How to handle a troll

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While speaking yesterday at the Mark Twain House, a woman asked me how I handle criticism and the negative responses that I receive from people who read my blog, follow me on social media, watch me perform, and the like.

She pointed out that recently, someone disagreed with a position that I took on social media and was aggressive and possibly rude in their response.

It’s true. My wisdom, candor, and wit are surprisingly not always appreciated by the masses. Quite often the responses that I receive via comments on the blog, email, Facebook, and especially Twitter (where cowards hide behind anonymity) are not exactly thoughtful or respectful.

Here is how I manage to avoid allowing these unfortunate interactions to hurt me:

Most important, I am not opposed to disagreement. In fact, I thrive on it. As long as someone is respectful and sincere way in their response, I’m thrilled. Reasonable people can disagree, and the respective exchange of ideas is one of the reasons I write in the first place.

When it’s not respectful, I do this:

  1. I examine the preponderance of the evidence. I look at the responses to my writing as a whole. If the majority of people either support my position or disagree respectfully, then I focus on those responses and ignore the less thoughtful, disrespectful responses. The vast majority of people who respond to my work agree with my positions or push back respectfully. You can’t win over everyone, but if I can get most of them on my side, I’m perfectly capable of ignoring the occasional rude remark.

  2. I have always assumed that mean people are stupid. If someone responds to me with disrespect and vitriol, I simply assume that they are stupid. The world is filled with stupid people. Occasionally my words intersect with these unfortunate souls of limited intellect, and the results are regrettable but ultimately ignorable.

Assuming that mean people are stupid is a powerful and effective tool.

Admittedly, I’ve also always been a person who doesn’t care much about what other people think. As a serial nonconformist, I’ve walked to the beat of my own drummer for a long time. In fact, I look for opportunities to be different. To stand apart from the crowd. To go against the grain.

Honestly, it’s often embraced and even admired.

My favorite example is the time I attended a wedding and did not wear a tie. I don’t wear neckties anymore, seeing them for what they really are:

Pointless, decorative nooses.

It turned out that I was the only man at this rather large wedding who wasn’t wearing a tie. Halfway through the evening, a man approached me and said, “How did you get away with not wearing a tie?”

“I didn’t put one on,” I said. “I’m a grown up. I get to do what I want.”

The man instantly removed his tie and stuffed it into his pocket. It was like watching the unshackling of a grown-ass man for the first time.

I honestly don’t understand why people care so much about the opinions of others.

But if you’re not like me, the strategies listed above might help. What I couldn’t help but think after the woman asked me the question is how often people are being silenced by trolls. Human beings with important thoughts and ideas are hesitant or even afraid to do so because of the stupid people who say mean and stupid things.

Don’t allow the stupid people to stop you. They can’t help it that they are stupid. Sympathize with their lack of basic intellect. Feel sorry for their idiocy. Donate some money to an educational cause that might prevent future people from being stupid.

Move on.

The world needs your voice.

Two statistics that can change the course of a lifetime

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Two statistics that surprised me quite a bit.

1. Only one-third of American adults older than 24 years-old have a college degree. 

It's easy for college graduates who are surrounded by college graduates in their workplace and their social life to assume that a majority of Americans have graduated from college with an undergraduate degree.

Not even close.

Traditional, post-high school college graduates are surprisingly still the exception rather than the rule. 

And this statistic included me at one time. Thanks to a number of factors, including poverty, an absence of parental support, a complete lack of interest in my future by guidance counselors, a bout of homelessness, and an arrest and trial for a crime I did not commit, I didn’t make it to college until I was 24 years old and did not graduate until I was 29. 

And I was one of the lucky ones. The vast majority of Americans who don’t attend college after high school never make it to college.

There are many factors preventing Americans from earning a college degree, but one of the primary barriers is this:

Only 54.8 percent of college students graduate in six years. The dropout rate in college is exceptionally high, and while some of this can be attributed to failing grades and a lack of interest in education, the majority of student drop out for financial reasons:

  • They can no longer pay for tuition

  • A family emergency or illness has required them to return home

  • Working full-time while also attending college proved to be impossible for them

Graduating college is a great accomplishment, but if a student is reasonably intelligent and their parents are paying the tuition and the student doesn’t need to work in order to survive and can focus solely on their studies, it becomes a slightly less impressive accomplishment.

More of an expectation, really.

