Shortcomings and Flaws: 2018

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

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

Nice friends. Huh?

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

I'm happy to report that although the list remains relatively long (34 items this year), I'm removing two items from the list under the advice of my wife. 

ITEM #1: When it comes to argument and debate, I often lack restraint. I will use everything in my arsenal in order to win, even if this means hurting the other person’s feelings in the process. 

Elysha says that I consider other people's feelings much more often when debating now and actively try not to hurt their feelings even when they are ridiculously wrong.

ITEM #2: I am easily annoyed by the earnestness of adults.

Elysha says that I am much more patient with people these days. 

I agree in both instances. 

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

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

Matthew Dicks’s List of Shortcomings and Flaws

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

2. I am a below average golfer (but making a concerted effort to improve this year).

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

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

(I considered removing this item  from the list, but Elysha Dicks said, "Absolutely not.")

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

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

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

8. Bees kill me dead.

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

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

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

(Elysha points out that I do this because I find it entertaining, which is true.)

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

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

14. I eat ice cream too quickly.

15. I procrastinate when it comes to tasks that require the use of the telephone.

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

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

(Elysha feels that this is only getting worse in this regard.)

18. I take little pleasure in walking.

(It remains on the list but there has been noticeable improvement.)

19. Sharing food in restaurants annoys me.

20. I drink too much Diet Coke.

(It remains on the list but there has been noticeable improvement.) 

21. My hatred for meetings of almost any kind causes me to be unproductive, inattentive, and obstructionist at times.

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

(Elysha aggressively agreed with this one.)

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

24. I think less of people who nap.

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

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

26. I don't spend enough time with my best friend.

27. I have a difficult time respecting someone's accomplishments if they benefited from economic privilege in their life.

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

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

30. I wear my wireless headphones way too much.

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

(I ruined something this week.)  

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

 (It remains on the list but there has been noticeable improvement.) 

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

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

Storyworthy: The audiobook has arrived, narrated, perhaps unfortunately, by me

The audiobook for Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling is now available for your downloading or compact disc pleasure, and for the first time, the book is narrated by me.

I'm afraid to listen. 

After spending three days in a recording studio in Grand Haven, Michigan, misreading words, tripping over my own sentences, and finding many words impossible to pronounce, I'm worried that I might sound terrible. 

The director and sound engineer were sitting in the adjacent room, of course, helping me correct my mistakes and trying to make me sound excellent, but still, I'm not a professional narrator, and my verbal limitations quickly became apparent. 

Having grown up in the Boston area with a pronounced Boston accent, it turns out that 25 years later, remnants of that accent still remain and can be especially troublesome when perfect pronunciation is critical. The letter R is still hard for me depending on where it's placed in a word, and particularly when multiple words contain multiple R's fall one after the other. 

And when an R and an L are combined in a word like "ruling" or "rolling," forget it. I can pronounce these words just fine when spoken independently, but attach them to other words, and the pronunciation falls apart.     

Other words that I do not pronounce correctly include "middle," "little," "Hartford," "park," and "sixth." 

And the word "horror?" Almost unpronounceable.  

Despite these struggles, I managed to complete four days of planned recording in just two days, allowing me to come home early and surprise Elysha and the kids. After the plane landed, I made my way to the restaurant where I knew she was having dinner with a friend. Appearing two days early with flowers in my hand at the side of her table is a good way to surprise your wife.

Although I often felt incompetent and foolish in the recording studio, my director and sound engineer thought I did exceptionally well, and since we managed to finish well ahead of schedule, I was starting to believe them.

Then I made the mistake of asking to listen to one of the professional narrators in an adjacent studio. I couldn't see the narrator but only hear her through headphones. She sounded like an elderly British lady, performing alongside about half a dozen other narrators. But when the door opened and the narrator emerged, she turned out to be a 23 year-old woman with a flat, midwestern accent who is capable of sounding like almost anyone from anywhere.

These audiobook narrators are remarkably talented.  

And my time in Michigan was not all spent alone in a soundproof booth.

I went swimming in Lake Michigan on one steamy afternoon. I ate the best salted caramel ice cream of my life. I saw three movies. I explored the area a lot. And I performed three standup sets at two different comedy clubs, including one night when the owner asked me to perform again after my first set.

I had to find ten more minutes of material in an hour, which actually worked well.  

If you plan on listening to the book, I hope you enjoy. And I hope you'll forgive any of my imperfections. I tried like hell. 

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Would you be more likely, less likely, or just as likely to marry your spouse today?

Interesting question posited by a friend recently:

Would you be more likely, less likely, or just as likely to marry your spouse if you met him or her for the first time today?

My friend believes that couples who were married when they were young would be less likely to marry their spouses if they met them today, because the person you are in your teens and twenties is oftentimes vastly different than who you are in your thirties and beyond. 

This doesn't mean that these people don't still love their spouse and want to remain married. It just means that they would be slightly less likely to want to marry their spouse if they were going on their first date today because their spouse has changed so much over time. 

I think she might be right.

"I thought I was marrying a reliable tax attorney who wanted three kids and a house on a quiet street. But since then, he's learned to play the drums and discovered a passion for death metal. Thanks to his band's rehearsals in our garage, the street isn't quiet anymore, and we have six children because he also discovered a love for babies, too. He wanted a dozen kids, but we compromised at half that."

You might still love the guy with all your heart, but if you met him today, you might think twice before marrying him. 

It turns out that this is not an easy question to ask your spouse.

"Hey honey, if you met me for the first time today, would you be more likely, less likely, or just as likely to marry me as you were on our wedding day?"

The answer to this question could be disastrous.

Still, I asked Elysha. She gave me the best possible answer. 

"I think I'd be more likely to marry you today. Though I don't know... I really, really wanted to marry you when we got married, too. I don't know."

Honestly the best possible answer. The best of both worlds. Spoken without calculation or consideration. Straight from the heart.

My heart soared. It's a moment I'll never forget. 

For the record, my answer is that I would be more likely to marry Elysha if I met her today. Had you asked me this question on our wedding day, I would've said that I couldn't love a human being more.

But then we had children, and I was able to watch Elysha become a mother for the first time - a brilliant, beautiful mother - and I found a new and even deeper love that I could've never before imagined.  

If you could recover a single object from your past, what would it be?

When I was 16 years-old, I went to Pasadena, California with my high school's marching band to perform in the Rose Bowl Parade. At the time, I had just begun dating my high school sweetheart, Laura.

