Contemplation

On Thursday night, I bought a book-- an actual 8" x 5 1/4" paperback book at Borders. That's right. Pin a medal on my shirtfront at a ceremony featuring a marching band and ditheringly platitudinous speeches made by gray-sideburned men in frockcoats and tophats. I am doing my part to keep a sinking vessel afloat. I am the savior of the ship.

$14.99, plus $.90 to account for Pennsylvania's 6% sales tax, doesn't get you much at Borders these days. Yes, it will get you a fru-fru drink from the café and a rather untowardly-sized chunk of coffee cake, and it'll also get you some horseshit stationery pack-- not that anybody actually writes letters or cards anymore. It'll get you probably a small amount of actual books-- "The Abridged History of the American Firearm" from the discount section, or perhaps a paperback school edition of "Hard Times."

It got me "The Center Cannot Hold," by Elyn R. Saks. I'm 280 pages out of 336 in, and I'm frankly surprised that I've been able to take a break long enough to write a blog post. But, hey-- it's Sunday night and I've got work due on Monday morning, at 7:18am. Great expectations.

It's a remarkable book by a remarkable lady. A graduate of a Masters program at Oxford University and Yale Law School, Elyn Saks also suffered from grave mental illness, causing her to experience hallucinations and delusions, resulting in her being hospitalized both in England and America. She had countless encounters with full leather restraints, as well as countless encounters with psychiatrists, analysts, therapists and doctors who did what they thought was best to help her. Some were on the right track, some not so much so. Her book is heartbreaking, inspiring, frightening, unsettling and glorious, for she is able to elucidate and describe what a psychotic break looks like, feels like, sounds like, smells like, and talks like.

"Head explosions and people trying to kill. Is it OK if I totally trash your office?" Saks queried one of the physicians she'd been working with during a particularly bad break. Eating, bathing-- what was that? There were anonymous people trying to kill her everywhere she looked and her own "head explosions" to deal with every second of the day.

As a person who works with people who suffer from mental illness, who has had very little educational or clinical experience prior to this job, it is absolutely essential (for my well-being and for the patients) that I soak up whatever knowledge and experiences I can. Christ knows I am not going back to school for psychology at age 30, and I've already been to numerous trainings on trauma and Stage of Change theory and roundtable discussions with psychologists and psychiatrists, but I have learned more plowing through 2/3rds of Elyn R. Saks book than I have from all of those trainings and packets and handouts and motherfucking PowerPoint presentations.

Of course, I learn from my patients, too. I learn from what they tell me, and what they don't tell me, what they hear and what they think they're hearing. In the psychoeducational groups that I run, I learn as much as I teach-- maybe more. I learn from the interactions I witness between staff and patients-- the good interactions and the poor interactions, and I'm getting so I can differentiate between the two.

Really, it's not too hard.

I do a lot at work. I teach the groups. I interview patients. I counsel, I talk-- but the most important thing I do is listen. The opportunities patients get to talk-- to really talk-- to staff are few and far between, and some days they give me twenty patients to see, so the temptation is to wham-bam, thank you, ma'am. But I can't do that. I'm not that downtrodden yet. So I make more time. I come into work half-an-hour early, even though I do not get paid for it. I have an hour lunch, but, most days, I wolf down my food in fifteen minutes and head back into the building. I'm no martyr and I'm no saint, but what's the point in my being there if I'm not giving all I can?

While I do a lot at work, the one thing I really don't witness or participate in are the therapy sessions-- because they're between the patient and the psychologist, of course. I would love, though, to be a fly on the wall during some of those sessions-- to see how the psychologists handle some of the most challenging patients in the state, to see how the patients react-- to maybe gain something vicariously for myself-- some little snippet of wisdom or a seed to plant in my own little garden.

My garden.

I feel like I've neglected it a little bit. The last time I sat across from a therapist was ten years ago-- in college. It made sense for me to go to therapy as an undergraduate, after all, college is the most selfish time in a person's life: it almost seemed a sin to go through college not spending at least fifty minutes a week talking about yourself. I went for just over two years-- spending a year-and-a-half with the same therapist, whom I adored. The sentiments were reciprocated, and it was good. Of course, at the same time, it wasn't good.