2. Americans in their prime working years with an undergraduate degree make 68 percent more on average than people who only have high school diplomas. 

This is an astounding number.

The average high school graduate in their prime working years makes about $34,000 per year.

The average college graduate during that same time makes about $60,000 per year.

Over the course of just 20 years, that differential equates to more than half a millions dollars, and that doesn’t account for how that that additional money might have been used. The purchase of real estate, the investment in a 401K or similar retirement account, and other potential investments could quickly grow that additional income considerably.

Getting a college education can be the difference between financial stability and financial anxiety for a lifetime.

Sadly, only about a third of Americans understand this.

Honest but kind. No, honest is kind.

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An administrator once described her method of feedback to me as “honest but kind.”

“No,” I said. “Honest is kind.”

There’s nothing worse that receiving feedback from someone that is disingenuous, unnecessarily flowery, and ultimately unhelpful.

I want honesty at all times.

My literary agent is always honest about my work and my ideas for books. She loves some ideas. She does not love others. I always know exactly where I stand with her.

My wife, Elysha, is always honest about just about every aspect of my life. Sometimes this is rather unfortunate for me.

When I say something stupid, I hear about it. When I fail to load the dishwasher correctly again, she doesn’t let it slide. Earlier this year, when I proposed a few deletions from my annual list of shortcomings and flaws, she said no. Emphatically.

“No, honey. I didn’t fall in love with you for the way you look” also didn’t thrill me.

My standup audiences are brutally honest. If what I’m saying is not funny, there are no courtesy laughs. Not a second of generosity. Just slightly angry stares.

My students are aggressively honest with me. They point out every error that I make with zeal. They express their disappointment with every questionable decision I make. They tell me if I’ve gained weight. If I’m being unreasonable. They love to remind me of my age.

A few years ago, while reading about the singularity, I told my students that if I could, I would choose to live forever.

They were shocked. A bunch of them called me immature. One of them said that wanting to live forever was selfish and ridiculous. When I admitted that I would choose to live forever even if my wife and children could not, one boy called me a monster.

Last year a young lady asked for permission to see the nurse. When I asked why, she said, “Because I have something that you won’t ever have. Would you like to hear more? Or maybe you should just let me go to the nurse without asking any more questions.”

I no longer ask girls for a reason to see the nurse.

My friends are brutally honest with me about my golf game, my decision making, and everything else about my my life. Sometimes these comments hurt.

“Neckless stump with legs for arms” stung. So did “Arms like legs and legs like people.”

“You have arms like a T-Rex” proved to be incorrect after I measured my arms and proved that they were perfectly proportional to my height, but it still kind of hurt.

“You’ve actually elevated your game. You’re almost playing golf like a bad golfer now” didn’t inspire me.

“You don’t like all empathy. Just most of it,” was not my fondest moment.

Still, I’d take their honestly over glittering generalities any day. I like to know where I stand.

It may not always seem like it in the moment…

….or while you’re reflecting upon the moment later on…

…or while you’re recalling the moment years later, but honest is kind.

Always.

The Republican own this self-acknowledged sex offender President

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In America today, we have a President who openly admitted to sexually assaulting women defending a Supreme Court nominee who is accused of sexually assaulting women.

This is also a President who has paid hush money to porn stars to conceal affairs and has more than a dozen accusations of sexual harassment and sexual assault pending against him.

Later today, one of the women accusing Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh of sexual assault will be judged by a panel of 11 white, male Republicans, all over the age of 60.

These old, white men won’t be questioning her directly. Instead, they have hired a female prosector to do their dirty work.

This is what happens when you turn your committee into a boy’s club.

In fact, the Republicans have never had a woman or person of color on the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Ever. In the 80 year history of the Senate Judiciary Committee, every single Republican member has been a white man.  

On the Democratic side, there are currently 10 members on the committee. Four women. Three people of color. Not as representative as I’d like, but at least not as sexist and racist as the Republican side. 

None of this needed to happen. Republicans knew that Trump was guilty of sexual misconduct by his own admission prior to the election, but they refused to pull his nomination and voted for him anyway. They placed an self-acknowledged sex offender in the White House, and now he is in the position to nominate and defend a man accused of similar crimes. 

Again and again, Republican members of Congress prostrate themselves to a man who said this:

The party of the Evangelical right had allowed this to happen. They have placed an indecent, immoral, self-serving liar in the position of President of the United States.

Again and again, they place party over country.

