Fingernails Forgotten -- The Lost Hours

26 hours in the 90's. I call them "The Lost Hours." So sad -- more than a whole day's time.

You see I have absolutely no memory of any of those hours: the 26 hours I've calculated that I spent clipping my fingernails in the 1990's. I mean to say that I literally don't have one independent recollection of even one of those "events." Do you?

My estimation is that I'd spent about 3 minutes per week times 52 weeks times 10 years, which equals 1,560 minutes (or 26 hours) doing the work. And again, I have absolutely no memory, only very strong circumstantial evidence that I did cut them. After all I certainly didn't go around clawing myself or others that decade, and surely I would have retained some memorable anecdotes had I been walking around with claws the whole time.

So why should I care about the "lost hours"? Frankly It's the way they were lost -- lost in the mindless mutilation of my own body. I just can't get past that one fact, and of course it scares the heck out of me -- so I just try to remind myself that it's normal and that we all have these kinds of worries from time to time.

Stranger Danger

My daughter Annie recently had a really bad stomach ache so I took her to the doctor. Well, we were there for a couple of hours and after they ran a few test, the nurse came in and said that she needed to have her appendix out.

OK, that was cool I guess. Here's the thing though. The next thing I knew this lady comes in, introduces herself (I don't even remember her name), and says that she's a doctor and is going to be shortly cutting my daughter's belly open, pulling out stuff, and then sewing her back up.

I didn't really know what to do. I thought like I should ask for references or something? I didn't want to insult her though obviously. I mean, she did have a white jacket on that said M.D. on it. Surely they just don't give those things out to anyone.

To make a long story short I just said, "Alright, have at it." Everything turned out great and Annie's fine now.

The moral of the story you ask? You tell me bro.

How to Handle Criticism

Nobody likes criticism right? I know I don't. For example, if some punk says to me, "Your blog's not funny," or "Dan you've really put on the weight," it really bothers me -- or I should say it used to bother me.

You see, I've come up with a great all-purpose comeback to any slight. (You can use it too if you'd like.) Just say,"Well, that may be true but so what? I mean, you've got a somewhat effeminate sounding voice -- we all have our cross to bear in this world. I say live and let live!"

Trust me, if the dude has just even a little homophobe in him, he'll be walking around semi-wounded for days to come.

By the way, this doesn't work for criticism that comes from a female obviously. I'm still working on that one.