hardly certain.  

Instead, November and December is a period of locking. The ground begins to freeze. Nature begins to slumber. Winter coats, hats, and mittens begin to find their way back into the world. 

And March and April are unlocking. The ground begins to thaw. Kids track mud into the house. The first green shoots emerge from the ground. Golfers count the days before they can play again. 

In Vonnegut's own words: 

““One sort of optional thing you might do is to realize that there are six seasons instead of four. The poetry of four seasons is all wrong for this part of the planet, and this may explain why we are so depressed so much of the time. I mean, spring doesn’t feel like spring a lot of the time, and November is all wrong for autumn, and so on.

Here is the truth about the seasons: Spring is May and June. What could be springier than May and June? Summer is July and August. Really hot, right? Autumn is September and October. See the pumpkins? Smell those burning leaves? Next comes the season called Locking. November and December aren’t winter. They’re Locking. Next comes winter, January and February. Boy! Are they ever cold!

What comes next? Not spring. ‘Unlocking’ comes next. What else could cruel March and only slightly less cruel April be? March and April are not spring. They’re Unlocking.””

— Kurt Vonnegut

Of course, Vonnegut's proposal (and the demarcation of seasons in general) is irrelevant if you live in Southern California. Or Kenya. Or Boca Raton.

Poor souls.

But for those of us who experience the seasons in the way they are stereotypically presented, I like this a lot.    

So many white people

They've done it again.

Here is a photo of the 2017 White House interns alongside Donald Trump. The fact that more than half of all millennials (age 18-34) are not white makes this photo particularly striking.

Given these demographics, Trump's team must've worked hard to ensure that there were be the requisite majority of white interns working for them, given that less than half of people of intern-age are white. 

I say requisite number because this is nothing new. Here are photos of Mike Pence taking a selfie with the newest Republican members of Congress following the 2016 elections, and below that, a photo of the 2016 Congressional interns with Paul Ryan. 

It's disgusting that the GOP makes no apparent effort to diversify their staff of interns, which is of course supremely possible given basic demographics.

They could also look across the aisle at the Democrats, who took this photo of their interns in 2016.

Sort of looks like America. Doesn't it?

Sleeping babies: Less shame. More sleep.

The American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) currently advises parents to sleep in the same room (but never in the same bed) as their babies for a year, ideally, but at least for the first six months.

In a new study published in the journal Pediatrics, researchers led by Dr. Ian Paul, professor of pediatrics and public health sciences at Penn State College of Medicine found that at nine months, babies who had slept in their own rooms before they were four months old slept on average 40 minutes more than babies who were still sleeping in their parents’ room at nine months.

Babies who went to their own rooms after four months slept about 26 minutes more. The effects seemed to last, too. Even at 3 years old, the toddlers who slept with their parents for nearly a year were still sleeping less than those who had been moved to their own room earlier.

“This decision in the first year has potential longer term consequences,” says Paul.

I agree. The amount and quality of sleep that a child gets has been closely linked to overall physical and mental heath, attention span, the acquisition of language, learning potential, and much more. Sleep is critical to growth and brain development, and children who sleep more are far more successful in school and life.

40 minutes per night equates to more than four hours of additional sleep per week, and 26 minutes per night equates to more than three hours of sleep per week.

This adds up fast. 

And this is coming from someone who doesn't sleep as much as most people, and never did. My mother once told me that there was never a night when she went to sleep when I was already asleep, and there was never a morning when she awoke when I wasn't already awake. She told me, "Except when you were an baby, I never saw you sleep as a child."

Still, I understand the importance of sleep. 

My wife and I moved both of our children to their own rooms sometime between the 3-6 month mark. Until then, we had a self-rocking cradle in our bedroom where our children slept every night except for the one night we tried to put our infant daughter in our bed with a co-sleeping apparatus and quickly realized how foolish that decision was.

As important as I think this research is, I think an often unspoken truth is that many, many parents have their children in their own bedrooms, and quite often in their own beds, for years.  

I've known many parents who have their children in bed with them every night well past toddlerhood. I've known parents (mostly fathers) who often find themselves sleeping in their children's beds at night as their sons and daughters take their places in their beds. I've known parents who put an additional bed in their bedroom throughout elementary school for their child. I've known many parents whose children have no real bedtime, fall asleep every night to the television, and rarely get the 10-14 hours of sleep that toddlers require. 

I've had parents talk to me about this things privately, both as a friend and a teacher. 

While these unorthodox sleeping arrangements are (at least according to the research) not good for kids, the real tragedy of the situation is the climate in which parents don't feel like they can speak about this issue openly. While parents have no problem speaking about many issues related to parenting, this one is often seen as taboo. 

