Career advice from future me to my grown son (yeah, the one who is now an infant)

As part of my charity running campaign, readers who donated $50 or more were able to dictate the contents of one blog post.  Today’s topic comes from long time RCAT reader, Rich. This is Rich:

Rich

Rich asked me to write a letter like it’s in the future and I need to provide career advice to my son Owen who would then be a grown up.   Frankly speaking, it’s a terrible idea. But I am not one to renege* on my promises*, so here’s something sort of resembling what he asked for.

*I initially wanted to use the word “welch” here, but I googled it to find out if it’s actually welch or welsh, and instead I found out I was racist.  So I apologize to all the people of Wales for my near derogatory remark.  I trust you all no matter what.
**Except I might not fulfill anyone else’s blog requests.

Career Advice From Future Me to My Grown Son

Dear Owen,

By now you’re old enough to know most of my life story.  I’m not just “dad,” I’m also the guy that people stop on the street and say, “Hey!  Aren’t you that blogger guy with the beautiful wife who became a billionaire in her late 30s?”  And yes, Owen, technically that is a correct way to describe me, but before I became “just” the trophy husband to your lovely mother, I had a career.  Many careers in fact.  You may not know this, but before that first Rob Complains About Things propelled me to profits in the tens of dollars, I had the following jobs:

  • Paperboy
  • Golf Range Ball Picker Upper
  • Camp Counselor
  • Telemarketer
  • Intern
  • High powered attorney
  • SAT tutor

That’s right, my boy, I’ve done it all, and along the way, I’ve learned many lessons – mostly because I fucked so many things up.  Because I don’t want you to be one of those spoiled billionaire brats, here’s some advice that may help you as you advance through your career:

1.  Don’t listen to anyone else.

You will hear a lot of different things about the “right” thing to do.  In fact, that’s precisely what I’m doing now.  Remember that what’s right for one person may not be right for you.  A wise woman once said, “Don’t go chasing waterfalls.”  Well, that’s the best career advice you’ll ever get (if by waterfalls TLC was referring to money, prestige, or someone else’s approval).

Looking back through old pictures, I’m blown away by how clear my career intentions were. At various points in my life, I made it clear that I wanted to be:

A carpenter:

photo 1

A tiger:

photo 2

and a naked cowboy:

Cowboy

censored for gratuitous penis

Yet somewhere along life’s journey, that path got twisted and turned and tied up in knots, and I ended up trying to fulfill some unrealistic vision of the perfect career.  I’m not sure where that vision came from, but it was misaligned with what my gut was saying to me (and at times that gut was a massive force).

So in a quest for a real corporate career, I wound up in some rather odd places.  My first job was to call mutual fund companies pretending to be someone else so that I could pass judgment on their customer service department.  I was essentially a rogue member of the Jerky Boys (or a humorless corporate behemoth version of the Jerky Boys).

Next, I ventured into the high-powered world of technology as a telemarketing sales rep.  I cold called hundreds of people a day, but spent the majority of my time developing my writing skills by drafting uproarious emails to my friends.

Fed up with the nausea that developed when I told people I was a telemarketer, I left this illustrious career to attend law school.  I’d show them, I thought.  Lawyers are prestigious!!!! Who could hate a lawyer?  I’ll go work for a big law firm and lead a life filled happiness and riches.  Instead, I developed mild cases of anxiety, depression, isolation, OCD, and the Sunday mopes.  That’s when I followed in my old man’s footsteps and became the SAT King of the East.

I hope you get the point here.  Listen to your heart and follow your real passions.  If you want to become

a fireman:

image

A 1920s paper boy:

image_1

A British Guardsman:

image_2

Or a Run DMC:

image_3

Well, I’m not going to stop you.  Go with it!