History is going to remember them as a party of worthless, complicit, transactional politicians who supported a racist, sexist, incompetent, self-serving President, and remarkably, they don’t seem to care one damn bit.

Many jobs. Many, many more dreams.

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I met with a college graduate recently who told me that she doesn’t know what to do with her life. Has no career ambitions. Isn’t excited about any particular subject or field.

I’ll never understand this. I find it utterly incomprehensible.

I’m a person with a lot of jobs.

  • Elementary school teacher.

  • Author and columnist

  • Wedding DJ

  • Minister

  • Cofounder and artistic director of Speak Up

  • Professional storyteller and public speaker

  • Communications consultant

  • Life coach

I also occasionally earn money writing musicals and screenplays, performing standup, and most recently recording the audio version of my latest book.

My business card (designed by the clever Elysha Dicks) reads:

Despite all that I already do, the joyous and frustrating thing about my life is there is so much more I want to do. I keep a running list of careers that I would love to try if given the time and opportunity.

It includes:

  • Behavioral economist|

  • Bookstore owner

  • Therapist

  • Instructional coach

  • Attorney

  • Camp director

  • College professor

  • Financial analyst

  • CEO of Boy Scouts of America

  • Firefighter

  • Filmmaker

  • Newspaper columnist

  • Postal carrier

  • CEO of Girl Scouts of America

  • Professional poker player

  • Hot dog vendor at an MLB stadium

  • Bartender

  • President of the United States

Some careers are more realistic than others, and I’d be excited about some more than others, but I’m also passionate about every single one of them.

It kills me to think I might not be able to do them all.

With all the remarkable and fascinating and compelling things in this world, how could anyone possibly have absolutely no career ambitions?

Shouldn’t everyone have a list of possible future dream jobs?

Do you? Would you be willing to share?

Behold: The inventor of the chocolate chip cookie

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I don’t like it when people of import are forgotten by history.

William Dawes, for example, made the exact same ride as Paul Revere on that fateful night. Took the same risks and accomplished the same goal, but because William Wadsworth Longfellow failed to mention Dawes in his famous poem, Americans do not know his name.

I hate that.

This is why I’m also annoyed that Ruth Wakefield’s name is not known by every American from sea to shining sea.

Ruth Wakefield is the inventor of the chocolate chip cookie. Something that has brought joy to almost every American at some point in their life. Something that I thought had existed for all time was actually invented by a woman known for her baking and cooking skills.

Wakefield was brainstorming about cookie dough while on vacation in Egypt when she first came up with a new recipe, a variation on another popular treat called Butter Drop Do pecan icebox cookies.

Her original plan was to have involved melting squares of unsweetened chocolate and adding it to the blond batter. But the only chocolate she had available at the time was a Nestlé semisweet bar, and she was too rushed to melt it.

Wielding an ice pick, she chopped the bar into pea-size bits and dribbled them into the dough. Instead of melting into the dough to produce an all-chocolate cookie, the bits remained chunky as they baked.

Thus the chocolate chip cookie was born.

Wakefield and her husband owned a travelers inn Whitman, MA. That establishment, the Toll House Inn on Bedford Street (about a mile from where I once shared a bedroom with a goat) became a destination, famous for Wakefield’s recipes, which she eventually included in a cookbook, “Ruth Wakefield’s Tried and True Recipes” that she published in 1931.

Her chocolate chip cookie recipe first appeared in a later 1930s edition of the book.

Her Toll House cookie recipe was later reprinted in The Boston Herald-Traveler, and Wakefield was featured on “Famous Foods From Famous Eating Places,” the radio program hosted by Marjorie Husted (who was known as Betty Crocker).

In 1939, Wakefield sold Nestlé the rights to reproduce her recipe on its packages for $1 and was hired to consult on recipes for the company, which was said to have provided her free chocolate for life.

Soon afterwards, the chocolate chip cookie recipe spread beyond the confines of Massachusetts, thanks in part to World War II soldiers sharing their cookies from care packages with fellow soldiers from around the country.

Today you would be hard pressed to find a single American who has not enjoyed a chocolate chip cookie at some point in their life.

I know it’s only a cookie, but when something interacts with so much of American culture in such a positive way, and we know the name of the American who invented the thing, we should make a better effort to celebrate her and her accomplishment.

Ruth Wakefield, inventor of the chocolate chip cookie: A true American hero.