I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps it's embarrassing or shameful for the parents. Maybe they don't see any alternative to the sleeping arrangement as it currently exists in their home. Maybe they worry about being judged by friends and family. Quite often the problem originates with the parent's inability to say no to their child or their inability to allow their child to "cry it out" at night. This can result in feelings of guilt or inadequacy, which probably contributes to the silence.  

But I suspect that if parents were better able to speak about their struggles to get their child into his or her own bed at night, solutions might be found. At the very least, parents (and children) wouldn't feel the burden of this secret. 

These taboos help no one.   

A similar problem exists around older children who still wet the bed. Every year we bring our fifth grade class to camp for four days and three night, and every year, I have at least a handful of parents bring this issue to me regarding their child. My first response is always:

"Please know that there are about half a dozen kids who I already know about in this class who also have this problem."

The relief that washes over some of these parents faces is visible. It's hard to think that only your child has this problem, even if the pediatrician says it's more common than anyone realizes. To discover it's true in real life makes it so much easier to talk about. Strip away the taboo, open up a line of communication, and oftentimes I can get the student to talk to me about the issue. 

The important part:

There are ways to handle this problem discreetly so that no child misses the opportunity to attend camp for reasons he or she cannot control. After 20 years of taking kids to camp, I know all the tricks. 

And I suspect that experienced parents know tricks for getting reticent kids into their own beds on time at night. I suspect that experienced parents have strategies for coping with the challenge of saying no to a child who wants to sleep with you. And I suspect that even if parents are unable to improve their less-than-ideal sleeping arrangements in the home, knowing that other parents deal with the same or similar issues might help parents at least feel a little less alone.

Any or all of this would be a good thing. 

Republican Congressmen threaten female Senators with violence. This is not normal.

In the last three days, Republican men in the House have threatened their female Senate colleagues with shooting and beating.

ON MSNBC, Rep. Buddy Carter said on Lisa Murkowski: "Somebody needs to go over there to that Senate and snatch a knot in their ass."

Apparently, "snatch a knot in their ass" means to hit someone in punishment or retribution for a wrongdoing. 

The day before, Rep. Blake Farenthold blamed “some female senators from the Northeast” for holding up the healthcare vote process and said that “if it was a guy from south Texas, I might ask him to step outside and settle this Aaron Burr-style.”

Farenthold is referring to the historic duel in which Vice President Burr mortally wounded Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton in 1804. 

This is a photo (no joke) of Blake Farenthold, by the way, taken in 2010. I thought it might give you a sense of the man.

Murkowski, who voted with Collins against starting the healthcare debate this week, was also specifically called out by President Trump on Twitter and told by a Cabinet official that she and Alaska "could suffer" for her choice. 

I don't agree with them politically on many issues, but Senators Lisa Murkowski and Susan Collins have consistently been the only two Republican Senators blocking repeal of healthcare from tens of millions of Americans. Other men and women have joined their fight then abandoned it given the day and time, but these two women have remained staunch and principled throughout this process. 

History will recognize them as heroes who stood as against their party and in favor of the American people. 

It's important to note that it's not normal for a member of Congress to even suggest in jest that a disagreement be settled with a duel.

It's not normal for a member of Congress to even suggest in jest that someone should be physically assaulted for voting their conscience. 

This only happens when you elect a President who brags about sexual assault. 

This only happens when you elect a President who suggests that it would be better if protesters were carried out on stretchers.

This only happens when you elect a President who tweets juvenile videos of himself tackling and beating a man with a CNN box superimposed over his head.

These sad, pathetic little men are responsible for their comments, of course, but they also feel emboldened enough to make comments like these because the President has so willingly condoned violence.  

It's a terrible thing, and it should concern us all. We have already seen how Trump's violent and misogynistic rhetoric has filtered down to members of Congress.

Where else might men now feel emboldened enough to speak and even act like this?

Words matter. We need to remain vigilant. We need to rally around those who are intimidated or threatened by people in positions of power. We need to stand against rhetoric that condones, promotes, or exemplifies violence in any way.  

I never saw The Ramones in concert. It kills me.

Last night my family attended an outdoor concert at Elizabeth Park in West Hartford, CT. It's a summer tradition that we love. The band closed the show with The Ramones' Sedated.

I took the opportunity to grab Clara and teach her how to dance to punk music on the green grass under the dying light of the setting sun.

One of those moments I won't ever forget.  

I don't have many regrets in life, and those that I do have were mostly out of my control.

• I failed to achieve Eagle Scout because of a near-fatal car accident at the time of my Eagle project made it impossible for me to complete the project despite all other requirements being complete.
• I wasn't able to attend college immediately after high school, missing out on that quintessential college experience, because I was forced to move out after graduation and support myself.
• I didn't continue to ride horses despite riding at a very early age because my parent's divorce resulted in the removal of the horses from our home and left me growing up on a horse farm absent of horses
• I wasn't able to pole vault during my senior year because of the aforementioned car accident
• I don't know my father very well and have spent little time with him since childhood, mostly because he disappeared from my life

Then there are a few regrets that are absolutely my fault.