2.  Do the things that you want to do.

You come from a long line of entrepreneurs and risk takers.  Your grandmother had a business that was built on a foundation of eggshells (literally).  Your aunt is a Millennial Workplace Expert.  (I know, sounds made up, but it really was a thing back in the Early 2010s).  If you want to be the world’s next great egg painter, then you should.  Don’t worry about what other people will think of your career choices.  If you like it, it will work.

A brief anecdote about your grandfather:  According to legend, Grandpa Buddy finished college and decided to follow in his old man’s footsteps.  Although it seems impossible and contrary to every established fact you’ve learned about the old coot, Big Papa Buddy was at one time going to be a dentist.  That means that he must have taken at least one science class in school.

Well, Big Papa Buddy got so far in his pursuit of a dental degree that he applied, enrolled, and matriculated in Dental College.  Papa Buddy was moving along “the path” until the day the professor introduced them to the drill.  When he started to drill – and take this with a grain of salt because the veracity of Papa Buddy’s stories is always in question – Papa Buddy accidentally drilled right through the tooth he was working on and then through the table in the lab.

Drill Baby Drill

Later that day, Papa Buddy informed your Great Grandpa that the quest for a dental degree was coming to an end.  He became a dental school dropout, spent a brief period of time working in a hippy dippy poster shop in New York City, and then went on to have a legendary teaching career.

The point of this story, Owen, is twofold:  1) Don’t do anything just because I say to or because you think it will make me happy, and 2) Don’t become a dentist or come anywhere near my teeth with a drill.

3)  Embrace the hard parts.

Any time I’ve started a new job, tried to master a new skill, or pursued anything with vigor, there came a time when it got difficult.  Like way more difficult than I had initially thought possible.  When that moment comes, it will seem simpler to take the easy way out.  The “easy way out” can take many forms, but the most common are quitting or stagnating.  If you settle into your comfort zone because it makes your job easier, then I promise you will hit a point where you hate it.  It’s worth fighting through loads of challenges to break through to a level of competency that you could not achieve by staying in your comfort zone.  Another wise woman once said:

Comfort Zone

I stole that from an episode of Girls (who probably stole it from somewhere else).  See, Owen, I’m not afraid to borrow liberally from TV shows with gratuitous nudity and sexually suggestive language.

Anyway, when you hit the point where something gets hard, that’s the point when it’s really important to push yourself to the next level.  If you don’t make the effort at that moment, one of the following things will happen:  You’ll quit; You’ll stagnate; You’ll get bored; Others will pass you by.  All of those are bad options.

Fight the urge to be complacent when you’re “good enough,” and try to be better.  It’s the hardest thing to do because it means stepping out of the comfort zone, but it’s worth it because when you get to that next level, you’ll feel like that effort was worth it.  You will also be really good at whatever you were working on.  I mean, just look at how far my stick figure drawings have come since the beginning of this blog.  Do you think that’s a coincidence?

4.  End on a high note

Sometimes you have to know when to walk away.  Even though I literally just said you have to push through the hard parts, sometimes it’s not worth it.  If you hate something you’re doing, or feel like you’re doing it just to appease the desires of others, or for the money, or for the chicks, then it’s probably a bad idea.  Walk away.  There’s no such thing as career momentum if you’re momentuming towards something you don’t want.

I’m going to take some of my own advice right now, and end this before it gets even longer and shittier than it already is.  So peace out, Owen.  I hope you find a career that allows you to support me and my poker habit when I’m cooped up in that old person’s home eating mashed up peas.

Peace out!
Love,
Dad

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Parenting: 8 ways that it’s just like pledging a fraternity or sorority

As a new parent, I have heard some iteration of the following advice about 15 million times:

“Parenthood is unlike anything you’ve done before.  You’ll never truly understand until you’ve been through it.”

As someone with literally zero experience with the logistics of parenthood (e.g., changing diapers, cleaning spit up out the little crevice between the underarm and the chest, or wiping projectile diarrhea off the ceiling), I was concerned.

Once I got started, however, I realized it all seemed so familiar.  I wondered to myself, “Rob, how can you be so calm in the face of all these new experiences?  Where did your parenting prowess come from?  What in your life made you such an expert at parenting?”