Laura was traveling to Pasadena, too. Though she wasn't actually a member of the marching band, she had somehow finagled her way to California to watch the performance and join us on our various excursions to Disneyland, San Fransisco, and others. 

Our first kiss came in a hot, stinking stairwell in a hotel in Pasadena at about 6:00 AM. I tell a story about it. 

Since we were taking separate flights across the country, Laura made me three mix tapes for the trip. I expected them to be filled with the music she adored, but instead, Laura combined music with spoken word. She told me stories, read poetry, and even sang a little in between songs recorded off the radio.

I probably fell in love with her while listening to those tapes somewhere over the Rockies.  

I don't know what happened to those tapes. It's unbelievable that I lost them, but somewhere along the way, I did.

A bout of homelessness will do that to a person.  

But if I could recover one object from my past that has been lost, it would be those yellow, Memorex cassettes.

Laura passed away a few years ago after a battle with cancer, but before she died, she held me to a promise that we made on the steps behind our high school just before we started dating. We promised that no matter what happened in our relationship, we would always be friends and always take care of each other. When she discovered that she had cancer, she brought me back to those steps and made me promise that when her girls, Ava and Tess, are old enough, I would tell them the stories of Laura, the teenager, and our adventures together.

I will do this when the time is right. but I can't imagine a better gift to those girls than those mix tapes, filled with their mother's words and songs from a time long ago.  

If I could recover any object from my past, it would be those tapes.

Not for me, but for Ava and Tess.  

And for Laura. 

If you could recover a single object from your past, what would it be?

Making the ordinary a little more extraordinary should always be celebrated

The knife sharpener at the farmer's market that we visit almost every Sunday morning gave Elysha their card a few weeks ago. Rather than a collection of information on a small bit of card stock, they offered her this.

A band-aid with their name and phone number printed on the wrapper.  

Clever. Right? I always admire people who can turn the ordinary into something delightful. Something ordinary into something a little more extraordinary. 

It's almost as good as the playing card that appeared in the breast pocket of my sports jacket containing the contact information of world renowned magician David Blaine. I met Blaine at The Moth Ball in 2015, and after re-telling my story so he could record it on his phone, he said he wanted to speak to me further about storytelling and "gave" me his card.

It was already in my pocket. The king of spades, with his contact information woven within.

Remarkably, that was the least amazing of the magic that he performed for me after recording my story.  

An anonymous note about a possible murder

I arrived at Kripalu, a yoga center in the Berkshires, on Sunday night with a bag full of my novels, magazine columns, and comic books. I spread them on the table for my students to see, and then I stuffed them back into the bag and tossed the bag into the corner of the room.

It sat in that corner, untouched, for a week.  

On Friday, I grabbed the bag as I was packing up to leave. Tucked into my copy of Storyworthy was a sheet of paper. Written on the paper was this: 

Crazy. Right?

In addition to my ten students, the room had been used by several yoga classes, and on our final evening together, my students performed for a group of friends, family, and folks staying at Kripalu that week. I had also performed for a group of about 70 people earlier that week, telling stories and teaching lessons after each, including a lesson on the importance of telling stories. 

A lot of people on campus knew who I was, what I did, and where I could be found. 

There's no telling who left that note in my book or why.

But it seems as if the note might have been left for me and might apply to the work I do. In addition to our organization being called Speak Up, I spend enormous amounts of time convincing people that they have stories to share. Stories that need to be shared. Stories that the world wants to hear.  

This note would seem to fall along those lines. 

I cannot find a Rosalie Gomez who was murdered on the internet. Maybe this is referencing something that happened pre-internet. Maybe it's fiction. I have no idea who Rosalie Gomez might be or if she's even real. 

But I've often said that odd things happen when you begin telling stories. Strange coincidences. Surprising connections.

Earlier that week, while my friend and teaching assistant, Jeni, were swapping stories, we learned that I had been the DJ at her cousin's wedding 20 years earlier, and she had attended that wedding. She barely remembered the day, but I remembered a lot, including details that she couldn't believe I recalled.

"Just think," I said. "Twenty years ago, we were in the same room, at the same wedding. You were 17 and I was 27. Now we're sitting here today at a yoga center in the Berkshires as friends."

That kind of thing happens to me all the time. Tell a story to 100 or 200 or 500 people, and you will find someone in the audience who somehow connects to that moment for often than you would expect.

The world is a surprisingly small place.

But this note is beyond a simple coincidence or unexpected connection. It's something else. Perhaps a bit of fiction scribbled on a piece of paper and tucked into a book called Storyworthy on a whim.

Maybe something more. 

Sadly, I'll probably never know. 

Every time someone meets Elysha and says, "She's beautiful," this is what I think...

After spending a week teaching storytelling at Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health, my ten students performed in a showcase on the final night of the week. Minutes before I was to take the stage and start the show, a woman who looked a lot like Elysha walked into the room.

It turns out that it was Elysha. She had driven up to Stockbridge to surprise me.

I was thrilled. After a week apart, I couldn't take my eyes off her. Couldn't stop kissing her.  

My students had just spent a week hearing a lot about Elysha. As a storyteller, it's inevitable. I tell stories in my workshops that serve as models for my lessons, and so many of those stories include my wife. 

Now my students were meeting the woman who they had only heard about before now. A fictional character of sorts had come to life. Whenever this happens, the response is almost always the same. 

"Elysha is so beautiful." 

But it's always said with a bit of astonishment, which leads me to assume that what they are really saying is this:

"Elysha is so beautiful. How did someone like you - a neckless neckless stump with legs for arms - manage to marry such a beautiful woman?"

I'm pretty sure that this is exactly what they are saying, and it never makes me feel very good. 

I better, safer alternative to lottery tickets

I watched a man purchase $50 in lottery tickets yesterday.

I see this all the time, and it makes me crazy. I've never played the lottery in my life. Never purchased a Powerball ticket or a scratch ticket. Never felt any compulsion to do so.  

This is because I understand the odds involved with playing the lottery.

I also know that a disproportionate number of people who play the lottery are poor, minorities, and often addicts. The lottery preys on the most vulnerable members of society. 

I hate it. 

But I also understand the importance of hope. I know how impossibly hard life can be when all hope is lost and any dreams that you once had are gone forever. Living in my car in 1992, awaiting trial for a crime I did not commit, unable to get work because I had no address or phone, cold and hungry and tired almost every day, I thought I would never have a home again. Never have a real job again. Never make any of my dreams come true.