Speak Up Storytelling: Ron Apter

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Episode #18 of Speak Up Storytelling is now ready for your listening pleasure.

On this week’s episode, Elysha Dicks and I talk about finding excellent stories in your everyday life using my strategy "Homework for Life." We discuss how the stories we find in a day can sometimes be the building blocks of much larger stories. We also hear from two listeners on how Homework for Life is changing their lives. 

Then we listen to Ron Apter's outstanding story about fatherhood, followed by commentary and critique, including:

  1. Building a story from a single moment

  2. Stories that take place in narrowly defined settings

  3. Strong beginnings

  4. Two strategies to create humor in storytelling

  5. Vocabulary choice

Next, Elysha and I answer a listener question about using swear words and racial, ethnic, and religious slurs in storytelling. 

Lastly, we each offer a recommendation. 

If you haven't subscribed to the podcast in Apple podcasts (or wherever you receive your podcasts), please do. And if you're not one of the 60 or so people to rate and/or review the podcast in Apple Podcasts (who are the best people ever), we would love it if you did.

Ratings and reviews help listeners find our podcast easier, and it makes us feel better about ourselves and our work. 

A DJ, a preacher, and a bank robber, all rolled into one

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I think this Venn diagram is hilarious.

Also, rather oddly, I have occupied all sections of the diagram at one time in my life.

DJ: For the past 21 years, I have owned and operated a DJ company, performing more than 400 weddings and other events.

Preacher: Last year, I delivered a sermon at two different churches in Massachusetts, and next month, I will do so again at the Universalist Unitarian Church in Groton, CT. I’ve also married more than two dozen couples and conducted baby name ceremonies in my capacity as minister.

Bank Robber: In 1991, I was arrested and indicted on charges of grand larceny after a deposit of $7,000 went missing from the McDonald’s where I was working. Though my supervisors at McDonald’s did not believe that I had stolen the money and did not press charges, the police pressed charges on behalf of the insurance company.

In an effort to determine if the deposit bag might have been stolen from the bank’s night drop slot, my boss, Hope, and I attempted to steal deposits from the night drop using high test fishing line, wire coat hangers, hooks, and a magnet.

The results were less than spectacular. We were unable to extract a single deposit from the drop, and our repeated attempts resulted in about $5,000 in damages to the night drop mechanism.

Though I failed in my attempt, I was a bank robber for a moment in time.

Also, what the hell were we thinking?

I don’t drink. For my health and other good reasons.

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Bad news for all you non-teetotalers:

There's no amount of liquor, wine or beer that is safe for your overall health, according to a new analysis of 2016 global alcohol consumption and disease risk.

Alcohol was the leading risk factor for disease and premature death in men and women between the ages of 15 and 49 worldwide in 2016, accounting for nearly one in 10 deaths, according to the study, published in the journal The Lancet.

Those deaths include alcohol-related cancer and cardiovascular diseases, infectious diseases such as tuberculosis, intentional injury such as violence and self-harm, and traffic accidents and other unintentional injuries such as drowning and fires.

For someone who drinks on only the rarest of occasions, this was great news. Not that I wish ill will upon all my alcohol-drinking friends, but validation of your chosen lifestyle is always appreciated.

If only the same thing could be found to be true about vegetables.

Though it’s great to hear that avoiding alcohol might be good for my health, here’s another reason why I’m glad I almost never drink:

Last week I was the first responder to a serious vehicular accident. I was sitting in my car, waiting in line at a traffic light in front of a McDonald’s restaurant. In addition to several other cars waiting for the light, there was a large truck, and then a motorcycle, and then me, lined up in a row, waiting for the light to change.

The motorcycle was partially blocking the entrance to the McDonald’s parking lot.

A car traveling in the opposite direction turned left in order to enter the McDonald’s parking lot and apparently failed to see the motorcycle between the truck and me. As a result, the car plowed right into the motorcycle, throwing the rider - who wasn’t wearing a helmet - onto the pavement and under his bike.

It was not good.

The driver of the car veered right, nearly hitting my car before screeching to a halt, but she did not exit her vehicle. Being the one closest to the accident and the only real witness, I put my car into park and jumped out, running to the man. His head, face, and hands were bloody, and he was in an enormous amount of pain. His leg was probably broken, and there were likely other injuries as well.

It was a bad scene.