And then it hit me:  The late night wake ups, the incessant crying, the bodily fluids everywhere, the nagging sense that there was something else I should be doing, the disconnection with the outside world.

Being a new parent is exactly the same as pledging a fraternity or sorority.

How parenthood is like pledging a fraternity - drawing by Rob Pollak

If you’re a new parent, just imagine yourself as a pledge of Delta Alpha Delta (D.A.D.) or Mu Omega Mu (M.O.M.).  Don’t panic, it will all be familiar.

You lose all control over your own time.

My first night as a pledge, I awoke to my phone at 3am.  I answered.

“Yello?” I said.

“Who’s this?”

“Pollak.”

“Pollak, you fuck.  I need you to bring me a pack of cigarettes and a yoo-hoo.”

For the next few months, I had no control over my schedule.  At any given hour, I could be forced against my will (on a completely voluntary basis, of course) to go searching for a taco, to bring a case of beer to someone camping in the woods in a nearby state, to walk miles just to be yelled at for not going fast enough, or to hold a match while reciting–in alphabetical order–the names of people long deceased.

Now, as a parent, I feel the same sense of uselessness when I shut my eyes.  The second I enter REM sleep, a whimper will sneak its way out of the bassinet, a stream of pee will make a triumphant escape from the diaper, a bombastic fart will echo across the room, foul-smelling poo will makes its presence known.  And just like that–bleary eyed and hallucinating–I get out of bed and figure out how to make it stop.

New moms

You get drenched with bodily fluids. 

Before becoming parents, everyone insists that they will not end up covered in human feces, but at some point it’s bound to happen.

New parents tend to go on and on about the time they aimed their kid at the Diaper Genie while the kid let loose a barrage of machine gun style diarrhea that obliterated the walls.  Not surprisingly, pledging can also include odd rituals that involve feasting on bodily fluids and super soakers of urine.

Don’t believe me?  A quick google search of fraternity hazing and bodily fluids brings back a mind-boggling smattering of hazing ideas that can keep young men occupied for years to come.  I’m guessing you’ve never had a vomlet before, have you?

New dads

You can’t go anywhere without telling everyone exactly where you will be and when you’ll be back.

Similar to the loss of control over time, new parents and pledges both lose the ability to disappear from the face of the earth.  No more sneaking out for a quick nine after work, or  over to your girlfriend’s dorm room for a quiet afternoon.  You now have to account to the other pledges for your whereabouts.  Some societies even make you travel in packs at all time.

With a new kid, you no longer can just get up and go.  Everything becomes a process.  I once got caught in a long checkout line at CostCo and Anne texted me 74 times.

[Anne didn’t really text me 74 times.  I completely made that up.  I normally assume that this kind of joke is clear, but Anne is in an interesting hormonal place because she recently gave birth.  She might rip my head off, screaming “I never fucking texted you when you were at Costcooooooooooooooo.]

[For the record, Anne’s not in an interesting hormonal place right now.  I dramatized that as well for another joke.  She’s very loving and caring and is an excellent mother].

You stick a finger in someone else’s asshole.

With a baby, it’s to wipe or apply ointment.  With a fraternity, it’s to do the The Elephant Walk.

You have to wear ridiculous outfits.

During pledging, you may have to dress in certain colors or costumes.  It’s not surprising to see pledges dressed in drag or even running around campus in the nude.  Likewise, new parents must wear Baby Bjorns, Bert and Ernie shirts, and often force the newborn to dress in similarly ridiculous costumes.  Anne wants our baby to be Oatmeal for Halloween.

You constantly clean up after someone else.

One of the best things about being a baby or a sophomore in a fraternity is that you don’t have to lift a finger.  Whenever there’s vomit on the floor, just cry or pick up the phone to call mommy, daddy, or that pledge to clean up your mess.

You are forced to listen to terrible songs on repeat all day.

