Today, my 15 year daughter asked if I invited anyone over the holiday stating that she has cornhole. She reminded me she received it from a good friend as a birthday gift a few years ago. I made a mental note about Ella’s cornhole and went out for a long run. After I hit the acceptable number of miles, my thoughts returned to Ella’s offer for my friends to play with her game and it didn’t sound right as I rolled this around in my mind.

It seems cornhole was created in 1883 and was put into the same category as the game of horseshoes, but cornhole was a game that could be played indoors or on the lawn. The name “cornhole” always perplexed me. Frankly, the name sounds dirty to me, and I can’t quite explain why. It seems that in the day and age of primitive plumbing when outhouses were being used it is said that people used dried corn cobs for toilet paper. Using corn cobs as a toilet paper substitute by itself isn’t dirty or depraved. It does confuse me as to why anyone would look at a dried corn cob and think, “Hey, I could totally wipe my butt with this!” If corn cobs were really a good T.P. alterative, I am confused why this was not brought up as a healthy alternative to solving the toilet paper shortage during the Covid-19 shenanigans.

Getting back to the game, I didn’t understand the beanbags that are thrown during the game were filled with actual corn at one time. Feeling naïve, I wonder if the beanbags in the games sold today are still filled with corn. I have never cut a beanbag open. However, knowing this now, the name finally makes much more literal sense and I will forever speak it like a Neanderthal when saying it out loud.

Regardless of the cornhole research above, somewhere along the way society has taken this word for a ride down a path that makes me uncomfortable or maybe I watched way too much Beavis and Butt-Head. When I called friends to ask what they might be up to for the holiday evening. I realized I was uncomfortable mentioning Ella’s cornhole and how she was offering it up for all interested to play with. I realize I am not interested in anyone coming over to my house to play with Ella’s cornhole, ever. If it were up to me, Ella’s cornhole will remain in the box in her closet until she is at least 21 or 25, I haven’t decided yet.

Taking The A-Hole For A Walk

I have never been a fan of walking my dogs. When Rainy was younger, I would run with her. She was terrible on a leash and it was difficult to control her when she would pull towards other dogs, people, birds, squirrels, and anything that would capture her attention. Rainy, on a regular basis, would pull me to the ground and drag me until I was able to get back on my feet. I often returned from our outings bloody with road rash. 

Jazzy, on the other hand, being much smaller doesn’t have the power to pull me over, but she still pulls hard on the leash. She now wears a special harness, because she has injured her trachea from her desire to lead on our walks. Jazzy is also terrible when she encounters other dogs. She wants to attack them with every fiber of her tiny, bulldog, rage filled being. She is brutal and embarrassing and she froths at the mouth during her numerous attempted rampages. She lunges right for her victim’s face/throat area, and my apology for her behavior never seems sufficient.

Walking them together has its challenges because Rainy feeds off Jazzy’s targeted anger. Maintaining control over both dogs is sometimes difficult. It doesn’t take me long to become overwhelmed. They have no appreciation or consideration for me as I try to be a good neighbor and attempt to pick up their crap while they are both pulling hard in different directions to unknown destinations. It’s a miracle I do not come back shit covered from our walks.

I have never been that person who unwinds after a long day during my evening walks with the dogs. I feel I am on the defensive the entire time. Constantly looking ahead to see if other neighbors are out walking their dogs and pre-emptively crossing the street before Jazzy gets ugly.   There is nothing relaxing about it. My mind fixates on how long I will be carrying this big bag full of Rainy’s steaming turds until I find the next garbage can. I tend to get resentful when I have the leashes with the dogs pulling in one hand and a bag of shit in the other and my nose starts to itch. Sometimes I tie the bag of shit to the leash of the dog who owns it. When it’s tied to Rainy’s leash it tends to hit Jazzy in the face, as they walk side by side. Jazzy just quietly endures it. As funny as I find this, she doesn’t deserve this. Feeling bad, I untie it, and decide to carry it myself and resent it even more. In spite of my intense dislike of the walks, I committed to walking them this past spring on a daily basis because my dogs look forward to this daily outing. Sometimes my daughter joins us.