Never seeing The Ramones in concert was one of them. 

It's inexcusable. It was simply the result of the stupid assumptions that there would always be a next time. The band would tour again. I'd catch them next year.

Then the band broke up in 1996, and by 2004, three of the four members of the band were dead. The last, Tommy Ramone, died in 2014. I can't believe that those boys are all gone.  

I will never see The Ramones in concert. It kills me.

As I held Clara's hands and jumped and smiled and laughed, I couldn't help but think, "What the hell was wrong with you? How did you never see these guys play? You're so stupid."

It's something I've said to myself many times.

When it comes to regret, The Ramones are my north star. They serve as my reminder of how fleeting opportunity can be. They are my admonition that I need to do things no matter how hard or inconvenient they may be before I can't do them anymore.

Last summer I came down with a bad case of pneumonia. I also had tickets to the Guns 'n Roses concert at Gillette Stadium. I went to the concert despite doctor's orders and the fact I couldn't walk 100 yards without running out of breath. 

Even though I had seen Guns 'n Roses before, what if this was the last time they ever toured? What if this was my last chance to hear Welcome to the Jungle and Paradise City performed by the actual band that made those songs iconic?

I didn't want to find myself dancing in the grass to Sweet Child 'O Mine in ten years, knowing that the band had broken up or died in a plane crash or gotten too old to play anymore, and I missed my chance to see them one more time. 

I sat for the entire concert. I sang along quietly and clapped like I was at a golf tournament. 

I'll never forget that night, either.

That's the goal, people. Pile up the moments that you will never forget, and before you know it, you'll have a lifetime of happiness and joy and hopefully very little regret. 

Check your privilege at the door

Few things annoy me more than unacknowledged privilege. People who complain about social safety nets while enjoying ample safety nets of their own.

For many, the unacknowledged safety net is the presence of a prosperous family. A childhood filled with stability, opportunity, and advantage. Private schools. Outstanding medical care. Travel.

It's the knowledge that financial ruin will not result in homelessness or destitution. It's the gift of a college tuition or the downpayment on a first home. A sizable inheritance. A job with a parent's company when all else has failed.

This is an enormous safety net that exists only though birth. It is not earned and is often conveniently forgotten as the people who enjoy these safety nets complain about the taxes that fund the social safety net for those who didn't win the lottery at birth.    

I recently listened to a man at a wedding who has lived with his mother for almost a decade complain about those who can't pick themselves up after financial disaster.

I listen to a former classmate who works for his family's business complain about Americans who who can't find a job or the taxes they pay to fund healthcare and Social Security.   
 

I hear to people wonder why so many folks end up in dead end jobs while displaying a diploma in their office from a prestigious college paid for by their parents. 

I hate this so much. 

Trump, for example, loves to tout his business success. He portrays himself as a self made man. A guy who used hard work and intelligence to amass a fortune. 

Yet when Trump was asked how his father helped him in business, he said, "My father gave me a very small loan in 1975, and I built it into a company that’s worth many, many billions of dollars.”

Trump's "very small loan (which he has lied about repeatedly) included:

• $14 million dollars in initial loans
• A $1 million trust fund
• Another $7.5 million in loans ten years later

Additionally, as Trump’s casinos ran into trouble in the 1980's, Trump’s father purchased $3.5 million gaming chips, but did not use them, so the casino would have enough cash to make payments on its mortgage — a transaction which casino authorities later said was an illegal loan.

Trump also attended Wharton School of Business on his father's dime, and after graduating joined his father’s thriving real estate business and he relied on his father’s connections as he made his way in the real estate world.

This is not a self-made man. This is a man who enjoyed enormous financial privilege early in life but prefers to ignore that in favor of a personal narrative centered solely on hard work and clever business transactions.

In fact, economists have determined that had Trump simply invested his father's loan in an index fund, he would be far wealthier today. 

Not only is Trump not a self-made man, but he failed to beat the market over the course of his business life. 

He's less than average. 

Before you start complaining about the social safety net, public schools, government supported healthcare, food stamps, and the like, be sure to take a long, hard look at your own life and what safety nets you have enjoyed and may still enjoy. 

Winning the lottery at birth is a great thing, but not when your blessings prevent you from seeing and understanding the plight and needs of those less fortunate. 

Trump stomped on tradition at the 2017 Boy Scout National Jamboree.

Yesterday Donald Trump spoke at the Boy Scout's National Jamboree. This is a standing invitation to every United States President.

Seven of the last eleven Presidents have taken the Scouts up on their offer since the Jamboree began in 1937.