I’ve heard stories of pledges sitting in a room blindfolded listening to Journey on repeat for 20 straight hours.  It doesn’t sound half bad now that I’m rocking out to the Bubble Guppies theme song for 93 straight hours.

To make matters worse, I only know the lyrics to one song.  So my poor baby has to listen to me sing the first verse of twinkle twinkle little star until he can’t take it anymore and pretends to go to sleep so I’ll shut up.

Every once in a while when all hope is lost, something wonderful happens.

Both parenting and pledging have moments that are pretty damn hard.  Maybe you even question whether you can hack it.  It’s in those moments–the ones that often come at 4:30 in the morning–when you awake to another in a long line of stressful activities.

But this time, instead of the usual hazing or, well, hazing, you get a surprise keg party or a sweet little smile.  Then, BOOM.  You’re sucked back in because, in the back of your head, you think that even the worst moments might be one huge mindfuck on the way to a happy ending.

An interview with random people from the internet about parenting.

My interview with a dad series came to a screeching halt after I completed my interviews of Ryan and Andy.  Apparently I have fewer real life friends than I thought, and those that do exist refused to participate in an interview.  They claim that the photos I chose for other participants amounted to public shaming and that I was being unfair by making up quotes that made the parents seem neglectful.  I thought it was all in good fun, but I guess no one cares what I think.

Thankfully, the internet is loaded with insane, self-aggrandizing narcissists who will agree to just about anything.  Like Jennifer, a popular mommy blogger at Ramblings of a Suburban Mom.

Please note that Suburban Mom is not the same thing as Teen Mom, who has recently hit the news for appearing in a million dollar porno (NSFW but from HuffPo so also KindaSFW).

Jennifer and her husband, “B” kindly agreed to let me interview them.  They seemed like a perfect choice for this series because the Suburban Mom once linked to my blog and an army of humor-deprived moms gleefully clicked the link and laughed and laughed and laughed.  I’d like that to happen again, and I imagine she’s now obligated to share this link with her devout followers.  ‘Sup ladies.

Before we get started, a bit more context about Suburban Mom:

1) A portion of her website is devoted to Tupperware.  Sometimes the jokes just write themselves.

2)  Another portion of her website reviews boxes.   I don’t understand the concept, so you’ll have to check it out yourself.  Just trust me that it’s worth a click.  I wasn’t convinced until I saw her review of the Boink Box.  The review wasn’t particularly interesting, but I laughed every time I said Boink Box out loud.  Twelve times.  I said it twelve times.  Boink Box.

3)  Suburban Mom and I are not facebook friends, so the photo-roast portion of the interview will be brief.  I scoured her blog for good pictures, but there were disproportionately more pictures of those stupid boxes than of her kids.

Here’s a picture of two kids that I am 80% certain belong to her.

And here’s a picture that was published under the guise of being a cute picture of her kid when it’s really a thinly veiled attempt by the dad to show off his abs in the sunglass reflection.  Nice try, B.  (more on this later).

Let’s get to the questions:

Rob Complains:  Thanks for joining me today.  You do realize that many of your answers will appear in highly edited form, correct?

Suburban Mom:  Of course.  But I’d do anything for a handsome, charming, physically fit specimen of a man like you, Rob.

Rob Complains:  You’re too sweet.

Rob Complains:  I’ve noticed that you write about 85 blog posts per week.  How do you find time to write, and do you think it’s acceptable to sedate your child for a few hours if you have a good idea for a blog post?

Suburban Mom:  Ha!!!  I stay up late, very late. Sometimes past Jimmy Kimmel late.  That’s why my grammar is so bad in my posts.  It’s way to hard to trie and right a blog post and entertain two kids at the same time.  Not happening.  Although; if I REALLY need to write a blog post, their our always snacks.  And TV.  I gotta tell you, Sponge Bob can entertain a kid like you wou’ldnt belief.