"I was seducing him," I told my wife at the kitchen table yesterday morning. She raised an eyebrow. "You know what I mean-- not like that. Like, getting him to believe I'm special, like I was entertaining and good and funny and nice." And he bought it. "I've got to tell you," he said to me one time, "I almost feel guilty about how much I enjoy the time you and I share together each week."

What a thing for a patient to hear. I ate it up like Borders Café coffee cake. The fact that I remember that and not much of the actual counseling shows you how much his sentiments meant to me.

I've been thinking lately, perhaps spurred by Elyn Saks' innumerable therapeutic contacts, perhaps by the recent turmoil and depression that has hovered like a raincloud over my family, about a return to the couch. Or the chair, depending on the modality of choice, and I don't know how I feel about it. I now have insurance that covers in-network mental health services-- up to a point, of course. I'm not rehearsing for a show, so I'm kind of out of "time excuses." But I don't want to spend time and money... performing for someone, trying to reel them in and seduce them, and I don't know if I'm powerful enough to make myself not do that.

And I don't know if it matters, if I'm also getting the help I want or may need.

I guess you could say I'm in Contemplation, to use the language of my current trade. And I've gone in and out of that stage every so often during the last decade. I don't know what I'll end up deciding on, or if I'll move out of that stage into something new. For now, because I have reality-based thought processes, a supportive, loving wife, a relatively non-clinical family, and you, my center is holding fast. And, one way or another, I am determined to be the savior of my own ship.

Eviction Notice

No one thinks it's funny or charming when someone gets kicked out of their home.

You try your best to find some place where you and your family can prosper, where you can flourish, where, at the very minimum, you can come home and hang up your hat after a tough day slogging away for The Man, flop down on the well-loved couch, and let your hostility and tension melt away into its cushions for a couple hours as your eyes float away in a sea of mindless television. Maybe you prefer those... singing contest shows. Or perhaps it's "America's Most Wanted" on a Saturday night for you. Maybe you spend a half-hour with Diane Sawyer (could be worse, eh?) after walking through the door at 6:30.

Whatever the program, whatever your program, these shows are all punctuated by advertising that seeks to mock eviction: the forcible, heartbreaking, violent expulsion of a family from their dwelling, tossing them into the cold, bleak unknown.

Don't know what I'm talking about? Maybe you recognize these newlyweds.

That's right. Mr. & Mrs. Mucus. They look happy enough, don't they? And they were, living inside of your chest cavity, very innocuous and comfortable-- even though there were no chair-rails or sconces or wall-to-wall Berber carpeting. But, for this quaint couple, it was home.

Home.

Sure, you coughed. You complained that you felt, oh-- what was it... tight? Whoa. You poor, poor baby. Not man enough to just suck it up and go to work and plod through the day feeling a tad under the weather, you decide to stay home and throw a little pity party for yourself. Of course, instead of pulling out the Stradivarius and playing yourself a maudlin little funeral dirge-- you know, because you're on your fucking death bed-- you go to the medicine chest and haul out the big guns. Mucinex-D.

And. You. Evicted. The. Mucus. Family.

No warning. No courtesy call from the sheriff's office. No warrant. No nothing. I mean-- what the fuck is that? Mrs. Mucus is vacuuming up your lungs-- trying to keep everything nice and tidy (it's not like you ever go clean in there) and you just break up their happy family and expectorate them out into... into what? A tissue? Jesus. They're a family. They're not cum, you know.

And now we come to Digger.

You know Digger, right? He lives in ya nailbeds, unda ya nails. And he's, apparently, from Brooklyn. Just like, um, Mr. & Mrs. Mucus. What the fuck's up with that?