None of those seven Presidents ever took the opportunity to turn a day of celebration into a political rally, but that did not stop Trump from doing so. Over the course of his speech, Trump:

1. Bragged about his Electoral victory
2. Complained about loyalty in his administration
3. Bragged about his "Michigan strategy" during the election 
4. Attacked the "fake media" and "fake news"
5. Disparaged President Obama
6. Disparaged Hillary Clinton
7. Threatened local politicians about the upcoming healthcare vote

I was a Boy Scout for all of my childhood, and in many ways, it might have been the best thing to happen to me as a kid.

As an adult, I have served as an assistant Scoutmaster and am a member of Camp Yawgoog's alumni association. It's an imperfect organization, to be sure, and there are many things about the organization that I don't like, but it's also an organization that I love and hope my son will love someday, too. 

What Donald Trump did yesterday disgusts me. Not only did he trample on decades of tradition, but he did so for no conceivable reason.

Why turn a speech to thousands of boys into a political rally? 

The Boy Scouts are explicitly apolitical. They do not endorse political candidates. Scouts are not permitted to wear uniforms at political events. Scouts are specifically taught to never make their service about politics. 

Trump did this for the reason he does so many things: In service of himself. He had an opportunity to address thousands of boys, and instead of inspiring them, he talked about himself. He bragged about himself.  

I'm disgusted on a daily basis by the actions and words of this man, but this one hit home for me especially hard. Every year boys gather to celebrate this organization that they love, and Trump treated it as if they were gathering for him. He turned a Boy Scout Jamboree into a self-flagellating rally of for his own ego. 

I am not going to be surprised by anything he says or does ever again. Nor should I.

Shortly after his election, he stunned CIA employees by delivering a similar speech before the agency’s Memorial Wall. On Saturday, he stunned a crowd of uniformed personnel at the commissioning of the USS Gerald R. Ford by urging them to lobby Congress in support of his agenda.  

The man is self serving in every possible way. 

The Boy Scouts are in a difficult position now. While I'm sure the organization would like to denounce at least some of the things that Trump said, they are strictly apolitical and will likely remain silent rather than breaking with this long-standing tradition. Instead, they will have to depend on the hundreds of thousands of Scouts and Scoutmasters around the country who are expressing their disgust today to speak on their behalf.  

For the record, Trump was never a Boy Scout. The only dealings he ever had with the organization before yesterday was in a 1989 when Donald, Jr. joined. 

The membership was $7 in those days, and Trump didn't pay out of pocket. He took the money from charity. 

Even back in 1989, Trump was failing to uphold any of the ideals of Scouting.  

The Macarena is fine. It's these two songs that I despise.

I was asked by someone on Facebook if, as a wedding DJ,  I'm sick of the Macarena. 

Honestly, I'm not. I explained that even though I have led thousands of wedding guests in the Macarena over the years, I almost never get tired of a song that fills a dance floor with wedding guests.

When I'm not working as a DJ, I despise the Macarena, and I think that all of the songs that cause people to dance identically are stupid (including country line dancing). The purpose of dancing is not to establish military-like uniformity but to express yourself through rhythm and movement.

If you want to dance in perfect unison, audition for a musical at your local community theater. 

I like to imagine that if aliens were to land on the dance floor in the midst of a Macarena, they would determine that Earth has no intelligent life and leave immediately or vaporize us in fear that uniform dancing might spread to their planet. .  

Truthfully, however, the Macarena is almost never played anymore. If a bride and groom don't ask for it, we don't play it.

No, the songs that I despise as a DJ are the songs that clients request that never result in bodies on the dance floor. These are songs almost always requested by brides, and are often found on movie soundtracks.

The worst offenders are "I Say a Little Prayer" and "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." 

"I Say a Little Prayer" took off after it was featured twice in My Best Friend's Wedding, and it's been requested ever since. It doesn't matter what version of this song is requested. It never works. It's a sing-along song without an adequate beat to inspire dancing.

At best, women stand on the dance floor and sing it to each other. 

"Ain't No Mountain High Enough" is essentially the same song. It's a excellent sing-along, but it's stuck somewhere between a fast song and a slow song, leaving wedding guests uncertain about how to handle it.

Usually they just head to the bar.

Both of these songs are also likely to drive most men off the dance floor, which cuts the possible dancers in half. For a song like "I Will Survive," this is fine, because women will undoubtedly dance to this song, but the same can't be said for these two songs.

Beyonce's "Crazy in Love" is similar to these songs. It's somehow become a female power anthem that is hard to dance to and usually result in women half dancing, half talking on the dance floor, waiting for the next song to arrive.

"Gold Digger" is also a song that shouldn't be played at a wedding unless ironically, both because of the lyrics and because it's also hard to dance to. 

When it comes to being a wedding DJ, the songs you want to hear in real life are very different than the songs you play for wedding guests. But as long as the dance floor is full and people are happy, I'll play just about anything with pleasure. 