I was 22 years-old and thought my chances of happiness were gone forever. It was crushing. The loss of hope is a terrible thing. Maybe the worst thing.

So I understand the desire for a little hope, as astronomically improbable as the lottery might provide.  

Still, it's such a waste of money. 

As I watched that man purchase $50 in lottery tickets yesterday, I wanted to take him aside and say this:

"Listen, I don't know why you're spending $50 on lottery tickets, but I have a better idea. Download Robinhood on your phone. It's an app that allows you to purchase stocks commission-free. Then take the $50 you're spending here and purchase a stock instead. Something big and relatively safe. Mastercard or Visa. Microsoft. Home Depot. Apple. Or an index fund. Your money will be relatively safe, but you'll still have the excitement of possibility. Will the stock go up or down? When will I receive a dividend? And you can experience that excitement on a daily basis. That $50 will continue to provide hope and excitement day after day. Hour after hour if you'd like. Even minute by minute. But your initial investment will be relatively safe compared to that lottery ticket, and at the end of the year, you'll have still have something to show for your $50."

I wanted to say this so badly.  

I know that the hope of a 12% annualized return on $50 isn't the same as a $32.8 million dollar payday, but if it's hope or excitement that these people are craving, maybe investing the $50 they are spending weekly on lottery tickets in the American stock market could offer enough hope and excitement to satisfy them and a $2,600 nest egg at the end of the year. 

Or $2,912 with a 12% annualized return.

Mind you, I don't advise people to invest without understanding what they are doing. I studied the market for 5 years before investing a dime, but if the choice is between $50 in lottery tickets or $50 in the stock of a relatively well known company, blindly investing in the company is the better choice every time. 

I suspect that the man purchasing lottery tickets yesterday wouldn't have appreciated my suggestion, and that kills me, too. A simple shift in spending could yield an enormous change in the quality of a person's life over time, and yet for so many, change is so hard. 

I didn't know what Lands' End was, and it makes sense.

I was teaching a workshop last month. A storyteller mentioned Lands' End as a detail in her story. When she was finished, I asked her what Lands' End was.

"You don't know what Lands' End is?" she asked. "No. You have to know what Lands' End is."

A woman sitting beside her said, "I really don't think he knows."

It's true. I didn't know.

"Do you know what LL Bean is?" the first woman asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Lands' End is like LL Bean." 

"Oh," I said and moved on.  

At the time I thought LL Bean was a store in Maine that sells outdoor clothing and camping equipment. I also knew that it's the company that once offered a lifetime guarantee on their products until a bunch of jerks tried to return 25 year old boots and ruined it for everyone.

So I assumed that Lands' End was another store, possibly in Maine, that sold similar products. Boots. Tents. Flannel shirts.

Last night I mentioned this moment to my friend, Jeni Bonaldo. Her response:

"You don't know what Lands' End is? How is that possible?" Same incredulous tone as the first woman. A few seconds later, she asked, "Do you know what LL Bean is?"

Deja-vu.

Rather than accepting this LL Bean analogy and moving on, I asked, "What exactly is Lands' End?"

Here is what Jeni told me, distilled to its essence:

Lands' End is a catalog company that sells clothing, primarily to middle-aged women.

This is essentially true. I did some research into Lands' End and found that it's a clothing and home decor retailer based in Dodgeville, Wisconsin, that specializes in casual clothing, luggage, and home furnishings. The majority of Lands' End's business is conducted through mail order catalogs and internet sales, but the company also runs retail operations, primarily in the Upper Midwest, along with international shops in at least five countries.

I also learned that although Lands' End sells men's clothing, more than two-thirds of their business goes to women. In recent Bloomberg and CNBC pieces, Lands End was described as "a label known more for courting mothers and kids."

Knowing all this, I'm confused.

Why is it so odd that I wouldn't know what Lands' End is? I've never driven by a Lands' End store in my life. Never seen or held one of their catalogs. Never seen a Lands' End commercial on TV, and based upon my research, they almost never advertise on TV or radio. I'm also not a middle aged women looking to purchase clothing, luggage, or home decor or a child whose mother is dressing in Lands' End garb.

It appears that in 2015, Lands End attempted to pivot the company in the direction of a younger, "cooler" customer (I happen to think middle-aged women are exceptionally cool), but as of 2018, their customer demographics have changed very little.

This is a company that sells clothing primarily to women through mail order catalogs.

Of course I don't know what Lands' End is.

This does not mean that all men are unfamiliar with Lands' End. I'm quite certain that many men have seen these catalogs before and are aware of its existence. Perhaps a mother or wife or sister is a Lands' End customer. Or maybe he's one of Lands' End's minority male shoppers.

In fact, perhaps most Americans are familiar with the Lands' End brand, but to be surprised that I am not is frankly a little surprising.

It's a store that sells clothing to women through mail order catalogs. If I'm going to lack awareness of any retail company, wouldn't Lands' End be that company?

No physical presence in the Northeast. No advertising on television. No catalogs in my home, unless Elysha Dicks is receiving them and I haven't noticed. And no "Lands' End" labels on coats or shirts like the annoying North Face.

Happily, I know what Lands' End is now. I've filled that gap. Infused myself with knowledge.

I feel no better for doing so.

Seeking submissions for my annual list of shortcomings and flaws

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

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

Nice friends. Huh?

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

The time has come to assemble my list for 2018, which means I will be reviewing the 2017 list carefully, hoping that I might be able to remove a few and looking to add any that I think might be missing. 

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

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

Clara's first Patriots game. NOT WHAT I EXPECTED AT ALL.

I took Clara on a rite of passage last night:

Her first New England Patriots game.

I've been attending Patriots games regularly for almost 20 years, and I've been a season ticket holder for almost as long. I've spent some of my favorite, most memorable days at Gillette Stadium, tailgating with friends, cheering in the stands, hugging strangers following touchdowns, and celebrating victories. 

It was odd that my daughter had never seen this place where I have spent so much time. I was so happy to finally introduce her to this place that I love so much. 

It was a preseason game, which was ideal for a nine year-old girl. Warm night. Low stakes. Lots of empty seats. An absence of opposing fans. Fewer drunken brawls. As we pulled up Route 1 in Foxboro and saw the stadium for the first time, Clara was impressed. 

"I know it doesn't look so big from so far away," I said. "But it's pretty big."

"No, Daddy. It's huge."