Well, I don't know. All I know is that he's going to be lookin' to take the Chinatown Bus back to that shit because you, apparently, don't want him living in ya nailbeds, unda ya nails. No, I guess there's no room at the inn, right? Nope. Not leavin' the light on for ol' Digger, are ya? Well, that's hurtful. I mean, look at the guy. Do you think a community residential program or halfway house is going to be jumping up and down to accept him into their facility? Would you want to room with this guy-- even if you were a spazzed out, schizophrenic drug addict named Lester? Probably not. Where the hell else is Digger going to go, but, you know, unda ya nails?

Yes. Athlete's Foot is itchy. I get it. It's unpleasant. I had it. And I... used.... um... Lamisil.

Oh. Uh, oh, boy. This... this is awkward....

And while it is uncomfortable for me to admit that I, too, displaced Digger and/or some of his friends, relatives and classmates, it only underscores the point of this blog post: there is clearly an urgent need for caseworkers and social services to assist in the relocation and rehabilitation of displaced fungal and mucosal advertising icons. Because, let's face it-- you may think they're icky and gross and schnarsty or whatever you want to call them, but the fact remains that, unless these homeless (and that's what they are-- fucking homeless) disease emblems are found suitable housing, they are simply going to go out into society and find another host body inside of which to squat-- maybe permeating your body with fungus or phlegm, and then, you'll be phucked.

Like Peeing on a Bicycle

Our little puppy girl, Molly, had an accident last night.

"She's been dry for so long I thought she'd forgotten how to do it," my wife said, slightly sullen.

"Oh, no-- she's all over that," I replied, changing into pajamas at 7:37pm on a Friday night ('cause that's how we roll, 'Cuz).

"Like riding a bicycle," Mrs. Apron sighed.

"No, no," I chimed in unhelpfully, "like peeing on a bicycle."

Setbacks suck-- there's just no doubt about it. Imagine recovering from surgery, re-learning how to walk. Taking baby steps, then grown-up steps, then strides, and then, one day, you just... fall down. Imagine the pain-- the hurt. The embarrassment. The fear of complete and abject failure.

It's real.

What if this is one of those dogs that simply cannot be potty-trained? What if we are going to spend the rest of our natural lives setting the timer on the oven, taking her out every three-and-a-half hours, and watching her like a hawk when she's "loaded."

She's loaded. She's a fricking dog, for Christ's sake. And, like a Borderline in a psych hospital: she runs the show.

I was trying to think of a time in my life where I had suffered a marked setback, so that I could make a pointed comparison between myself and the peeing dog, but I couldn't think of one. Which, I guess, is good. Of course, if you are of the mindset that setbacks make you stronger and braver and tougher and more plastinated, then maybe it's not so good. Maybe because I'm caucasian and bespectacled and I tuck in my shirts and have a M.A.Ed. and a Volvo, I'm not going to have too many setbacks. Maybe I'm genetically altered to have some sort of forward trajectory-- like a mini jet propeller up my tuchus.

More likely, though, I'm not.

No doubt a time will come in my life where I will fall on my face on my way to achieving a goal. I've had fewer setbacks than I've had out-and-out failures. I've either achieved things, or I haven't. I either get the lead, or nothing. One book published, the other, um, not. One play produced, the others, um, not. One girl wife, the others, um, not. I either do it, or, um, not. And maybe that says something indicative about my personality. Maybe I'm doomed to succeed, or preordained to fail, or both, but I have yet to embark on a long-range goal where there have been roadblocks and hurdles and impasses that I have had to negotiate, subvert, challenge, or dust myself off and live to fight again the next day.

There's been no re-grouping for me. No one step forward and two steps back.

One thing I guess is for sure, and that is that life is a lot like peeing on a bicycle: it's uncomfortable, a little bit dangerous, and it only feels good for a very short time.

Fucking. Stoned.

Hahaha. You thought this was going to be a post about me using marijuana. See? You don't really know me at all.

Do you?

I was thinking about the scene in Monty Python's "The Life of Brian" recently where John Cleese presides over the stoning of an elderly, spindly little man for the crime of blaspheming-- in this case, saying "Jehovah." Of course, because it's Monty Python, John Cleese's character ends up getting mercilessly stoned by a bunch of men dressed as women wearing fake beards pretending to be men (you following this?) and, as they say in the world of MPFC, "Well that was all good fun, and we all had a jolly good laugh."