Why I am still a wedding DJ after 20 years

I DJ'd my last wedding of the year yesterday.

My partner, Bengi, and I launched this business 20 years ago in September of 1997 with our very first wedding. We worked for free and received a $200 tip at the end of the night. The next year were booked 25 weddings, and we never looked back.

For more than a decade, we worked almost every weekend of the wedding season, booking more than 40 weddings a year. 

For the past few years, we've been easing into retirement, We raised our prices, stopped promoting the business, and took down our website. Today we only work for people we know and venues we like.

We DJ'd just five weddings this year.  I married three couples.

Last night's wedding was tough. Outdoors in 90 degree heat and humidity. Two hours into the wedding, it started to rain, forcing us to move our equipment under a tent. What normally takes about 45 minutes to set up was moved and ready to go in less than 10 minutes. The maid of honor, a professional musician, played guitar and sang the first dance song, requiring a second set of equipment be set up. There were bugs and ticks. Unloading the equipment at the end of the night left me exhausted and breathless.  

But the bride and groom had a great time. Their friends and family had a great time. Events went off without a hitch. We played their favorite songs and ensured that it was a night to remember. 

We have one wedding booked for next year. We'll probably book a couple more. It's not as if these weddings are putting food on the table anymore, and if I'm honest, I could make more money speaking or teaching workshops or storytelling. 

But it's an honor to play an important role in one of the biggest days of a person's life. It's a joy to watch a bride and groom dance together as husband and wife for the first time. It's an enormous responsibility to manage so many aspects of such an important day, but it's also so good to know that after 20 years, you can manage any challenge that comes your way:

Inclement weather. Equipment failure. Drunk uncles. Medical emergencies. Wardrobe malfunctions. Angry in-laws. Bickering brides and grooms. We've seen it all. When people think of hiring a DJ for their wedding, they are often thinking of the music, but the music is the easy part. Anyone can play music reasonably well.

It's everything else that we do that makes the difference.        

It would be easy to call it quits after 20 years and almost 500 weddings. We haven't. Not yet, at least, mostly because despite the heavy equipment and long hours on our feet and surrendered Saturdays, watching couples get married, dance, laugh, and celebrate renews my spirit. It bolsters my belief in the institution of marriage. It reminds me of my wedding and all of the beauty and love that filled that perfect day. 

I play Elysha and my first dance song at every wedding. I slip it in during dinner, and then I find a spot in the room where I can stand alone, listen, and think about our wedding day.

Think about Elysha.

My DJ career is coming to an end. Next year might be our last. But if it continued on for the next 20 years, a wedding here and there, I don't think I'd mind. The honor of making someone's wedding day perfect is one I respect and enjoy, and the renewal of spirit that I experience watching couples dance and smile and laugh is worth all the trouble. 

The New York Times use of honorifics must end.

I like the New York Times.

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

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

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

I like the New York Times a lot.

But enough already with the damn honorifics.  

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

It's time to stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You get the idea.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid. 

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

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

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

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

I just like the idea that they have to ask. 

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

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

I was offered a full scholarship at Yale, and I passed.

Yesterday Elysha and I spoke about storytelling, creativity, writing, and more to students on the campus of Yale University. Later, I performed at The Schubert, a large and beautiful theater adjacent to the campus. 

In the last couple years, I've spent a lot of time at Yale.

For each of the last three years, I've joined Catherine Burns of The Moth in the teaching of  storytelling as part of an annual conference called The Thread.

In the past two years, I've delivered lectures to Yale faculty and Yale students.

I've taught storytelling to post-doc student in Yale's School of Psychiatry, and we've cast some of those students in our shows. 

Walking the campus of Yale is always an emotional experience for me. After graduating from Manchester Community College in 1994, I was offered a full scholarship to Yale, which I turned down. I was managing a McDonald's restaurant in Hartford at the time, working more than 40 hours a week to support myself through school. McDonald's allowed me to make my own schedule each week, and that would continue to be important as I moved on from community college to my next school.

Regardless of where I went, I would still need to work at least full time in order to make ends meet. I didn't think I could find an employer as flexible as the McDonald's where I was working, and I couldn't imagine driving the 45 minutes from New Haven to Hartford every day to squeeze in work and classes.

My plan was also to earn both an English degree and a teaching degree simultaneously, and Yale couldn't offer me that.

Trinity College had also offered me a full scholarship, and as a part of a Hartford consortium, I could earn my English degree at Trinity and my teaching degree at St. Joseph's Univerity. I would be exploiting the loophole that allowed students to take classes at consortium schools by attending another school full time and earning a degree from that school (and an all women's school), but it worked. 

I still don't know how I managed to work full time at McDonald's, part-time in Trinity's Writing Center, and attend both schools simultaneously, but after being homeless, hopeless, hungry, and facing prison for something I didn't do, hard work seemed like a blessing.