Rob Complains:  You ain’t lyin’ ’bout that grammar, girl.  Weird.  I’m not sure why this just turned into an episode of In Living Color.

Speaking of blogs, it’s normal for a spouse to demand editorial control over blog content, right?  Right?

Suburban Mom:  My husband might be the most laid back person on earth.  I think it’s the only way he can tolerate being married to me.  We are total opposites in that way.  He does not care what I write.  At all.  He’s a cool guy.

Rob Complains:  He does sound like a great guy.  Hmmmm.  Maybe a little too great.  How does he feel about having shirtless photos of himself posted all over the internet.  Do you give him advance notice, or does he just have a Google Alert set up for “sweet pecs” so he receives immediate notice when you post one of these:  

Suburban Mom:  B just laughed when I asked him this question.  He knows there are shirtless pictures but doesn’t mind.  He looks good.  I wouldn’t care either if I were him.

Rob Complains:  I wonder whether Anne would say such flattering things about me on her blog.  If Anne reviewed boxes, all of the reviews would be like, “I received an amazing box of flavored popcorn, candy, and ice cream.  Rob ate it all before I got home.  He said it was very good.  

And about those boxes:  When you review things on your website, do you get them for free, or do you spend a shitload of money on boxes of essentially worthless crap?

Suburban Mom:  I get this question a lot.

Rob Complains:  Oh really?

when you review things on your website  do you get them for free  or do you spend a shitload of money on boxes of essentially worthless crap     Google Search

Suburban Mom:  Anyway, I get a lot, okay most, of the boxes free.  The box companies will ask me to do a review and will send me a box free of charge.  Lots of the boxes have referral programs too, so like if 5 people sign up using my links, I get a free box that month.  It’s a pretty sweet deal.  It combines two of my loves.  Getting things in the mail.  And free stuff!

Rob Complains:  You hear that ladies – she’s using you.  Here at Rob Complains About Things, we’re in it only for the glory.  I would never sell your personal information.  Even for a Boink Box.  

By reading this post, you agree to allow me to sell any and all of your personal information 

Of all the things you’ve reviewed over the years, what are the must have items for a new parent?

Suburban Mom:  The baby crack machine and a sense of humor.  The baby crack machine is just a sound machine with a projector feature.  It’s like $20 and buy it for everyone having a baby.  It’s amazing and I swear, your kid will sleep better with it.  We used it with my older until he was maybe 3 and I swear, that kid sleeps like a ROCK.

And the sense of humor, well, you need one as a new parent.  It’s possible that, without a sense of humor, you could lose your mind.  I mean it’s not like anyone will be sleeping.

Rob Complains: Not Tupperware?  I know you’re into that shit.  What is this, 1977?  

Suburban Mom:  LOL!!!  But Tupperware is cool!  I swear.  They have so many cool gadgets and stuff. It’s not just bowls.  My husband even uses (and loves) all my Tupperware stuff.

Rob Complains:  Wow.  You really sold me with that.  Not just bowls but other things.  Like lids?  They have lids now?  WHERE DO I SIGN UP?!?!?!

Next question:  Do you notice anything missing from this list of blogs you love?  Anything?  Anything at all? 

Links I Love   Ramblings of a Suburban Mom (1)

Suburban Mom:  I suck right?  

Rob Complains:  Yes, that’s certainly what I was implying.

Suburban Mom:  In all fairness, I haven’t updated that list in ages.  When I get around to it, I will put you up at the top for sure!!!

Rob Complains:  Well, gee.  Thanks so much.  That means so much to me that when you get around to it at some yet to be determined time, you will move me to the top of the list.  

Question For your husband:  How much sympathy weight did you gain?  How much should I gain?  Did you try to keep up with your wife on the lb a week thing?  Because that’s a lot of ice cream, right?