Pondering this scene got me thinking about stoning. A while ago, when I was delusional and thought that what I wrote on here mattered a nanodamn and that, if I could change just one person that was akin to changing the world, I wrote a half-way serious post about that woman that they were going to stone in the Middle East for infidelity. I don't know what the hell happened to her, but I'm willing to bet that, whatever it was, it had little to do with my blog. And I'm okay with that.

Stoning is a shockingly economical way to execute somebody, and I'm not sure that it shouldn't be re-examined in the Western hemisphere-- if we're still going to entertain the notion of state-run terminal justice. Ooh-- I like that-- "Terminal Justice." I think I would buy a CD by a band called "Terminal Justice." Do people buy CDs anymore? I'm not sure I exactly know what normal people do. I work in a mental hospital after all, and that skews all kinds of lines.

It skewers them, too. Which is another relatively cheap way to kill someone-- if you happen to know where very large skewers that can penetrate chest cavities/skulls may be located.

Still, I think stoning's the way to go, if you're on a budget-- which, let's face it, most states are these days. N'yah mean? Look at Camden-- they just laid off all those police officers and firefighters. Feel free to disagree with me (it's a pretty popular pastime amongst immediate family members) New Jersey sounds like a state that ought to be considering stoning.

If you think about it-- stoning is ingenious. No money spent on new technologies. No reliance on electricity or firearms or pharmecutical companies-- and green?! Oh, is it green! Especially if the stone has moss on it. But seriously, kids-- no waste! You use what's right there on the ground in front of you, and after a quick spritz with the garden hose (obviously with sprinkler-head attachment to conserve water) those rocks are ready to roll once again!

You can even feed the prisoner stone soup for his last meal!

Fucking. Genius.

So, yeah. Stoning. Awesome and such. There are people in this world who need to be stoned, and, even though I am not a real big proponent of mind-altering substances, there are definitely people in this world who need to get stoned. You see the diff, of course, jawohl? You know who I mean in the latter category, right? Those insidious, tightly-wound, Type-A people who walk briskly wherever they're going, even though they may very well have no place in particular to go. They're always checking their watches and tapping their feet and fixing themselves in the mirror and worrying. Worrying about what others are thinking, worrying about what they're thinking, worrying that people aren't thinking of them, worrying that people are thinking of them. Picking their cuticles. Biting their cuticles. Flicking their palms with their fingers. Fretting. Holding in their urine and their poodie for a more... opportune time. They use words like "opportune" and, incongruously, "poodie," often in the same sentence. They've got white hairs, and wrinkles. They're a frigging mess.

They're... me?

People always say that they'd love to see me stoned. I know they mean "on drugs" and not "pelted mercilessly with rocks," and, although it annoys me to no end when people comment that I would be funnier/better/calmer/more or less... whatever on drugs, I'm at least comforted by the fact that they don't want to see me lying dead on the floor with more dents in my head than on the front fender of a 1987 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham.

Yup. People often say they'd like to see me stoned, primarily because they think it'd be a laugh riot. Nobody ever says that they'd like to see me with no trousers on, though. Thing is-- that'd probably be a lot funnier.

Validate Me

Ever make a comment on something on Facebook, or create a status update with the singular and express hope and fervent desire that someone, perhaps even multiple someones, will Like it?

Of course you have, you vaingloriously beautiful little snail-dart, you. It's okay, I still love you. Do you love me, too?

We all want to be validated. We want our choices and our shoes and our haircuts and our morals and our pickle choices to be validated. Think about that internal warmth and yumminess when someone says, "Oh, those shoes are cute," to you. God, you could die, you blissed-out puppy dog. It's a beautiful thing. And here I am: making fun of it. Go ahead, unfollow me. It's okay. I'll learn to forget you and what we had together.

I was sitting at a meeting today. We had some outside consultant come in to talk to us about our organization. There were a couple psychologists at the meeting, our director, and some of my coworkers. One of our psychologists, when asked by the consultant, "How are you feeling?" replied, "I'm sad that, more often than not, a lot of my coworkers aren't on the same page as I am and I feel that this is a great discussion but that there isn't going to be 100% buy-in regarding what we're talking about up here."