Still, I had a chance to attend Yale. I passed up a chance to graduate from an Ivy League school. I could've walked those hallowed halls and studied in one of the great universities of the world. I still have the letter - unsolicited - that I received from Yale officials inviting me to attend their school on a full scholarship. I look at it from time to time and wonder what might have been.

I don't regret the decision to stay in Hartford and attend Trinity College and St. Joseph's University. My plan worked. I received my English degree and my education degree. I learned how to write, and I learned how to teach. I was hired to teach at Wolcott School in West Hartford, CT after graduating, and this is where I am still teaching today. I met Elysha and many of my closest and dearest friends within the brick walls of that school, and 20 years later, I still love my job.

The opportunities to speak and work at Yale over these past couple years have been exciting. I've stood at the front of classrooms where I could have once been a student. I walk through stone arches and down cobblestone paths that I could've been my home long ago. 

There are very few things in life that I regret, and passing on an opportunity to attend Yale is not one of them.

But I often wonder what could have been had my life been different. Had I not needed to support myself. Had Yale found a way for me to earn the degrees that I sought. Had I enjoyed a little more support in my life at the time.       

I think I would've enjoyed attending that school. I like to think I would've done well. 

A whole lot of beauty

There are days when a little bit of beauty is just the thing you need to bring wonder and joy back to your soul. 

This is so much more than a little bit of beauty. 

I am successful because I am white.

I recently spoke to a large group of young people. I told stories from my life, imparted a few bits of wisdom, and took some questions.

One of the young ladies asked me how I was able to pull myself out of homelessness and poverty and become a successful person when so many others struggle to get themselves back on their feet.

First, I assured her that it was a struggle. When you're working 50 hours a week while double majoring at two different colleges simultaneously and serving as Treasurer of the Student Senate, President of the National Honor Society, and writing for the school newspaper, it's a damn struggle every single day.

I honestly don't know how I did it.  

But more importantly, I told her that I was incredibly lucky. 

• I wasn't addicted to drugs or alcohol.
• With the exception of PTSD, I wasn't suffering from any mental illness.
• I am blessed with a reasonable amount of intelligence. 
• I was not physically or mentally abused as a child.
• I was not physically disable in any way. 
• I attended good elementary, middle, and high schools and had a solid foundation in learning.
• I am white.

This last one caught many people in the audience off-guard, but it's certainly true. My struggle would have been considerably more difficult had I not been white.

• The criminal justice system would've treated me differently.
• Employers would've treated me differently.
• Professors and deans would've treated me differently.
• My fellow students would've treated me differently.

Sadly, white privilege is real. Every successful white American, regardless of their depth of their struggle and the height of their success, must acknowledge that the color of their skin helped them get where they are. 

In America, a white person is born at least on first base, and in many cases, they emerge from the womb standing on second or even third. They may believe that their success is solely the fruit of their labors and the quality of their decision making, but that is nonsense.

The road is easier for a white person in America. The hills are not nearly as steep and the potholes are not nearly as deep. The roadblocks are fewer, and the pavement is smoother.  

White privilege is real. Denying this is stupidity. It's the inability to see the struggles and realities of others. It's the desire to believe in the myth that hard work alone will take you anywhere, regardless of who you are.

I am standing where I am today in part because I was lucky. My blessings were many. Mental and physical health. A solid foundation in learning. Avoidance of addiction. A violence-free childhood. A capable mind.

And I am white. 

 This is why I love this church sign. Once you acknowledge that white privilege is real, maybe you can at least begin to make something good out of it.  

Thinking is a part of the writing process, damn it

I was teaching storytelling last week at Miss Porter's School.

I sent the girls off for an hour to write and craft their stories, and when they returned, I asked them how they did. 

"Not good at all," one of the girls said. 

When I asked why, she explained that she spent the first 30 minutes just sitting there, trying to find the best way to start the story. 

"Did you finally figure it out?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"And how did that go?" I asked.

"Great," she replied. "The second half hour was great. I think I've got a good first draft. I kind of like it a lot."

"So then why did you say your hour didn't go well?" I asked.

"Well," she said. "I wasted that first 30 minutes."

"No, you didn't," I said. "Writers think. Storytellers think. Thinkers think. It's part of the process. It sounds to me like you did fantastic. You used that hour perfectly. Why would you think otherwise?"

The girl and her fellow classmates explained that just sitting and thinking without any doing is not tolerated by most of their teachers back home.

"You can't ever just sit and do nothing," one girl said.

Another told me that she is expected to "Think at the end of her pen," which apparently means that you must be writing even when all you'd like to do is take some time and organize your thoughts. Or brainstorm. Or just let your mind wanter a bit. It's an insane insistence that words be applied to a page at all times, absent of any mental preparation or inspiration. 