Suburban Mom:  My husband is a jerk and didn’t gain any weight.  He can eat whatever he wants and never gains a pound.  Or if he does, he loses it all in like a week.  I kinda hate him because of it.  But wait, I didn’t know your wife was pregnant????  Where on earth have I been?  When is she due?  What is she having?  And again, where have I been?  I need all the details on this!  Can I send you guys a baby subscription box??

Rob Complains:  Well, I guess that’s why I’m not on the list of blogs you love.  Because you don’t read it.  I hate you and this stupid interview.  Which brings me to my next question:  Adult Boxes!  Heyo?

Suburban Mom:  This just proves there is a box out there for everyone!  They are also my husband’s favorite box category.

Rob Complains:  Really?  I would have thought he’d be more of a Tupperware guy.

Suburban Mom:  I think he likes when I text him pictures of these box contents when he’s at work.

Rob Complains:  Is it just me, or is anyone else getting uncomfortable?

Suburban Mom:  Ohh, and I gotta tell you, the “Adult” boxes are the ones that get the most clicks on my blog.  Seriously.  Maybe all the wives are buying them so that their husband’s don’t notice or don’t care when 10 other subscription boxes arrive at their house every month?  I can totally see that working.

Rob Complains:  That’s fraud.  What’s gonna happen when your kids find this interview and your blog in like 7 years?

Suburban Mom:  If my blog (and yours) are the worst things they find on the internet, I think we’ll be okay!. Heck, I hope I still even have a blog in 7 years.

Rob Complains:  Why’d you have to lump me into the worst things on the Internet.  This is not going well.

Suburban Mom:  I can say whatever I want now because no one’s reading this far down anyway.

Rob Complains:  That’s true.  Let me get to the boring questions that make it seem like you do actual parenting: 

How often can I justify eating ice cream by using it as a bribe to get my kid to do something?  And how early can I Start doing that?  On that note, can I ban my kid from eating sugar but just basically mainstream it into my system with no regard for how hypocritical I am being?  When do kids learn the word hypocritical?

Suburban Mom:  You can start bribing them AS SOON as they are born.  For example, when my oldest was a baby and I was a new mom up every few hours for weeks on end because my husband was out of town.

Rob Complains:  See!  I knew he was a dick.  He was probably at an Ab conference.

Suburban Mom:  I told the kid I would buy him a car when he turned 16 if he would just sleep through the night.

Rob Complains:  You know that he didn’t understand that, right?  

Suburban Mom:  And what do you know, he started sleeping through the night at 5 weeks.

Rob Complains:  I’m just going to promise our kid all the Tupperware in the world.  

What do you wish you had known before you had a human being to take care of?

Suburban Mom:  That kids don’t have to end your grown-up fun.

Rob Complains:  Yeah, we get it.  You and your husband get adult boxes.  Enough already.

Suburban Mom:  When people say things like, wait till you have kids, you’ll never go on vacation / eat out alone / sleep again, it’s not true.  At all. You can do everything you did before kids after you have kids.  And it’ll be more fun!  Except super duper long plane rides.  Kids aren’t too into that.  Taking care of another human is better than you think it will be.  People mention the long nights and the crying and they love to share their horrible labor stories with you.  But they forget to mention all of the good parts, like newborn snuggles and that newborn smell.

Rob Complains:  You mean, meconium?

Suburban Mom:  Mmmmmm yes!  It makes me want another baby right now!  Ohhh, and I also wish I would have known that everyone and their brother has an opinion on how you should raise your kid.  It’s quite annoying when some stranger at Target tells you your baby should be wearing a hat even though it’s 90 degrees out.

Rob Complains:  Yeah, good point.  Remind me not to take advice from any random strangers I meet over the Internet.  

Last question: What’s one thing that you did to your kid that you’ll never admit in public?

Suburban Mom:  I’m laughing just thinking about answers to that.

Rob Complains:  You should know that I exercised an amazing amount of self restraint by not writing an answer to that question for you.  Every one I tried made you seem like a bad person.

Anyhow.  Thanks for joining me.  I hope you send lots of your loyal readers to my blog and then they click here to follow my facebook page.