I am not sure how it happened. Sometimes I am not sure how I get from A to B on certain things. However, I realized I have somehow become fixated on Jazzy’s asshole. I can’t stop staring it during our walks.  When my daughter walks with me, she has noticed me doing it. I have found it difficult to explain to Ella why my eyes are drawn to Jazzy’s sphincter.  I surmise it’s because of the anxiety knowing that it is just one more thing I cannot control on this walk. I’m sure I would be staring at Rainy’s too, but her tail thankfully blocks my view. 

This past Mother’s Day I received a card from Ella. When I opened the card Ella made for me, it had three pieces of fabric with string attached, taped to the top of the card. Ella asked me if I knew what they were? It took me a few seconds for it to register, but the laughter that erupted between the two of us was so amazing at the realization of what she made. Ella, knowing me the way she does, made me Jazzy butt-hole covers for me to use during our walks. How lucky am I to have the most thoughtful daughter in the world and to try to offer a solution instead of judging the neurosis that she witnesses on the daily. Ella shared that she tried to buy butt-hole covers from Etsy, but they were sold out. You heard that right. They were SOLD OUT. It makes me feel a bit normal knowing that I might not be the only one afflicted with the unwanted past time of Jazzy A-hole viewing.


This week was brutal. At 5 o’clock on Friday, I look the same in the mirror, but on the inside, I am merely just remnants of the person I was on Monday. Still, my day is not over as I grab a shopping cart and walk into my local grocery store.  I am on the hunt for dinner, but my crushed ego and spirit pull me to the ice cream isle. I grab a pint of chocolate, peanut butter sundae and head to the checkout line.

As I put the container on the belt in preparation to pay, I find myself not being able to take my eyes off it, and I flirt by wiping a piece of ice that’s hanging off its handsome lid. I know it’s pretty forward of me, but I cannot resist the urge to have contact with this beauty. On the ride home, it’s quiet between us, but electric with anticipation. I park, walk inside as I softly cradle this sugary gem in my hand and grab the only accessory that will bring us closer, a spoon.

I dig in softly and try to play off the huge greedy spoonful I lift to my lips. The rush of sugar almost makes up for the beating that I took this week and before I know it I go in for scoopful number two, and then three. By bite seven, I feel my ass already getting bigger, but don’t care, and then I lose count of the dipping and the raising of the spoon, realizing a third of the container has already vanished.  

I try to talk myself into slowing down, but the impulse and desire to be filled overrides all rationale. My pace gets quicker and more deliberate as I jam spoonful after another into my mouth. I try not to let my mind veer off to judge my actions and try to remain present, but mindless in this act of selfish gluttony. And just as quick as it started it was over, the pint expelled all of its contents into my stomach.

The feelings of guilt are almost immediate. I feel so ashamed and disgusted I went all the way on the first date. I was hoping to savor this pint, getting to know it slowly over the week to come. Understanding my behavior needs to be punished, I already start the mental trial that must convict, sentence, and punish me for my lack of control. I decide my sentence is 5 to 10, not years, but miles that I will force myself to run in the morning.  I take the container, the empty carcass, and place it softly into the trash can. I take a moment to honor it for its service and place the lid over top.

My Official Response To Dating Rejection

Dear Daryl,

I am writing to formally thank you for taking some time out of your busy schedule to interview me for the position. I am truly grateful for this experience. I want to apologize that I was not up to my normal interview performance. I should have mentioned that I am not good at interviewing at all. However, I am not writing to suggest that you reconsider. I do understand that ship has sailed, and you were extremely clear providing the necessary details of why I would not be a good fit.

However, I feel that I do need to offer up an explanation of why I was not up to my normal performance level. Before I go into the details of why, I want to tell you that I have mixed feelings as I am writing this letter to you. Typically, on most days, I don’t care what people think of me, but for some reason it does matter with you. I cannot stress to you how out of character this is for me to care about this sort of thing. Nonetheless, if you would pretend for a moment, you were in my position. Imagine getting the interview of a lifetime for a job that could quite possible change your life. A job you were so excited about that you could not wait to get started, but then doubt seeped in and you are flooded with thoughts of maybe not being good enough. Then envision having the most unexpected panic attack and tanking the interview.

I do understand that my anxiety response is absolutely no excuse and nor should it be. My past jobs have taught me a lot of transferrable skills, but unfortunately the past positions I held did not teach me all I need to know in order to be the team player you are seeking. Presently, I am taking a few classes that I think will absolutely help me get much closer to matching my competition. I understand there are a lot of applicants.