We talked as we made the 15 minute walk to the stadium. Clara asked questions. I told stories about this spot and that spot along the way. Stories of snowstorms and lobster carcasses and a burning Christmas tree. She waved at the police horses and said hello to random children.

I managed to sneak her through security with the backpack that she had strapped to her back, and I'm still not sure how. Security officers are fanatical about there being no bags brought into the stadium unless they are clear and plastic.

Somehow we skirted by.

Then we began the climb up the ramps to the 300 level and our seats. When he hit the fourth of 10 ramps and Clara said, "I hope you're seats aren't too high, Daddy,"

I knew I might be in trouble. 

My seats are four rows from the very top of the stadium. The climb up those steps to our seats would be steep and long. But it was a preseason game. Lots of empty seats along the way. We could probably find seats in the first or second row.

Clara was nervous just being in the concourse of the upper level. Just her awareness of how high we were was increasing her anxiety considerably. We ate some food, walked around the stadium a bit, and then it was time to see the field for the first time from actual seats. 

"Let's go see the Patriots," I said. 

"Okay," she said. 

My hopes soared. No protest. She was going to be brave.

As soon as we stepped out of the concourse and up a small flight of stairs, Clara fell apart. I managed to grab two seats in the second row, just six feet from the landing, but Clara clung to the handrail like she was on the deck of a ship, caught in a storm. The size and height and scope of the stadium terrified her. I managed to get her into a seat, thinking she might calm down once she was anchored to a spot, but no good. She was crying and begging to leave. 

I coaxed. I cajoled. I pointed out some features of the stadium. The championship banners. The big screens. The football being played below. 

No good. We had just driven almost three hours to a football game, and I was in danger of seeing fewer than three plays of actual football.

I tried once more to inspire her to enjoy the stadium. The crowd. The game. She continued to cry. 

"Okay," I said. "Take a couple of photos with me, and we'll go. Try to smile."

We did, and then we left. She wanted off this level immediately, and so we took the stairs all the way down to the exit. When I tried to pass through the gate into the parking lot, a police officer stopped me. "You can't exit this way. No re-entry from here."

"I know," I said.

"You don't understand. You won't be able to go back into the stadium."

I looked at Clara and then at him. "I know."

He looked at Clara, smiled, patted me on the back, and we were on our way to find ice cream in the Patriot Place shopping area.

Here is the truth:

I was annoyed at that moment. Really annoyed. Thousands of people - adults and children - were sitting around us, enjoying the game, reveling in the beautiful weather, bright colors, and excitement of a football game, and my daughter had been reduced to tears because her seats were too high. When I offered to find seats in a lower level, she declined. She just wanted to leave. Hours on a highway and still more hours of driving ahead had been reduced to three plays of football. 

Two incompletions and a punt. 

I was annoyed. Angry, even. I was prepared to talk about the importance of being brave. I was ready to talk about perspective. "Even though you were afraid, you were perfectly safe. Thousands of people around us agree. Can't you use that knowledge to overcome this fear?"

I was annoyed. Ready to speak. Ready to let her know how I felt. Then I said this to myself:

Three or four hours from now, when you're tucking this girl in bed, will you be happy that you told her that she needed to be brave? Will you be pleased with the conversation that you're about to start? Will you think of yourself as a good father when you tell your frightened little girl what she did wrong? Or will you regret speaking to her while you were annoyed?

It's something I say to myself often. As I'm about to complain, argue, order, demand, or criticize my children (and my students) for their decisions or behavior, I ask myself:

How are you going to feel about this later? Are you in the right frame of mind for this conversation? Is he or she in the right frame of mind? Is this the right moment to speak? Will you feel good about what you're about to say later on? 

So I squeezed Clara's hand instead as we crossed the parking lot and said, "I love you, Clara." She pulled me to a halt, hugged me, and said, "I love you, too, Daddy."

We ate ice cream in the courtyard and laughed. Checked the score on my phone. On the way to the parking lot, the horizon opened up to us. The sun was making it's final appearance of the day, just dipping out of sight. "Look, Daddy," Clara said. "It's so beautiful! Look at all the colors! Red and orange and yellow and even green. I think I see green!"

"It's the gloaming," I said. "Twilight. The few minutes before the sun disappears for the night."

"I love the gloaming," she said. Then she pulled me to a stop again just before we were about to cross Route 1. "Hold on," she said. "I want to watch the gloaming a little more."

We did. 

We listened to music on the way home. We played songs from our family playlists, designed specifically for long rides, skipping songs that we hadn't added to the list ourselves. 

Most Charlie's Coldplay and Elysha's Steely Dan. 

I told her stories about the musicians who made some of the music. She asked lots of questions. We sang loudly until she got sleepy, and then we sang quietly. 

She was already asleep when I tucked her in a couple hours later.

I'll probably talk to Clara about being brave today. I'll tell her that I'm performing standup comedy now because it scares me, and that whenever I find something that frightens me, I run to it.

I know that the right thing and the hard thing are often the same thing.

I'll tell her that even though I wanted to stay in my hotel room on the nights when I was recording my audiobook in Michigan earlier this summer, I forced myself to find a comedy club and perform. I did three sets on two different nights, and even though I was terrified to take those stages, I'm so happy I did. 

I'll tell her how important it is to try new things even though they might be scary. I'll tell her that missed opportunities should be the most frightening thing of all.

But I'll talk about all of this in the light of day, when we are relaxed and happy and thinking about that moment in the gloaming when all was good and right. 

Maybe she'll listen and believe. Maybe next time she'll give it another minute or two before asking to leave. If not, we'll find a way to make the best of it. We'll stand in the gloaming and listen to Springsteen and eat ice cream and laugh. 

It was certainly not what I expected from my little girl's first Patriots game. Not even close.  

It was so much better than I could have ever imagined.  

Help! Some kind of voodoo priest is trying to change my life!

I met a woman in Michigan who told me that she performed improv with Second City in Chicago a few years ago.

"Why dd you stop?" I asked.

She explained that she moved north to Michigan for work, and there is no real improv scene in her area. She still loved performing improv when she left Chicago, but there's just no opportunity for her anymore. 

"Then you need to create an opportunity," I said. "You need to start something here."

She paused for a moment. Thought. Then smiled. She said, "Yeah, maybe. That's not a bad idea."

"No maybes," I shot back. "Do it. You need to do it now. Don't wait for some other day. Go home tonight and take one small step forward. Choose a name. Create a logo. Make a list of possible venues. Call ten people who might want to perform. Get started today."