A surefire way to offend a room full of pregnant woman

I learned a valuable lesson recently.  When dealing with pregnant women, it’s sometimes best to keep certain thoughts to yourself, even when those thoughts may be factually accurate and supported by science.

Let me explain.  A few years ago, before I discovered yoga, I fancied myself something of a runner.  I was no Dean Karnazes, but my weekly mileage often soared into the double digits.  I envisioned a future filled with health and happiness, jogging strollers and Gu packs, spandex onesies and body glide.

All those dreams disappeared one cruel day at the TriBeCa Equinox.  Fresh off a sub-60 minute 10-K, I set out to become the world’s chubbiest sprinter by employing a training theory called “Speed Work.”  To do speed work, you supposedly just start at a nice warm up pace and then add periods of sprinting followed by a nice easy cool down.  I did my first speed work session on a treadmill.  I began with a nice warm up at 6.0 MPH and, when the time was right, cranked that puppy up to 6.2.  Whoa baby!  I had that thing  humming!   I loved speed work!

I’m a very logical person, so the next week when I tried speed work, I thought I should progress to see whether I’d improved.  Indeed I had.  I did my short warm up at 6.0 MPH and then steadily increased the speed to about 100000 MPH.  Here’s a video of what happened:

About half way into my last lap of speed work, I pounded my foot into the treadmill belt and screamed out in pain.  Fine, it was more of a yelp.  Or a whimper.  But holy hell did it hurt.  I limped off the treadmill and immediately consulted a medical professional, WebMD, where I learned that I definitely had either cancer or scoliosis.

Some more research and a trip to an actual doctor confirmed my worst fears.  I had something called Morton’s Neuroma, a thickening of the nerves between the third and fourth toes.  Anne still questions the existence of this condition.

Although I am prone to exaggerate things, I hope you’ll believe me when I describe the pain.  It felt like there was a little pebble in my shoe and every time I took a step, the pebble caused me a slight degree of discomfort.  On some mornings, the pain got so bad that I would take one, or maybe even two Tylenol.  On the worst day, I had to use extra strength gel capsules.

You might be asking yourself, “why is Rob talking about Morton’s Neuroma?  How does this relate to offending pregnant women?”  Good question, and believe me, I know exactly what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “why is this jackass trying to predict what I may be asking myself right now.  He doesn’t know me.  He doesn’t know anything about me.  I wish he’d just write about yoga again.  Or interview Ryan again.  That guy was funny.”

Well it turns out that studies have shown that Morton’s Neuroma may be as painful as childbirth (refer to the section on symptoms).  Lucy Waite, a well-established blog commenter over at the Angry Orthopod summed it up best.  She said, “[The] only comparison [to Morton’s Neuroma” is natural child-birth, which I did four times.”

A comparison of pain - Morton's Neuroma and Child Birth - Drawing by Rob Pollak

Who knows if the pain caused by Morton’s Neuroma actually is anything like child-birth.  Lucy Waite, that’s who.  But in case you don’t believe her, then let me give you some helpful advice:  If you ever find yourself in a hypnobirthing class where scared pregnant women are discussing their fears about pain, just keep your mouth shut.  I promise you that they will not feel comforted when you say, “Actually, I’ve had a Morton’s Neuroma, and according to studies conducted by researchers at KimsFoot.Com, it is supposedly just as painful as child-birth.  I didn’t think it was so bad, actually.  In fact, a little cortisone should clear it right up.”

Interview with a Dad: Sock-er Mom edition

Last week, I began a new interview series where I learn everything there is to know about being a dad.  Ryan was a real sport during that interview, but unfortunately he answered all my questions.  So even though this is only week two, I’m mixing it up a bit and interviewing a real mom.  Don’t worry though, she kind of has a boy’s name.

Without further ado, let’s get to my interview with Andriana Caradimitropoulo Spence, better known as Andy.  See a boy’s name.

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