I managed to get him out from under his bike when an off-duty police officer who was inside the McDonald’s appeared and immediately took charge of the scene. I assisted for a bit, holding a tee shirt over the man’s head wound, but the paramedics and police were on the scene in just a couple minutes, moving me away and thanking me for my assistance.

I gave a brief statement to a police officer about the accident and then returned to me car, blood still on my hands and forearms.

It was a scary scene, capable of traumatizing anyone, but being a sufferer of PTSD, I knew that it was going to create problems for me for quite a while.

I could already feel it in my bones.

When I told my friend, Shep, about the accident the next day, the first thing he said was, “That’s not good for yourPTSD. Huh?”

It’s good to have friends who understand you so well.

Elysha and the kids were gone for the weekend, which meant that I would be home alone that night and the next, making things even more difficult.

After arriving home and showering off the man’s blood, I suddenly and surprisingly found myself wanting to drink. For the first time in well over a decade, I had the genuine urge to consume alcohol. Rather than dealing with what I had just witnessed and all that it had stirred up inside me, my sudden desire was to numb the pain with alcohol.

I think the prospect of being alone for the next 48 hours had a lot to do with it.

But as I said, I don’t drink. Except for the occasional champagne toast, I rarely consume alcohol anymore. So even though I suddenly found myself wanting to drink, the fact that I’m not really a drinker made this desire to drink surprising, odd, and inexplicable but not realistic.

It’s just not a thing I do.

My sudden desire to drink probably wasn’t very different than the person who has a tough day at work and goes home for a glass or two of wine. Or the person who receives some bad news and ends up at the bar, downing a few beers with friends. Or the person who attends happy hour on a Friday as a means of blowing off a little steam.

All perfectly normal.

My desire was to avoid confronting the issues that the accident has caused within me. I didn’t want to think about the man, his blood, his screams, and all the things from my past that the accident had unearthed. While my desire to drink made some sense, alcohol would’ve only delayed my processing of these issues.

So instead, I dealt with my issues in the way I have been taught. And yes, I suffered some nightmares. I also found myself locking doors in the middle of the day. I had difficulty moving from room to room in my house that night. The ringing of the phone startled the hell out of me.

I was more than on edge for a few days.

But I dealt with it. I processed it and moved on. I was able to push aside any desire to relax with a couple drinks (or more) because I don’t drink.

This isn’t an indictment on people who do drink. Most of my friends drink to some degree.

Most of my friends don’t also suffer from PTSD.

But I’ve also always been someone who has avoided potential problems like these whenever possible. I’ve never used an illegal drug in my entire life for the same reason. Though I had many, many opportunities to experiment with drugs throughout the years, I always said no, fully aware of the potential devastation that drugs can cause.

Many people began their drug addiction through the desire to simply experiment. I wasn’t ever going to run that risk.

While I’m not opposed to the legalization of marijuana and have no issue with anyone who wants to use it recreationally, I don’t see myself ever using it. Why run the risk of finding myself wanting or needing it at some point?

When my doctor proposed that I go on a cholesterol-lowering medication because my cholesterol was slightly elevated, I opted to change my diet instead. I ate oatmeal for lunch for an entire year and lowered my cholesterol by 50 points. I didn’t want to become dependent on a medication that was avoidable with a change in behavior and a hell of a lot of fiber.

So it’s good news that my avoidance of alcohol might turn out to be a very healthy choice, but for me, it’s always been more about the freedom from ever wanting or needing to drink.

I’ve never wanted to be the person who needs a glass of wine to relax. Or a few beers to have a good time.

Or something to numb the pain of trauma.

New Jersey is different and dumb.

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I’m a nonconformist. I am not opposed to doing something different if the difference comes from a place of logic, efficiency, or common sense.

I don’t wear neckties because they serve no purpose other than acting as floral nooses.

I refuse to respond to anyone who has checked the restroom door, determined it to be locked, but then knocks on the door anyway.

Stupidity of this level should never be rewarded.

But there are times when doing something different is simply stupid, and New Jersey has cornered the market on this in two particular areas:

STUPID THING #1: You can’t pump your own gas in New Jersey.

This ban is a holdover from a 1949 law that was passed because lawmakers were worried that Americans didn’t know how to handle gasoline safely. Given that 48 states now allow their citizens to handle the pumping on their own and do it well, this myth has been effectively debunked.

The ban also offers no economically discernible benefit. While the ban admittedly creates low wage jobs, it also increases the cost of gasoline in the state by several cents, which is money that businesses could theoretically use to hire employees.