"Maybe," she said. "It's a good idea."

"Stop saying maybe," I demanded. "You need to do it now. Too many people put off the hard, important, scary things that could change their lives forever. Don't be one of those people. Don't find yourself five years from now regretting this moment in this hallway when you could've done something great. Go home tonight and do something."

"Help!" she shouted, leaning into the office space adjacent to us. "Some kind of voodoo priest is trying to change my life."

Then she fled. 

Two days later, I ran into her again in the same hallway. I repeated many of the same things. She said she was "seriously thinking about it," which sounded pretty terrible to me. Lots of people "seriously think" about things and then live lives of quiet desperation. Fail to make their dreams come true. Lie in their death bed regretting all that could have been. 

Instead of "seriously thinking," she needed to be "seriously doing."

"Okay, okay," she said, not sounding as committed as I wanted.  

I left Michigan that day.

Three days later I mailed her a two-page letter reminding her that someday is today. "Get to work. Stop making excuses. Stop 'seriously thinking about it' and start making your dreams come true."

Our only guarantee in life is that that someday it will end. The rest is up to us. We need to make the beauty and magic and art in our lives real. We have to stop saying that someday we'll do something and instead make that someday today.

She probably thinks I'm crazy. She might even believe that I'm a voodoo priest. Maybe she's right. I sent a person who I knew for all of three minutes a letter demanding that she stop spinning her wheels and build something. Create an opportunity. Perform.  

Maybe I am a little crazy. I don't care, just as long as she starts that improv troop and takes the stage as soon as possible. 

Add "voodoo priest" to my already long list of job titles if that's what it takes to get you moving. 

Windows down. Music up.

Driving home alone after performing in Maine last week, I decided to spend the last hour of my four-hour drive with the windows down and the music up. 

Music blasted. Springsteen. Tom Petty. Tesla. The Ramones. Guns N' Roses. The Stones. The wind roared through the car. It was fantastic. 

As I roared down the highway, I looked around, taking note of how others were driving. Searching for my proverbial soulmates. Here is what I noticed:

Almost everyone drives on the highway with their windows up. Actually, almost everyone drives everywhere with their windows up. The vast majority of people travel via automobile in their own climate-controlled bubbles of air and sound.

What a shame. 

Part of this may be generational. When I was first learning to driving, air conditioning was far less prevalent than it is today. In 2017, 99% of all new automobiles came equipped with AC as a standard feature.

But in 1970, only 54% of cars were equipped with air conditioning.

In fact, the first three cars that I owned - all built in the 1970's and driven by me in the 1980's - did not have AC. Instead I drove with the windows down. Allowed fresh air to flow through my car. Offered my musical tastes to the world. 

It was glorious. It still is glorious. 

If you haven't done this in a while, you must. The next time you are driving on the highway or any place of any distance, lower all the windows. Choose some of your favorite music and turn it up. 

I drove for four hours from Maine to Connecticut. For the first three hours, I listened to books and podcasts and stopped for breakfast, but can't remember a dam thing about the drive. It was like every other long, forgettable distance drive.

But that last hour, heading west in Interstate 84, wind roaring through the car as Thunder Road and Satisfaction and I Wanna Be Sedated blasted from the speakers - I remember it well. 

I smile when I think back on that final hour.

And when I finally arrived home, I was energized. When I stepped out of my car, I was almost running to see Elysha and the kids. Part of it was the excitement of seeing them after a night away, but a bigger part was that I was excited and happy and filled with music. 

What a joyous, riotous feeling.   

Escape your climate-controlled bubble. Let the wind mess up your hair. Blast your music in the way you did when you were a teenager and understood the power and importance of song.

Grab hold of a some of that primacy again. 

Devil lady

I stopped at McDonald's while I was in Michigan to get myself breakfast each morning before heading off to record the audio version of Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling. 

It turns out that my standard McDonald's breakfast in Michigan amounts to $.6.66.

The woman who took my order saw the price and said, "Oh, I hate when that number comes up across my register."

I smiled, knowing that 666, the supposed number of the beast from Revelations, is a questionable interpretation of the number at best. Also, I don't think that God or the Devil would care if my combination of sandwich, hash brown, and drink amounted to that number.

The next day, I returned to the McDonald's. The same woman was manning the same cash register. I placed the same order, and once again, $6.66 appeared on the register.

"Were you here yesterday?" she asked. 

"Yes," I said. 

"You ordered this yesterday," she said. "Didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Why would you do that?" she asked, sounding exasperated. Annoyed, even. "If you know it costs $6.66, why wouldn't you change it a little? Order a smaller drink or an extra hash brown?"

Possible answers flashed before me:

• I'm not a crazy person.
• I don't allow Biblical numerology to alter my consumer decisions.
• I'm not superstitious. 
• I'm still not crazy. 

Instead, I said, "It's not something I worry about."

"You really should," she said, now visibly annoyed.

I returned to the McDonald's the next day, thrilled about the possibility of bringing $6.66 to her resister (and her life) once again. 

I've never been so excited to order breakfast in my life.

Sadly, she wasn't working. I ordered a Bacon, Egg, and Cheese Biscuit instead of my usual Egg McMuffin. 

I was working hard. Sitting alone in a recording studio all day. Reading a book that I already knew well. I deserved a biscuit.  

But bringing $6.66 back to that woman's life one more time would've been better. 

Crazy man in the airport

On the way to Michigan, my plane encountered a mechanical problem. After sitting on the runway for more than an hour, the pilot asked us to disembark while they attempted to find us another plane.

An hour later, another aircraft was located, and we were assigned a new gate. This gate was designed for a much smaller plane, so there was little room inside the space to sit or even stand. As a result, my fellow passengers and I were spilling out into the concourse. 

Then an announcement was made from the podium, and because I couldn't hear it in the noise of the concourse, I stepped into the space to listen. This placed me at the entrance to the Zone 2 line, where passengers were beginning to line up. 

I was in Zone 4. I would be one of the last to board the plane, which I usually prefer. I wasn't carrying a roller bag, so I wasn't concerned about overhead space, and like to get on the plane at the last possible second. 

As I listened to the announcement, a middle-aged man in a suit tapped me on the shoulder. "Excuse me," he barked. "What zone are you in?"

"Four," I said. 