The consultant responded immediately.

"Well, you really have no reason to feel sad," he said. And I felt all the air go out of the room, like we were all sitting inside a balloon had just been popped.

Whoa, pindick. You just invalidated the feelings of a psychologist. Way to go, fuckhead. Fortunately, someone called the consultant on that. And, more fortunately, it wasn't me.

We're so hungry, you and I. For those comments, for that pat on the shoulder, for that, "Oh, I know-- I feel the same way," or the "Wow, that must have been really hard for you," that I'm not particularly sure if our appetite isn't insatiable. And I'm not sure that we aren't justified in seeking out this validation, and, in our anticipating, expecting, demanding, commanding it from others. I'm not so sure that we can pass through this world successfully without that acceptance and that identification from others. I think it is as vital to us as food and water, though perhaps we don't need it quite as regularly.

Or perhaps we do.

I don't know how often you're supposed to update your Facebook status. I don't know what's pathological or what's normal. I don't know how often I'm supposed to check the stats of my blog (after all, isn't every hit and page view and new follower a form of validation?) or how often I'm supposed to receive a compliment or a "Yeah, I know what you mean," from a coworker or a friend. And while we're on the subject, I don't know how often I'm supposed to talk to friends on the phone. Or text them. Or email them.

I don't know how to make new ones, or retain old ones. But, if I did, I'd probably make it a point to validate their feelings, because, if there's one thing I understand about humanity, it's how we are hungry. And I don't mean for asslicking, but for good old fashioned support. A little praise for a song unsung. A kind word. A little boost in the midst of a dirty little world that does its best to cover us with dirt far before we've ceased breathing.

You're welcome here. Even if I don't agree with you and harbor vague suspicions that you may chew your food too quickly, or too loudly, or too animatedly, or that you secretly think I'm a piece of shit in real life, or if I think you may be a piece of shit in real life, or if I cry too much and laugh too loudly-- you're always welcome here. Even when the funny is dirty and the dirt is funny.

Come on in and get a piece, and, in my own weird way-- I'll make sure I give you back one, too.

You're Going to Get Cancer and Die

In a week or so, I'll have been at my current job for half-a-year. I really enjoy it, as I think you know. I like the patients. I like the coworkers. Hell, I even like the commute. My last job was less than half-a-mile away from my house, and I sometimes walked to work, which was nice. But it really cut into my NPR time. Now, with a commute of approximately 40 minutes each way, I get my dose of the liberal media, and I like it like that.

One thing I don't especially like about my current job is when my coworkers tell me I'm going to get cancer and die.

I eat lunch in my car. I do this for several reasons.

1.) More NPR. (Except, on Saturdays, it's "The Splendid Table" from 12pm-1pm, and there's only about so much pretentious palaver that a reasonable man can take.)

2.) Since we're not allowed to have our cellphones on the unit, I keep mine in the car, so my lunch hour is the only chance I have to check, send or receive text messages, listen to voicemails, fight with insurance companies, send love messages to my wifey-doo, or look at porn. Just kidding-- I wouldn't do that on my phone. The screen is way too small.

3.) I don't like it when people watch me eat, or I perceive that people are watching me eat.

4.) I don't like it when people comment on my lunch, which people inevitably do when you eat in front of them.

Anyway, on Saturday, I violated one of my cardinal rules of lunch (thou shalt not bring any portion of lunch back into the chart room) and I brought back a barely-consumed Caffeine Free Diet Coke into the chart room. Three of my coworkers were sitting around doing nothing-- which they're very good at, by the way.

"Whoa," said one, the moment I set the can down on the table, "Caffeine Free Diet Coke! Look out for this wild and crazy guy!"

"You should see what he binges on at night-- Celestial Seasonings Sleepy Time Tea!" another of my delightful colleagues joked.

"Don't you people have an wild animal to inseminate or something?" I asked, prompting rousing laughter from around the table.