"What idiot told you that thinking isn't a part of the writing process?" I demanded, instantly hoping she wouldn't say, "My mother."

She didn't. Instead, she said, "A lot of teachers." 

This makes me crazy.

Please note: none of these students were actual Miss Porter's students. They were potentially future Miss Porter's students, but all had yet to enroll. They came from all over the country and the world, so this is not the unfortunate philosophy of any one school. Girls from Africa and Europe were nodding in agreement at the notion that "just thinking" is not allowed.

Can you imagine: Thinking is not allowed. Thinking is not a part of the writing process. Thinking is a waste of time.

Here is the real problem: 

Not enough teachers write. Teachers require students to write persuasive essays, even though most teachers haven't written a persuasive essay in a decade or more. Teachers require students to write fiction, even though most teachers haven't written fiction since they were children. Teachers expect students to write research papers, when those teachers last wrote their own research paper in college.

When it comes to writing, we have an army of educators who are teaching something they never do. Even worse, in many cases, it's something they don't like to do. This would be akin to me trying to teach someone to play croquet or cook jambalaya or practice discretion.

If I never do it in real life, how am I expected to teach it to novices?

Sure, I could read a book about these topics, but would that really qualify me to teach any of those things?

Even worse, teachers learn how to teach writing from people who don't actually write, and if their instructors do  write, they often only write books on how to teach writing.

See the insanity?

When I am asked by teachers, parents, and administrators how to improve their writing instruction, my answer is always simple, obvious, and annoying:

Write.
When you assign a writing assignment to your students, write it yourself as well.
Let your students see you writing.
Share your writing with your students.
Become the writer you expect your students to be.

When teachers (and parents) actively engage in the writing process, they begin to understand the writing process. They better predict where and when writers will stumble. They more accurately distinguish between effective and ineffective lessons and assignments. They understand the importance of choice and audience to a writer. 

They know that thinking is a critical process of the writing process. They understand that sitting in front of the blank page, staring for long periods of time, is something that writers do.    

Only a person who doesn't write would think that thinking is not a part of the writing process.
Only a teacher who doesn't write would make a student believe that thinking is a waste of time. 

This is how every employee should be treated

When web developer Madalyn Parker took two days of sick leave to tend to her mental health, she emailed her colleagues letting them know where she'd be.

To Madalyn's surprise, the CEO of her company, Ben Congleton, responded to her email with what can only be described as an unfortunately surprising response.  

If you manage people, take note! You have choices in life.

You can say and do things that will cause your people to respect and even adore you, or you can be the kind of boss who employees loathe.

You can inspire your people, or you can fail them. 

You can be a kind and decent person, or you can suck. 

The thing I learned while managing restaurants for almost a decade was that it's surprisingly easy to earn the respect of your people: 

• Treat them with dignity and respect.
• Work at least as hard as they do.
• Remember that they are human beings with complex lives and a myriad of health and family issues that don't always align to your business goals. 
• Get to know your employees as people. Know the names of their spouses and children. Learn something about their culture and traditions. Know how they spend their free time. 
• Talk to them about their future plans, even if those plans may be with another company. Invest in them as human beings. 
• Say hello and goodbye to as many employees as you can, every day that you can.
• Never respond in anger. Always walk away from a heated situation until all parties are calm. 
• Celebrate your employee's success whenever possible while always downplaying your own. The boss who brags about his or her success and accomplishments sucks. The best way for a boss to shine is for his or her people to shine. 

Happy anniversary to us.

Elysha and I celebrated eleven years of marriage yesterday.

I always tell her that it feels to me like we've only been married a couple years. 

She said it feels like the full eleven.

We went to dinner on Friday night with friends to celebrate. It was an eventful dinner. Amongst the scintillating conversation and good food, the following happened:

The stem on Elysha's glass spontaneously shattered, spilling a nearly full glass  of sangria all over the table. 

I was served a burger with mustard, and I am allergic to mustard. Sadly, I didn't realize there was mustard on the burger (since it wasn't listed on the menu and I specifically asked for cheese and bacon only) until I had already swallowed one bite.  I've been known to break out in hives after eating mustard depending on the amount and type. In this case, I felt slightly sick to my stomach and itchy.

Even worse, I only ordered the burger after my friend ordered one. Planning on the rib eye or the pork chops, I only switched when my friend ordered a burger. Worried that I might experience food envy, I changed my mind and followed suit.

I should've stuck with my first instinct. 

At the end of the meal, Elysha and I decided to exchange anniversary gifts. 

Elysha's gifts to me included:

1. The promise to finally connect the Apple TV that her mother gave us more than a year ago. 
2. The promise to design/purchase an organizational system for the kids' shoes, coats, winter gear, etc. 