"Excuse me then," he said, rather abruptly. He pointed up at the Zone 2 sign hanging over my head and then jerked his head to the left in a gesture meant to tell me to move away from the entrance to the Zone 2 lane so we could get a spot.

Shockingly, I complied. Despite his abruptness and rudeness, I was still listening to the announcement, and I wasn't fully cognizant about what was happening.I followed his order.

Then the man brushed past me with a huff, walked about eight feet, and assumed his spot in line. 

Then it hit me.

What zone am I in? Did he really just ask me that question?

The guy couldn't wait another ten seconds for this announcement to finish? He could see that there was no room in this waiting area for all of us. He could see that I wasn't actually in the Zone 2 line or trying to get into the Zone 2 line. He was on the plane with me less than an hour ago. He knew the deal. And yet he motions me aside like he has some kind of "Zone 2 authority" over me?

And instead of just saying, "Excuse me," he asks me what zone I'm in?

Hell no.  

Maybe it was the hour spent on the runway or the hour spent in the terminal that had me a little edgier than usual, but a second later I stepped into the Zone 2 lane, walked up on the guy, and tapped him on the shoulder. 

"Excuse me," I said, aggressively. "What zone are you in?"

The man turned. He looked startled. "Zone 2," he said.

"Zone 2?" I asked, flatly. Staring him in the eye.

"Yes," he said. "What?"

"I just wanted to know what zone you were in today. Since you were so curious about my zone."

Then I just stared for another second. A long second. Finally I turned, left the Zone 2 line, and bought a pretzel. 

The man looked concerned about my behavior, and he gave me side-eye until we boarded the plane. Rightfully so. I was acting like a crazy person. Rather than engaging in simple, polite, verbal combat or expressing my displeasure over the way he spoke to me, I decided to out-crazy him. I stood close, stared, and sounded crazy. 

It wasn't nice.

Elysha hates when I do this. She worries that I'm going to run into someone someday who out-crazies my crazy. She's absolutely right. And to my credit, I have decreased these moments of public confrontation considerably. 

The mechanical failure of the plane, the time spent on the runway, the delays, and travel in general had me on edge. 

But if ever there was a place to out-crazy someone, it's probably an airport terminal. I knew the guy had undergone a thorough screening before entering the terminal and had no weapons on his person. Other than a possible punch in the face, I was as safe as I could be.

Still it wasn't nice.

There's a time and place in this world to call out people who aren't being kind, polite, civil, or decent, but there is also a way to do it. A better way. 

It was one of those moments when I was simultaneously thrilled with the way I handled the situation and disappointed with the way I handled the situation.     

Never Have I Ever: 12 things is now 14 things, partially because I'm a jerk

Three years ago I made a list of 12 things that most people have at least tried in some what that I have never done. 

My "Never Have I Ever" list. 

I revisited the list today to see how much is still true, and it turns out that all 12 are still true today, and I've managed to add two more to the list. 

1. Never purchased or used an illegal drug of any kind 
2. Never purchased a lottery ticket
3. Never tasted coffee
4. Never smoked a cigarette
5. Never bruised
6. Never slept past 9:00 AM
7. Never swore in the presence of my parents
8. Never shoplifted
9. Never watched an episode of The Real Housewives, The Bachelor, or anything involving Kardashians
10. Never owned an umbrella
11. Never used an emoji 
12. Never taken a selfie
13. With the exception of my wedding ring (which I don't wear), never worn a piece of jewelry
14. With the exception of a golf watch designed to provide distance to the hole, I've never owned or worn a watch

Notes:

I've never purchased or used an illegal drug of any kind because I was keenly aware at the age of 18 that I was on my own, without any familial safety net. I knew that I couldn't afford to get into the kinds of trouble that drugs can cause, because I had no one to bail me out.

I was on my own.

I also chose to avoid drug (and alcohol) throughout high school, recognizing their dangers and frankly never feeling the need to experiment.

For the record, Elysha never drank alcohol in high school either, so when people tell us that "kids are going to drink, no matter what we say or do," we scoff. I we could resist, so can they.  
_____________________

Certain people are obsessed with getting me to try coffee. I resist, of course. I purposely decided to avoid coffee at an early age after seeing people "need their coffee" every morning and abhorring its complexity. The multitude of preferred temperatures, brews, flavors, sweeteners, brands, and creams make this drink just too complicated for a person who strives for simplicity. 

Also, I just don't like hot beverages.

I've since learned that New England Patriots quarterback has also never tasted coffee, so I'm not the only one. 
_____________________

I can't explain why I don't bruise, but I don't. I've been with Elysha for 15 years, and she's never seen a bruise on my body. When I was 17, I nearly died in a head-on automobile collision that sent my head through the windshield and tore my legs open to the bone, but still no bruises.

It's a stupid super power, useful for nothing.  
_____________________

My refusal to use an emoji is stupid. It's gone from something I thought silly years ago to me just being a jerk now. They're cute and easy to use today, but I still resist, only because I'm a jerk. 
_____________________

I define a "selfie" as a photo taken of yourself by yourself. I've never taken one of these photos. I've taken photos of myself with others, and I've appeared in many photos taken by someone who also appears in the photo, but I've never taken a photo of me by me. 

This also started because I thought selfies were ridiculous (and for a while, the selfie stick confirmed this), but now I'm just being a jerk.
_____________________

I don't wear my wedding ring because it's steel and can't be resized. I lost about 50 pounds after Elysha became pregnant with Clara, and the ring now slides off my finger with ease.

I should get a new one. I know.  

Swimming in a chlorinated pool is just like taking a bath

Elysha and I disagree.

I contend that if you've spent the day swimming in a chlorinated pool, there is no need to take a bath or shower because your skin is perfectly clean. 

Maybe even cleaner than simply taking a bath or shower. Chlorine is, after all, a powerful element. 

Elysha argues that a day of swimming does not constitute time spent in a bathtub, and therefore a bath or shower is still required. She also argues that a shower is important for removing chlorine from the hair because chlorine damages hair, and she argues that chlorine can be a skin irritant, so removing it is also important.

These things may or may not be true, but they are not a part of this argument.

For argument's sake, let us assume that your hair and skin are immune to the possibly harmful effects of chlorine.

My skin and hair apparently are. 

If that's the case, isn't a day spent in a chlorinated pool just as good as 10 minutes spent in a bathtub?

I've done some Googling on this issue, and information is scant. It would appear that experts agree with me providing that the pool is outdoors and in the sun. Apparently indoor pools can become contaminated with bacteria that needs to be removed via bath or shower.

