I acted quickly, purchasing an industrial sized tub* of Noxzema, but when those red monsters wouldn’t budge, I called for reinforcements. In other words, I moved on to Clearasil–after all, those folks in Clearasil ads had some gnarly pimples, and if it could help them, it had to help me, right?

*Note: any product that comes in a tub is meant to either a.) be shared by a family of four or more, or b.) serve as a response to an emergency.

Wrong! It’s not that the Clearasil didn’t work; it’s that nothing can quell those fitful surges of pubescent hormones that make a mockery of formerly flawless skin. I thought zits were a product of teenage angst, meaning no angst no more blemishes, and I assumed they would disappear sometime around the age of 18–20 at the absolute latest.

Um, no. No one told me that pimples continue to launch attacks on your face throughout your 20′s. They might follow you into your thirties and perhaps into your 40′, too! They’re relentless. Monsters, I say! Complete monsters!

We have met the enemy and its name is Adult Acne.

Breaking with this tradition, however, I’ll share what has been most comforting and, more importantly, welcome in my attempt (or should I say struggle) to make my peace:

1. Big hugs from good friends
2. Short and sweet sentiments like “My condolences” or “I’m sorry to hear this. Please let me know if I can do anything.”
3. Honesty e.g. “I don’t know what to say other than I’m sad and I’m here for you.”
4. The absence of exaggerated frowns or dramatic sighs from would-be well-wishers (how’s that for some alliteration?!)
5. Not urging me to discuss memories or future plans before I’m ready.

Hey, what works for you may be different.  No one tells you to prepare for the huge amount of suckage that comes with aging– yours and theirs– but I’m telling you to grieve as you need, embrace your own process and take care of yourself the way your loved ones would want you to do.

After I learned there is a chance a woman might poo during the birthing process, I was most certainly dismayed. However, even the runs seemed relatively tolerable after I learned about “tearing” and “snipping.” Confused perhaps? I suggest you start by googling episiotomy.

Yea…regardless of your anatomy, scissors by your anus doesn’t really settle well, does it?

Needless to say, presented with this new information, I started wondering if bringing a new life into this world is really worth it. Maybe this whole “propagating the species” isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

And this, my friends, is why no one talks about these procedures because we can’t have women asking themselves such questions, right?! They might just decide that reproducing is overrated; they might close their uteruses (uteri?!) to male swimmers, and then there goes the human race.

So keep it on the DL (no pun intended). Keep mankind alive!

I suppose it makes sense; one can only do the ol’ heave-ho without something giving, right? But how do you enjoy baby’s first moments when you’ve soiled yourself? Is this why fathers always faint in the delivery room on sitcoms? I mean, squeezing a watermelon out of an opening the size of plum is probably traumatic enough, not to mention dealing with the sticky-icky-icky umbilical cord, but add to that the chance of defecation… Sometimes I’m astounded that people actually reproduce at all.

LinkedIn Lesson #1–read things; that’s why they wrote them.

When users want to know who is looking at them, it does not show your full name unless you allow it (again, settings), but if you’re job title and/or industry is rather specific, it can take away from the anonymity.

LinkedIn Lesson #2: Don’t be overly creative with the job title (anymore); sometimes there’s no need to stand out.

This is especially true when you’re seeking a job– perhaps you’re the only person from X company who holds the position of Blah Blah, and the potential employer knows this because they’ve read your resume, obviously.  Hmmm…how to ensure your point is taken without invoking actual embarrassing example?

Let’s say this–I’m sure it’s nice to know that people who are interested in hiring you might be reading your glowing LinkedIn recommendations (assuming you’re making most of your profile), but it feels a little awkward knowing they can also see you’re scoping them out, too.  Just wait until everyone else in the office mentions that you’ve been perusing their profiles as well.  So much for spying.

LinkedIn Lesson #3:  Stop spying.

LinkedIn Lesson #4: Scratch Lesson #3.  Change your settings so to stealth mode, you fool!

Talk about an inconvenient truth: no one tells you that your hair line starts creeping back about the same time you start drinking…legally, that is.

When I was a child, I always thought hair loss (or just plain baldness) happened to men in their 40′s, like good ol’ Uncle George.   C’mon- you know you have a near-bald Uncle George, too.

For some reason, I also never considered that hair loss might be a gradual thing.  If anything, you woke up at 40 and found clumps of hair in the drain of your shower, but that was okay because you were, after all, “over the hill,” not in the middle of your college career or at the height of your dating game.

I now find myself facsinated by older men who still have a full (or mostly so) head of hair.  For the rest of the poor 25+ year old smucks with thining hair, the question has become at what point do you embrace the comb-over or surrender to the bic for “blending” purposes?

The answer– from whoever did eventually tell me– is often simply, “no one tells you…” (followed by a sigh).

Through this rather haphazard manner, I have been inducted into the occult leagues of adulthood, motherhood and so much more.

This site is dedicated to my induction (and perhaps yours, too).  Welcome! And don’t worry; no one told me either!