Also, on a recent stay in New Jersey, I noticed an unintended consequence of this ban:

Many of the gas stations in New Jersey are simply that:

Gas stations with an occasional garage attached. In states like Connecticut, where drivers exit their vehicles to pump gas, the gas station has grown into a small, well-appointed, well-lit grocery store, complete with clean restrooms, hot food options, and oftentimes restaurant franchises like Dunkin’ Donuts and Subway.

I went out for milk in NJ one night and ended up at a Stop & Shop because none of the gas stations that I passed had a convenience store attached.

Those people pumping gas in New Jersey could easily be the workers in these convenience stores, and the people of New Jersey could be getting their milk and Snickers bars a hell of a lot easier.

STUPID THING #2: You can’t make a left turn in New Jersey.

If you want to make a left turn in New Jersey and you’re on a major roadway, you’re out of luck. To take a left, you need to turn right onto something called a jughandle, which is an exit off the roadway that brings you above or below the opposite lane.

Think highway exit ramp but for a two lane road that would never have an exit ramp anywhere but New Jersey.

These jughandles theoretically reduce accidents. Studies have shown that they move cars efficiently in heavy traffic and reduce accidents that lead to death or serious injury by as much as 26 percent.

The problem is that these jughandles force motorists to spend more time on the roads overall, thus increasing their chances of an accident and wiping out any safety benefit they might offer.

This is because you often need to drive half a mile down the road, turn around at a jughandle, and drive half a mile back in order to stop at the store you just passed on the opposite side of the road five minutes ago. Do this often enough, and the additional time spent on the roadways adds up quickly.

For a state that has already artificially jacked up it’s gas price, forcing drivers to travel additional miles is ridiculous, and all the additional driving can’t be good for the environment or the roads or cars.

Also, many of New Jersey’s jughandles are now deteriorating, and repairing them is expensive and time consuming, because they are everywhere.

They are like dandelions.

Like I said, I’m not opposed to doing something differently if it’s logical or sensible.

Actually, I’m not opposed to doing something differently even if the result is neutral. No gain. No loss.

Being different is a good thing. A beautiful thing.

But New Jersey is being different to the detriment of everyone driving on its roadways.

That’s dumb.

Not every service dog is equal

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I was standing in line at CVS. The person in front of me, placing items on the counter, was blind. She had a service dog at her side. As the woman’s items were being scanned, the dog stuck its muzzle into the Snickers bars, pulled one out, and in seconds had bitten the candy bar in half and had begun eating.

I was astounded.

The CVS employee who was ringing up her items saw all this and alerted the woman to the problem. She apologized profusely and pulled the candy bar from the dog’s mouth.

A manager appeared a moment later. Remaining on our side of the counter, she told the woman not to worry about the candy bar and began expediting the processing of her items. As she did, the dog’s muzzle disappeared into the Hersey bars and was eating one of those in seconds.

Again, I couldn’t believe it.

The manager noticed this and alerted the woman, and once again, she pulled the candy bar from the dog’s mouth, scolded the dog, and apologized profusely. As she did, the dog grabbed a bag of peanut M&M’s, ripping the bag open and scattering M&M’s across the carpeted floor.

More disbelief. More apologies. More cleanup.

By now the CVS employee had finished ringing up the woman’s items and the transaction was complete. She and the dog, accompanied by the manager, retreated to the area by the doors to the store with the partially eaten candy bars, where they seemed to be trying to determine how much chocolate the dog had actually consumed.

I’ve met very few service dogs in my time. I’m sure that not every service dog is equal. Some are certainly more effective and obedient than others.

There’s probably a bell curve of effectiveness for service dogs, as there are with most things.

But I think I may have seen the worst service dog on the planet that day. A dog that actually makes life more difficult for their visually impaired owner.

Witnessing greatness is always thrilling, but witnessing the absolute worst ever is pretty entertaining, too.

Why people think women aren't as funny as men (maybe)

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A while ago, I sat through a four hour meeting. 

18 women and me. Par for the course in elementary education.

An observation:

About halfway through the meeting, it occurred to me that I was the only person trying to be funny. I was the only one going for the laugh. The only one speaking off topic in order to make a joke. The only one making fun of himself.

It wasn’t that the women in the meeting were incapable of being funny. I know one woman is especially funny, and I’m sure others were as well. They were simply choosing not to be funny.