Admittedly, none of the experts seem terribly reliable. so I'm accepting their opinions with a large grain of salt. I've also submitted this question to Every Little Thing, a podcast that finds answers to challenging questions like this, and I've also emailed the question to a professor of chemistry and a doctor who I know. 

None of this is actually important to me. I just think I'm right.

I kind of know that I'm right. 

More importantly, I think this is a good example of how our upbringing can influence our opinions later in life. So many of our routines and beliefs are simply the result of the way our parents structured and managed our childhood.  

My mother never made us take a bath or shower if we had spent the day in the pool. She believed that we were clean, and as a result, I believe this, too.

Elysha spent most of her time swimming in a lake, and as a result, she always took a bath or shower after swimming, so she believes that bathing after swimming is essential. 

There are lots of examples of how our childhoods cause our expectations and routines as adults to differ.

When I was a child, we ate dinner at sometime between 4:30 and 5:00 everyday. When Elysha was a child, she didn't eat dinner until after 6:00. When we came together, one of us needed to adjust our dinnertime expectations.

In this case, I did. I always eat after 6:00.  

The important thing to remember is that one way is not necessarily correct. Both dinnertimes are perfectly valid. I think couples run into problems when one person assumes that their way is the right way, when so often, it's simply a matter of preference and upbringing. 

As long as we respect and honor both ways of doing something, common ground can almost always be found.

But then there are cases when there is an objectively better way of doing something, and I suspect that this chlorinated pool situation is one of them. 

I believe that a chlorinated pool is just as effective at cleaning a human body as a bath or shower. Forgetting issues of hair damage and skin irritation, swimming in a pool is a fine way to keep your body clean. Earlier this month, we spent about five days visiting Elysha's sister and husband, and we spent almost every day in their pool.

I took exactly one shower in those five days and was perfectly fine. 

I await for information from the experts, but until then, any thoughts on our chlorinated pool disagreement?

People. Not places or things.

Elysha and I celebrated our anniversary on Sunday by taking the kids to the place where we were married 12 years ago:

The Lord Thompson Manor in Thompson, CT

The kids were so excited to see the place that they have heard about so often, and for Elysha and me, it was a wonderful walk down memory lane. Those memories that burn so brightly in our minds were brought back to life as we toured the building and the grounds. 

As a wedding DJ for more than 20 years, I can firmly attest that there is no better place in Connecticut for a wedding. It is a stunning location where you reside for the weekend with friends and family, and you are catered to constantly. It truly becomes a home away from home, and when it's time to leave on Sunday afternoon, your heart aches for just one more day.

But as I think about the time we spent at the manor on Sunday, and I look back on our wedding day, it turns out that it wasn't the beauty of the manor, its expansive grounds, the fully equipped billiard room, the luxurious beds, the outdoor fireplaces and fire pits, the stunning rock walls that line the property, or any delicious and seemingly endless supply of food that made our day so perfect.

In the end, it was the people.

Ted, our host for the weekend, who met us at the door during our visit on Sunday. Ted is a remarkable human being who wants your wedding weekend to be perfect in every way. When my friends and I were still awake in the early morning hours following the rehearsal dinner, playing poker, Ted appeared with an enormous platter of sandwiches and a huge smile. When I awoke late on Saturday morning for a quick round of golf, Ted greeted me at the door with a sack of every breakfast sandwich known to man. Ted serenaded Elysha and the ladies when they were getting ready. Miraculously had ribbon that perfectly matched the bridesmaids' dresses when a zipper broke. Solved every problem before they were ever brought to our attention.

When I think of The Lord Thompson Manor, I think of Ted. He is the heart and soul of that place.

Plato, our friend and principal at the time, who officiated our wedding so brilliantly. Helped to make our ceremony our own. Plato was the first to greet us after I proposed to Elysha on the top of the staircase in Grand Central Station, charging up two steps at a time in excitement, and he was the first to congratulate us when we were married. I can't imagine a better person to marry us on our day.   

Rob and Andy, friends who played the music so beautifully before and during our ceremony. All Beatles tunes, all performed perfectly for the occasion. 

Bengi and Emily, best man and matron of honor, who stood beside us all weekend, delivered unforgettable speeches, and never stopped smiling. 

Our wedding party. Friends and family who celebrated our marriage and made every moment of the weekend unforgettable. 

Elysha's parents, Barbara and Gerry, who laughed, loved, and danced the weekend away with us. 

All of our friends and family who joined us for our precious day. It was a celebration. A party. A fun filled weekend that I can remember so clearly today because of the love that I felt from each and every one of them. 

The Lord Thompson Manor is the ideal place for a wedding, and I recommend it to every couple I meet. If you're looking for a magical weekend, this is the place for you.

But honestly, Elysha and I could've been married in a Holiday Inn Express and still had a glorious wedding thanks to the people who made our day so special.

It's the people who I always remember first and foremost. The ones working hard to ensure the perfection of the day, and the friends and family who graced us with their happiness and love.

As with most things, the "where" and the "what" are never nearly as important as we think. In the end, it's the "who" that matter the most. Get married at City Hall or in a rundown chapel in Vegas or in your own living room, and if you have the right people around you - the best people - that is what you will remember most.  

We remember the people who made our day so perfect because we have been blessed to know and love and be loved by the best people. 

Those are the stories we tell Clara and Charlie when we talk about our wedding day.  

Twelve years!

Today Elysha and I celebrate 12 years of marriage. 

As I look upon the photos taken from that perfect day in 2006, I'm astounded by all that has taken place in the last dozen years. Twelve years isn't a terribly long period of time, and yet I feel like we've lived a lifetime since that glorious July day.

So much has happened. I look back upon our innocent eyes and unwavering smiles and can't believe what is in store for the two of us. We were standing on the edge of so much. 

Since we were married...

We bought a home and started our family. Two brilliant, happy, energetic people who love to read and cuddle but still can't pick up their toys now grace our lives with laughter and joy. 

I launched my writing career three years after our wedding day, publishing four novels and a book of non-fiction. I also started work as the humor columnist for a magazine and routinely publish in Parents magazine. I co-wrote a rock opera and four musicals. Three comic books. Two screenplays.  