"No, seriously," said the third, a male nurse in his fifties with an ardent love of profanity, "that fuckin' shit'll fuckin' kill you."

The nurse picked up my Coke can and began reading the ingredients.

"Yeah, phenelnuclearwhateverthefuckitis-- that fuckin' stuff will really work into your kidneys. I'm fuckin' serious-- fuckin' cancer. How much of that fuckin' shit do you drink a day?"

Now I really had to fuckin' think about that.

"I don't know, definitely a can every day with lunch. Sometimes another one with or after dinner."

"Jesus fuckin' shit!" the male nurse exclaimed, "that's gonna fuckin' kill you!"

A more eloquent coworker, who writes his patient notes with a fountain pen, said, "They say that the artificial sweeteners actually mimic the symptoms of M.S. but I'm not sure that there's much credence lent to the studies in the '70s about aspartame in lab rats-- the quantities they used would never be able to be consumed in a human lifetime."

"Still," the nurse said, "fuckin' cancer's no fuckin' joke. Neither is fuckin' M.S." He turned to my coworker with the fountain pen. "They say it mimics the symptoms of M.S.?"

"That's what I've read."

"Fuck!"

"I don't even know what you fuckin' bother with that shit for-- if there's no fuckin' caffeine in it, what's the fuckin' point? It's like drinking fuckin' O'Douls at a fuckin' Fourth of July picnic!"

I pointed to my 20 ounce coffee mug.

"I get plenty of caffeine. Don't worry about me."

And, really, that's the main point that I want to make, on this blog, and in life. Generally speaking: don't worry about me. I'm good. If I want to fry my internal organs with cell-crushing artificial sweeteners, um, let me. In fact, you can bury me with a can of CFDC in my withered, cancer-ridden hand. That would be okay. If I'm cremated, though, don't do that, because that thing could fuckin' explode and blow some anonymous rabbi's beard off.

"You know what I think is funny," I said to my Three Wise Coworkers, "if I hadn't come back from my lunch-break with this can of Caffeine Free Diet Coke, this conversation would have been about something completely different. What do you think we'd be talking about if we didn't have my choice of soft drink to discuss and dissect?"

The male nurse shrugged.

"Fuckin' bullshit, I guess."

You might think that, because I have a blog that I'm automatically some narcissistic dickball who loves being talked about and being the center of attention. Well, on the internet that may very well be true, but, in real life, I'm perfectly happy to come into work, keep my head down, make a few self-deprecating remarks, do unfortunate amounts of paperwork, sign and stamp my name approximately seven thousand times, and go home. Don't talk to me too much. Don't talk about my shoes or my Coke or my habits or my facial expressions. And don't invite me to an amusement park or to Happy Hour or to see "Blue Man Group" with you and your girlfriend.

Jesus. What are people thinking?

Well, Steal My Milk Money and Call Me a Pussy-Burger, It's... DEAR APRON!

You know, I'm surprised I haven't gotten sued yet. It's a good thing I'm a big rich fucking Jew and everybody I know is a hook-nosed, greasy-haired laywer because there's just no stopping...

DEAR APRON:

Our son has not spoken to us in 2 1/2 years. This isn't the first time it has happened. When we are asked how he and his family are doing and where they are living, we don't know how to respond. What do we say when meeting someone new and they ask whether we have children?

If we answer that we have one son, a number of questions are sure to follow for which we don't have answers. Can you offer some appropriate responses to these questions that don't require having to say, "We don't know"? -- NEEDS AN ANSWER IN VIRGINIA

DEAR NEEDS ANSWERS:

Gee, what a quaint conundrum. The way I see it, which is the only way that matters-- at least here, you have two options. 1.) Dishonesty, and 2.) Honesty. Because I'm strokin' the joystick here, let's take a little time and explore both.

Sexcellent.

1.) Dishonesty

I picked Dishonesty first because lying is always easier than telling the truth, no matter what your lawyer tells you. In fact, if he tells you the opposite, then he obviously isn't Jewish and you need to get yourself another lawyer.