I have to say your interview questions were extremely thorough and I shared things I usually do not share during interviews. From our meeting, you learned I think sunrises are stupid, and I learned you are not a fan of reading, so I will keep this short. It was a complete pleasure meeting you. Since it is abundantly clear that you will not be my boss, I feel that it is not really crossing any professional boundaries to invite you to go with me for a cup of coffee if you are ever in my neighborhood. Thank you again for this opportunity and I mostly agree with your decision, but I think the flag was more “pink” than “red”, but I trust your judgement.


Amy J. Solt

Frog With Glasses

On one particular evening, I saw a sweatshirt that popped up on my Instagram feed. This shirt came in several different colors, but the print on it is what captured me. I was instantly possessed by an unexplainable force and before I knew it, I clicked, paid and waited. On the front of the shirt was a print of a frog wearing oversized glasses. Picture a green head, the size of a bowling ball, coming out of my ribs wearing huge costume glasses. I’m sure it had a body too, but it was much smaller. The depiction was caricature like. When I looked into the creature’s eyes I was under control that was not my own. This green toad with glasses was most definitely incongruent with my normal fashion sense as my closet is flooded with black and various shades of gray. This piece of clothing was a fashion abomination.

To describe what was going on in my brain is still hard, but I was compelled to put this shirt on every time I made eye contact the bespectacled creature. Each time I put the shirt on I would think about the ramifications, but didn’t have the willpower to take it off. My mind was worried and my thoughts became flooded with anxiety of how this disease would progress.  Will I eventually become the person that proudly wears over the top Christmas sweaters to normal  every day, non-holiday  functions believing that is it not ugly, but trendy. I shudder at the thought.

For a good part of four months, it seemed the frog and I were best friends.  We went everywhere together and if I wore the shirt for consecutive days it didn’t seem to matter. However, every time I would take the shirt off, pulling it back over my shoulders, and did not meet its glassy gaze it seemed I could resist it at times. These episodes of wearing this shirt was not unlike how I feel after polishing off an entire pint of ice cream in one sitting. My brain is skilled at treading the cold waters of self-loathing. Nevertheless, it might have been easier for me to resist the ice cream during my time living with this amphibian. The cursed croaker had some unexplained mind control and its eyes willed me to put him on and wear him like a badge.

Before Christmas I was packing for a trip and I opened my dresser drawer to find the sweatshirt. I quickly grabbed it and shoved it in my bag, thinking that maybe this was going to be the last trip we were going to take together.  On New Year’s Day, my friends and I were enjoying a nice fire outside and I seized the opportunity to abruptly put an end to the stupidest impulsive internet purchase ever made, by tossing it into the fire. In an instance the spell was broken and I swear the frog winked at me before disappearing into the flames.

Tropical Storm Rainy

I realized this morning my Labrador retriever, Rainy is almost out of her medication. Feelings of unease washed over me as I picked up the phone to ask the vet to call this med into the local Costco. Costco is the only pharmacy that will fill this particular pet medication. The trouble I feel brewing is multi-layered as my bitch doesn’t give two thoughts about her condition of urinary incontinence while she is sleeping on my bed. When Rainy is medicated there is no issue. However, without the meds and having a dog this size, the result of Rainy unmediated is nothing less than a natural disaster.

Driving to Costco is the easy part. However, as I get closer I can feel the tension start to build. I have never been a member of this store and I am not a fan. The sight of the parking lot brings on a bit of irritation. I am perpetually befuddled as how this place can always be packed full because people must buy in bulk. Prior to COVID19, I had serious issues making myself buy more than a 4 pack of toilet paper. Now I either can’t find any or I am forced to buy at least 16 rolls at one time! I’m troubled every time I bear hug my bulk pack of newly purchased TP through the threshold of my home. Buying in bulk and my personality are not friends.

I walk past the greeter with a chip on my shoulder and tell her I am going to the pharmacy when I have no membership card to show her. I feel she doesn’t believe me, but I don’t care enough to attach any type of emotion to the interaction.  The walk from the door to the pharmacy is a long one and thankfully this gives me enough time to fantasize (in mental slow motion) about toppling the shelves over as I walk by them. Fortunately, this lead to another fantasy within a fantasy of me winning 30 minutes alone inside the store to ransack it without the stealing and penalty, leavening with nothing but a smile. 