Five years after our wedding day, I started telling stories onstage, first for The Moth and then all over the country and the world. I've told stories in theaters, bookstores, bars, breweries, libraries, town halls, churches, college campuses, and many more. I've competed in 75 Moth StorySLAMs and GrandSLAMs combined and joined a vibrant and brilliant community of storytellers, directors, producers, and fans of storytelling.  

Seven years after our wedding, Elysha and I launched Speak Up, producing more than 70 shows in the five years we've been in business and establishing partnerships with organizations and venues throughout New England.     

Nine years after our wedding, I started teaching storytelling, first in a local library and now all over the world. I work with universities, hospitals, nonprofits, corporations, politicians, attorneys, the clergy, and so many more. Just this year I've worked on the campus of Yale and a Mohawk reservation in Canada. 

I've started speaking all over the world, delivering TED Talks, inspirational speeches, commencement addresses, and more. I've delivered sermons on Sundays in churches throughout New England. I've shared the stage with world renowned storytellers and comedians. Received sex advice from Dr. Ruth. Had my story recorded into a phone by David Blaine. 

We've traveled, laughed, and loved. We've cheered from the upper reaches of the stands at Patriots games. Celebrated holidays with friends and family. Attended concerts in the park. Spent long, lazy days at the beach. Watched our children grow.   

Best of all, we've made so many new friends in the dozen years since we've been married. Brilliant, supportive, interesting, accomplished people who have made our lives so rich with friendship and love. 

Our only regret about our wedding is that the friends we have made since that July day were not with us for our celebration. As I look at the photos from that day and see the faces of so many of our dear friends, I can't help but notice how many important and precious people in my life today were not present on our wedding day. People we had not yet met. Did not know. I wish they all could have shared the joy of that day with us.

It's truly been a lifetime of experiences packed into twelve short years. A joyous, bountiful, beautiful dozen years of marriage. That only happens when you choose to spend your life with the right person. The perfect person. A woman with vision, drive, courage, daring, wisdom, and a willingness to support every crazy idea you may have (and had a few crazy ideas of her own).

It only happens when you marry someone who wants to share every step of the journey together. Side by side. Hand in hand.  

None of it happens if the woman in those wedding day photos is not Elysha. 

Happy anniversary, honey.  

Biggest fan and greatest nemesis meet. Results are climactic.

I first wrote about this story back in 2012. It's one of those stories almost too strange to be believed.

It involves two people.

One of them is a woman from Wisconsin named Charity.

The other is a man from Connecticut whose name I will avoid using in order to protect his identity, though I would take great personal pleasure in naming him.

But I will refrain. I'll simply refer to him as Mr. Mensa. You'll see why. 

The woman in the story, Charity, is one of my biggest fans. She has read all of my books, reads and comments on my blog and social media regularly, and has written me some of the kindest and most generous emails about my work that I have ever received. She promotes my work to her friends. Even her mother is a fan of my books. 

I met Mr. Mensa in the green room of a local television studio a few years ago. I was doing a promotional spot for an upcoming literary festival, and he had recently appeared on a game show and was being interviewed about the experience. He is also a writer. He publishes supernatural detective novels and other things. 

After chatting in the green room for a while, we exchanged contact information and became friends on Facebook.

Over the course of the next year or so, he began commenting on my blog posts and status updates with great regularity. His comments were almost always negative. He attacked my positions, criticized my writing, and challenged me at every opportunity. His comments were often biting and sarcastic.

Truthfully, I didn’t mind much. I like to fight. But the consistency of his attacks were admittedly disconcerting. He never let up, no matter what I was writing about. Elysha came to despise him for his constant rants. Friends asked me who this man was and what he had against me. He had quickly become my online nemesis.

Then one day Mr. Mensa went away. Honestly, I never even noticed. I wasn't exactly looking forward to his frequent comments.

Two years later, I received an email from Charity:

From her email:

I met a guy online a few years ago. He was nerdy and Mensa, and I was single and have never minded boyfriends who are 5'6" compared to my 5'10" frame. We got to know each other on Facebook for a year and a half. Sometimes things we were reading in our spare time would come up.

After more than a year of getting to know each other, he flew out here to Madison for a few days for a date weekend. He flew out here from Connecticut.

He saw one of your books on the table and said, "I know this guy."

I said, “Oh, I am obsessed with this guy's stories. My mother discovered his first book at an ALA convention and I cannot get these stories off my mind. I'm into book three, and it's good, but this author has me spinning because I never know what to expect.”

My friend said, “I know this guy. He is a know-it-all, and I hate him and even unfriended him on Facebook.”

I was like, “Oh! I'm sorry to hear it. Please tell me more.”

He said that you thought you knew more than he did. Period.

The weekend did not end well because he spent most of his time playing video games on his phone. I asked him about this and he said there's nothing wrong with this.

His books make no sense to me and are not interesting.

I can't get 40 pages into his books.

He was a rotten date, boring dinner company, and played video games all evening long.

First, what are the odds that these two people, with such divergent connections to me and separated by such great distances, would come together, entirely independent of me?

Slim at best. Right?

But best of all is what Elysha said when I shared the story with her:

“Your biggest fan and your arch nemesis went on a date!”

She’s right. Even though they live about 2,000 miles apart, my biggest fan and my arch nemesis came together for possible romantic entanglement.

I like to think that it was the presence of my book on that table that saved Charity from years of dating misery, but I suspect that even if my name had not come up, she would’ve jettisoned this guy.

It’s an incredibly small world, especially when you write stories that crisscross the globe.

I wrote about that encounter back in 2012. Two years later, in 2014, I had the honor of traveling to Maine on a perfect August weekend to serve as the minister in Charity's wedding to her husband, Brent. I had never met Charity or Brent in person up until that point, but Charity wanted one of her favorite authors - who also happens to be a minister living in New England - to perform her marriage ceremony, and I agreed. 

How could I not?

In addition to marrying them on the edge of a beautiful lake, I celebrated their nuptials with food, drink, music, and a late night fire-swallowing demonstration by one of their friends that frightened the hell out of me.

Charity remains in occasional contact with Mr. Mensa today. He reportedly likes to brag about his Mensa status (calling his Mensa status seriously into question), and he presumably still despises me and my work. 

But who knows? Had Mr. Mensa appreciated my fiction as much as Charity does, perhaps my biggest fan and my arch nemesis date for a while, and Charity misses her chance at meeting, falling in love with, and marrying Brent.

Maybe Brent meets Scarlet Johansson at a roadside corn stand and they hit it off. Elope. Create beautiful music together.  

It's fun to imagine. Right?