When people ask you questions about your estranged son and his family, the easiest course of action is to just make up a litany of complete and utter balderdash lies. For example,

"Oh, Jim? He's fabulous! Yeah, he's Vice-President in charge of shipping and label-machine usage for a thermonucleardynamic underwear factory in Tulsa. His wife, Kathy-Lee is a washed-up television co-host who is marketing a new line of hypodermic snackfood. Their twins, Cody and Rody, are conjoined at the upper lip but are doing great in school and Cody made the Varsity soccer team! It's admittedly a little awkward for Rody when his lifeless body gets dragged up and down the field, and his limbs do tend to get in Cody's way, but they make the best of it! Their dog, Dexter, has HIV but his latest round of leisons are healing nicely. Cody and Rody love rubbing lemon salve on ol' Dex. Conchita, their maidservant, has a darling little figure and cleans house wearing the most delightful little green latex uniform with patent leather pasties. She's pregnant with Jim's latest and everybody's thrilled that the baby will be born an American citizen."

2.) Honesty

"Oh, Jim? He doesn't speak to us anymore because we used to molest him at bedtime every night after reading him 'Mr. Popper's Penguins.'"

DEAR APRON:

I have a neighbor with a lovely family. While I enjoy talking to them, I don't know how to politely tell her to stay home when I have company. She will send her children to my door selling school items when my adult children are here for dinner. She comes into my yard with her kids when I'm entertaining friends from out of town.

I was brought up that if a neighbor has company, you should stay home unless you were invited. I just want some privacy when I have guests. -- NAMELESS IN THE EAST

DEAR NAMELESS:

I believe that this letter speaks to a larger problem in our society. We don't know how to be passive-aggressive/politely confrontational anymore. We have lost that WASPish thin-lipped ability to be edgy through clenched teeth, to say "Thanks, but no thanks," with a delicate grin while smoke shoots out of our eardrums. What has become of this formerly and alternately rude but polite society? I blame too much reality television and not enough hypodermic snackfood.

I'm not sure if you are well-acquainted with the criminal code laws in your particular neck-of-the-woods there, Nameless, but, in most counties, commonwealths, towns and townships, it is legal to utilize deadly force upon an intruder who threatens to enter your home or even set an unauthorized foot on your property. If the thought of employing lethal force against your "neighbor with a lovely family" makes you squeamish, then I might suggest a weapon whose virtues I have extolled previously on this blog:


That's right, kids-- the TASER X-12 is back and ready to give your neighbor the business. If your nosey neighbor just can't seem to stay away when you're having the kids over (she comes into your yard? Seriously?) send her (and her kids) an unmistakable message with the TASER X-12, fashioned after the Mossberg 500 Pump-Action 12-guage shotgun. With integrated Radial Ammunition Key technology, twin action bars and positive steel-to-steel lock-up, the TASER X-12 is your best bet for a quick, non-lethal resolution to irritating neighborhood disturbances.

And it comes in pretty yellow, too!

DEAR APRON:

My husband and I have a serious difference of opinion, and I'd like your input.
I am of Indian (Asian, not Native American) origin, and I would like our children to have Indian names because I think they are more unique and prettier.

My husband, who is American, contends they are often difficult to spell and pronounce, and moreover, since we're an "American" family, we ought to chose American names. I disagree.

One of the names he would like to give, I particularly dislike. He says it was his grandfather's name and he would like to carry it on. We don't have kids yet -- and at this rate we're not likely to anytime soon. What do you think about this stalemate? -- CONTEMPLATING PARENTHOOD

DEAR CONTEMPLATING PARENTHOOD:

I think Indian women are hot. The next time you are showering or riding a horse, send some ESP waves my way so I can visualize that if you don't mind.

Now, in response to your question-- which I haven't forgotten about while thinking about you soaping up and/or horseback riding-- I think you two should compromise. Forget about naming your children Nupur or Ramachandran, and definitely forget about naming them Morris, which I'm thinking is your husband's grandfather's name which you, understandably, "particularly dislike."

I think you should name your children after different flavors of ice cream. But not Ben & Jerry's flavors. Because that would be stupid.