These are perfect gifts. I've written before that the two gifts I desire above all others are time and knowledge. I'm not a person who wants stuff. Except for the occasional replacement clothing item (I need new snow pants for the football season), there isn't much that I want when it comes to gifts except for time to do what I want and the knowledge to do something I cannot do. 

Elysha's gifts offer me time in abundance. Not only will these two problems be solved without any effort on my part, but having a better system for the kids paraphernalia will mean I don't have to pick up shoes, coats, and mittens nearly as often.

As for the Apple TV, we don't watch much television, but it will be nice to finally be able to stream television programs and movies into our home. 

I'm also a bit of a minimalist and an organizational obsessive. I live in a perpetual state of discontent, staring at bins and boxes in corners of my home that have not moved in months, wondering when they will finally be moved to an more appropriate location. You can't imagine how hard it is for me to live with a family that doesn't care too much about piles and stacks and is more than willing to put something down and for ignore it for months.

Getting the coats and shoes out of my sight will help mitigate this discontent quite a bit.

These are two outstanding presents.  

After Elysha "presented" her gifts to me, I decided to reciprocate. I opened a web browser on my phone and went to ThirdLove.com, a company that customizes bras for women. I heard about the company from a friend who hosts a podcast and is sponsored by Third Love, and she raved about the product. Bras come in half sizes in many shapes and styles, and they are made from memory foam, meaning you can wash them again and again, and they return to their original shape every time. You can also try the bra for 30 days and return it for free if you don't love it. Your slightly used bra will be donated to a charitable organization, and you'll be sent a new one to try for another 30 days. 

I bought Elysha credit on the Third Love website so that she could purchase three new bras and discard her old ones. 

I have to say:

She was very happy and very impressed with the thoughtfulness of the gift. 

I thought it was amusing for our friends to witness this odd act of gift giving. Elysha made two promises, and I showed her a website featuring bras. 

Not exactly ribbons and bows and wrapping paper. 
Not exactly jewelry or a gap wedge.
Not the steel that the traditional eleventh wedding anniversary dictates.
No greeting cards.

Just two people who love each other and know each other very well. Well enough to know that we don't need pretty wrapping paper and golden baubles to make each other happy.

A boy and a book in Columbia

Here is Juan Carlos. a boy in Columbia who is reading the Spanish edition of Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend. His mother was kind enough to write to me about how much he loves the book and send me this photo. 

Yes, this is the best part about being a writer. 

I'm working on my first middle grade novel now. Though a couple of my books have crossed over into the young adult market (and have been marketed as YA in come countries), this will be the first book written specifically for kids.

As both a teacher and an author, I am thrilled and can't wait. More kids reading more of my stories sounds pretty great to me. 

Trump makes my head hurt

From yesterday's Press conference in France, Trump managed to

(a) make a false claim
(b) admit it may be false, then
(c) continue on as if it were true.

You can't make this stuff up.

Someone remind my children that I pay the mortgage

Even though my kids don't currently contribute to the mortgage, they seem to believe that they possess more control over the house than they actually do.

Recent signs in my home have indicted that the first floor bathroom is now Tickle Monster Jail and a new sign on my daughter's bedroom door (co-written by her sleepover buddy) apparently gives access to the room to our two cats only.

I'll be informing her that she can't have this level of control unless she's planning to hand me some cash every month.   

Though I have to admit that Clara's writing - in all its backwards lettering, misspelling, and crayon smudges - is completely precious.

I can't stand the thought of the day when it becomes more conventional. 

Republican men decide that women can't wear sleeveless dresses because they are apparently afraid of lady shoulders

In an apparent effort to establish "appropriate business attire," House of Representatives under Speaker Paul Ryan is enforcing a dress code in the Speaker's Lobby—a space adjacent to the front of the House chamber—that bans women from showing their shoulders.

Several female reporters have already been kicked out of the lobby for wearing sleeveless dresses.  

Yesterday Republican Congressperson Martha McSally, a former fighter pilot and the first woman in American history to fly into combat, ended her speech in the well of Congress by saying, “Before I yield back, I want to point out, I’m standing here in my professional attire, which happens to be a sleeveless dress and open-toed shoes. With that, Mr. Speaker, I yield back.” 

Some (mostly stupid white men) complained that with all the problems facing America today, dress codes should not be a priority.

But here is the thing:

Paul Ryan and his male dominated Republican caucus have decided to enforce this arbitrary dress code. Republicans like Ryan have also demonstrated an obsession with policing women's bodies, and this policing is highly relevant to many of their GOP positions. These are positions that impact economic policy, healthcare, civil rights, and the criminal justice system.

When a man in power has creepy ideas about what women should be wearing and the freedoms they should be permitted to enjoy, it has far reaching consequences. 

Yes, it's a dress code, but it represents a whole lot more, and in the battle for women to have control of their bodies and their destinies, not one inch should ever be surrendered.