That got me thinking:

I'm often the only one in these female-dominated situations going for the laugh.

It’s important to note that I think women are just as funny as men. Michelle Wolf, Nikki Glasier, Amber Ruffin, and Elysha Dicks are four of my favorite funny people alive today, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that despite their ability to be funny, I don’t think women try to be as funny as men in many situations.

In situations like a meeting, they don’t go for the laugh nearly as often.

At least in my experience.

I have two theories to possibly explain this:

_______________________________

THEORY #1

So much research indicates that women find humor attractive in men, but the reverse is not always true. In an effort to get the attention of women and be perceived in a positive light, perhaps men have been conditioned to try to be funny over the course of their lifetime, regardless of the circumstance, and therefore the perception becomes that men are funnier than women because we simply go for the laugh more often. 

Men aren’t necessarily funnier than women. They just try to be funny more often than women, because there is a greater incentive for them.

Honestly, if I had the choice between being good looking or funny, I would choose funny in a heartbeat, and I suspect that many men would feel the same.

Would women make the same choice? I don’t know.

_______________________________

THEORY #2

Women are often fighting for respect in the workplace, and perhaps humor does not serve this purpose well. If I’m a woman in a meeting hoping to be taken seriously and have her ideas thoughtfully considered, perhaps humor isn’t the best way to approach things, so they lean towards professionalism rather than the laugh.

A man, however, often has to fight less for the same level of respect and therefore feels more confident that he will be taken seriously, therefore he can afford to dare to be funny and will more often go for the laugh.

_______________________________

I don’t know if either of these theories are correct, and perhaps there are many professional settings where women go for the laugh just as often as men, but in my experience, it’s simply not the case, despite my belief that women are capable of being at least as funny as men.

But I do know that there are plenty of people - mostly men - who claim that women aren’t as funny as men, and I think it’s nonsense. And perhaps it has more to do with how often women try to be funny as opposed to how funny they really can be.

Feline interference

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I have the same exact struggle with my cat with one exception:

I’m not just doing surgery when Plto sits across my forearms.

I’m writing.

A far more serious piece of business.

Speak Up Storytelling #17: Robin Gelfenbien

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Episode #17 of the Speak Up Storytelling podcast is ready for your listening pleasure.

We start by talking about finding and crafting stories in your everyday life using my strategy "Homework for Life." We talk about the Homework for Life submitted by a listener, and I offer up three Homework for Life moments from the week and discuss why one is better than another.

Next, we listen to Robin Gelfenbien's story about finding love with the help of Marie Kondo, then Elysha and I discuss the strengths of this fantastic story as well as suggestions for improvement.

Finally, we answer a listener questions about storytelling in everyday life and offer some recommendations.

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Ratings and reviews help listeners find our podcast easier, and it makes us feel better about ourselves and our work.

Serena is beautiful. You are a terrible human being.

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Comedian Amber Ruffin alerted me via Late Night with Seth Meyers that horrible human beings have recently been insulting Serena Williams for her physical appearance, specifically related to a black body suit that she wore at the French Open but also for her physicality in general.

In the words of Amber Ruffin, “When you’re skinny, people let you live, but when you’re a curvaceous black woman, people feel like it’s okay to tell you to cover up.”

If you think Ruffin is wrong, look at this. On the left is Serena Williams wearing her now banned outfit.

On the right, Anne White’s perfectly legal outfit at Wimbledon in 1985.

What’s the difference between these two outfits?

I know what’s different. Anne White is white, and her outfit is white. Serena is black, and her outfit is black.

That’s the only objective difference.

Or what about these outfits? Are these outfits, also worn my professionals on the tour, less revealing than Serena William’s outfit?

I’m so annoyed by this news that I’ve decided to violate my strict policy on never commenting on physical appearance to say that I think Serena Williams is an incredibly beautiful woman.

I’m also quite certain that anyone who insulted Serena Williams’s appearance is ugly (at least on the inside and possibly the outside) and stupid. Also probably jealous, possibly racist, and definitely awful.

We have a President who constantly insults women (and women of color, in particular), brags about sexually assaulting women, and silences porn stars through hush money. The last thing we need in this country is a bunch of morons insulting a world class athlete and genuine humanitarian because her physical appearance does not conform to their predefined definition of beauty.

