Wherein Aunt Laura wakes from a sound slumber...

I've spent a long weekend pondering our last conversation. How do we be un-evil? I woke up in the middle of the night with the answer.

I dreamed that a line-cutter pushed past you into the bathroom, and you graciously allowed him to pass. And that as soon as the door closed, you strapped your belt over the door handle, and braced yourself. Everyone behind you began laughing as the guy struggled to pull the door open. He eventually began crying, so you let him out, and bolted the party.

We dodge being evil by building a new paradigm: We don't have to punch people with fists if we can punch them with intellect. If we're smarter, more clever, more broad-minded, we needn't resort to being oafish.

What if the only way the drunken oaf could have left the bathroom were through a small window, or through an apology? How much more effective would the pursuit to correct the world's ills have been if the guy had been embarrassed? Humiliated, even? What if you had gleefully waited for your vengeance, and then tripped over...urinated on...publicly outed him five minutes later? Or what if you'd even offered up a fake apology for not recognizing his masculine superiority, and turned the idiot into a fan? (Did I tell you that when my former boss used to annoy me, I'd go buy him a candy bar? My staff expressed surprise, until I confessed I hoped he'd choke on it. He never did catch on.)

Likewise, parenting. Perhaps the same principle of "you've got to be smarter than your problem" applies. Suppose your future rugrat were to mouth off to you. And suppose you responded by mouthing off better? Funnier? Kinder? Edgier? What if you responded to adolescent provocation with a new perspective, offered with humor and grace, that reduced your rugrat to laughter (or, at worst, caused him to slink off to his room to deal with his hormones on his own, followed by a big hug when he civilized himself)? Suppose there was no parenting circumstance that could force you do anything other than offer up hugs and insight and humor? (Because in the end, does any other parenting maneuver have any positive outcome?)

Bottom line: What if you were to decide that all human-interaction problems were merely Roy-of-blackbelt-fame problems, where you just laughed at provocation, because you know it's just stupid?

I've seen you do it, even when you had no model for it -- which is the reason I suspect that's who you really, truly, deeply are.

___

*By the way, I explained your "I'm cursed" concern to Uncle D. He laughed. And said the same thing I told you: The very fact that you're aware there's a problem means there's no problem. You've got this.

Wherein I Speak With the Creaky Voice of an Old Woman

The price of missing a loan payment deadline is this: You have to read my blog. 

Best investment I've ever made. And the cheapest interest rate you'll ever pay.

So, about your career.

Have I told you how funny Kl__s* is? So funny my teeth hurt. Kl__s is mastered, and can appear almost without preparation. You've nailed him, and he's forever yours.

So, for your consideration, this bit of counsel: You mustn't gain a reputation as a one-trick pony.

Oh, this is fun, this advice-giving. Watch me natter on:

Your USP†, your most salable talent, is autobiographical story-telling. It ought to be your stock in trade. In fact, you're so very, very good at it that you should consider keeping an index card in your pocket‡ for jotting down reminders of stories. Memory is fallible. Your stories are more valuable to your career than gold, and you must guard them by writing them down.

Because you're on the other side of your face when you talk, let me tell you what I observe about your humor. You've got a million funny stories. (Tales of this family's dysfunction alone would merit an hour-long show.) And the more excitable you are when you tell 'em, the funnier they get.

That may be the reason Kl__s works. Perhaps he's your anti-hero, the inverse of your excitable funny man. But both men are hysterical. Don't lose your balance.

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* - Note my Dickensian proclivity for anonymizing this blog by substituting underscores for alphanumerics. Think the NSA will catch on?

† - Unique Selling Proposition. You know that term, yes?

‡ - See? I told you I'm old (note the URL, above, which I see -- now -- may read as either "Because I'm old" or "Because I Mold." They both work.) But index cards are your grandfather's sworn key to success. Ask him about it.