To these monsters, I say this:

Shut up. Go do something productive. End this junior high nonsense. Stop contributing to a culture where women are objectified and there is only one definition of beauty. Look in the mirror and ask yourself, “What is so broken inside of me that causes me to insult the appearance a woman like Serena Williams? Am I filled with racial bias or just a horrible human being? Or both?”

Then go do something good and decent for the world. Something that doesn't involve insulting women for the way they look.

Names are interesting. And confusing.

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I met a woman in Iowa who has five brothers and one sister. 

Her five brothers are named after Biblical characters whose names begin with J.

James, John, Jesse, Jude, and Joshua.

Her sister's name is Anne. It was their grandmother's name.

The woman who I met is named Amanda. When she was born, her parents hadn't chosen a name, so they asked a random woman in an adjacent hospital room what they had just named their new baby. The new mother said, "Amy," so Amanda's parents named her Amy, too.

But because they also thought that Amy sounded like a nickname and was not professional enough for a possible future CEO, they named her Amanda but called her Amy.

Because this all makes sense.  

When Amanda/Amy went to kindergarten, there was already an Amy in the class, so the teacher told her that she needed to be called Amanda at school.

I once had three Matthews in my class (not including me) and three Julias in my class, but apparently this teacher couldn’t keep two Amys straight.

So Amanda/Amy was Amy at home and Amanda at school, which led to people occasionally thinking Amy and Amanda were two different people.

Remember: Amanda/Amy's parents named their sons in a very specific Biblical/alphabetical way. And they named her sister after a deceased grandparent. But Amanda/Amy, who was third born, received a name based upon the name of another random baby who happened to be born around the same time. 

Then she got another name, too, because that first name wasn't good quite enough but also somehow good enough, too.

Parents name babies in the strangest ways sometimes.

My wife almost didn’t have a name. Her parents originally named her Jordan, but the doctor told them that Jordan was a boy’s name, so they abandoned their choice. Then they hemmed and hawed about a new name for so long that the hospital threatened to put “Girl” on the birth certificate.

They finally settled on Elysha, which was the name of my father-in-law’s secretary. Apparently they didn’t love the secretary but liked the name a lot. They wrote all the various spellings of Elysha on the back of an envelope and then chose one.

My wife’s name would be Jordan today if the doctor hadn’t opened his big mouth.

Elysha and I took were slightly more purposeful in the naming of our children.

Our daughter is named Clara Susan. Clara is the character in one of my wife’s favorite children’s books, The Van Gogh Cafe, and Susan was my mother’s name.

Our son is named Charles Wallace, which is also the name of the character from A Wrinkle in Time, a book that my wife and I love. We also love the poet Wallace Stevens, who lived and worked in Hartford, CT, so Wallace was an added bonus.

As for me? I was originally going to be named Bartholomew, but my mother claimed to have “saved me” from my father’s terrible choice by telling the nurses that I was Matthew before he even had a chance to meet me.

Choosing a name without your husband’s consent. Also a strange way to name a baby.

Ocelots have a lot of sex. My daughter told me.

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My daughter, Clara just told me that an ocelot mates up to 70 times each day.

My first thought: Sounds like a hell of a lot of fun to be an ocelot.

My second thought: Did my nine year-old daughter just tell me that the ocelot has sex up to 70 times a day?

My third thought: Does Clara even understand what mating (or sex) means?

My last thought: I really, really hope she doesn’t ask me to explain mating at 6:12 AM.

Empathy vs. I believe in you

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I’ve been accused of lacking empathy on more than one occasion.

This accusation takes many forms, but the most common one goes something like this:

I fail to recognize and acknowledge the struggles and limitations of others, as well as the advantages that I enjoy. As a result, I often expect more than is sometimes possible from others. Essentially, I believe that if I can do something, so can you. It’s merely a matter of effort, focus, and desire.

This, according to my accusers, is simply not always true and is the result of my lack of empathy.

Perhaps it’s true. I acknowledge that my viewpoint fails to take in a host of factors that might impact someone’s personal trajectory, many of which are beyond a person’s control:

Mental illness. Intellectual limitations. Physical disabilities. Aging parents. Family illness. Depression. Financial insecurity. Unavoidable, external forces.

All true.

But couldn’t this also be true:

I simply believe in people more than they believe in themselves. I fundamentally believe that almost every human being in the world - myself included - is capable of more than they are currently achieving and possesses the potential for greatness, just waiting to be realized.

Is my problem a lack of empathy or a belief in people beyond their own imaginations?