I make my way to the pharmacy line to wait. I have a quick chat with the pharmacist about the meds for Rainy, which always makes me want to ask the druggist if she would like to talk directly to my dog, but I don’t this time. However, one day I might bring in my dog so when this drug dispenser wants to consult with me about the possible side effects. I will force her to look Rainy in the eyes and explain them to her. I actually don’t believe the side effects are anything concerning, but Costco staff do not seem to care or submit to their understanding that this medication is for my dog.  It’s a silly policy they follow and I would like to draw attention to the absurdity of the practice of making me consult with the pharmacist about my pet medication.  I always wonder if they expect me to sit down with Rainy and go over the possible side effects when I get home. What if Rainy has questions, I can’t answer? However, for today I turn quickly on my heels and stroll back through this spectacle of gluttonous American spending that hurts my head, heart and eyes. Perhaps, someday I will understand all the rage of shopping at Costco and will leave mine in the parking lot. I walk out to my car with medications in hand knowing that I have avoided the floods from Tropical Storm Rainy for the next few months, and in the moment I am grateful for Costco on this fine afternoon.

I Think We Need An Exclamation Point!

I recently returned from vacation to a mountain of emails. Historically, I have deeply pondered taking vacations before pulling the trigger. Mainly because I have always detested ascending the Mt. Everest of emails I feel I am expected to summit as quickly as possible directly after taking any relaxing days off. This journey always, ALWAYS negates any positives the vacation brought and often leaves me a bit more mentally exhausted. I often find myself asking if the vacation was worth it. I do not have any constructive solutions to offer. I also want to point out I don’t have much of an ego and understand day to day business operations will not stop when I’m gone. I guess it would be nice if work would wave their collective hand, tell employees not to worry, and treat all vacations like email free zones. It would be refreshing for employees to have no responsibility to conquer the accumulated mass of emails upon their return.

Knowing the above is not going to happen, I trudge on and try to exercise my grateful muscle (my brain). I do understand with all 2020 has been and brought, I am thankful and have a deep appreciation for what the universe has put forward for me and I try to remind myself of this on a daily basis. However, the human condition is sometimes a bitch. The balance of torment and gratefulness sometimes tips more in one way or the other. When this happens I either feel more bliss or think perhaps the “big sleep” cannot be that bad, but perhaps I am being a bit dramatic.

While cleaning up the rest of my emails this past week, I became even more acutely aware of the “canned” responses Gmail features as possible acknowledgements that can be selected and sent back to the sender. Examples are, ” Sounds great”, “Thanks for the clarification”, “Good”, and other similar replies. On this particular day, I think my “canned” response could have been “Are you f*@cking kidding me!” as I was making my way through this electronic communication imprisonment that was tethered to my fingers and my brain. Maybe because of my mood, I kept seeing an automated response I was not accustomed to seeing from Gmail and I was instantly perplexed because I did not agree with the punctuation. I wasn’t seeing the response on all emails, just a smattering. At first, I thought maybe someone at Gmail just had enough of 2020, because the formulated response I thought I saw said, “Sorry, I can’t take it.”

I am not saying I did not agree with the response, because I did, I do. But I had difficulty understanding why it ended with a period and not an exclamation point. Then I looked a little more closely and actually squinted at the phrase and then I realized I have to accept I need to start wearing my glasses on heavy computer days. It also became abundantly clear why this response only showed up when receiving a request from someone who wanted me to attend a meeting, because what it actually said, ” Sorry, I can’t make it. I was instantly a little relieved there was not a despondent staff person at Google who was crying out for help in a misdirected or misguided way though Gmail. However, it is important to mention how much I wanted this response to be real, because the feeling is just so 2020.

Time to Prep the Turkey

I am certain most everyone I know is presently engaged in some type of turkey preparations. I talked to a friend and he stated he was worried about his Thanksgiving turkey. He explained he was late in taking his turkey out of the freezer and is concerned it will not defrost before the time comes to put it in the oven tomorrow. I explained to him that perhaps he should do some skin to skin tonight in order to accelerate the thawing process. The rumor is turkeys are great little spooners and love to cuddle.

Presently, I am staying next door to a family who raised two turkeys for the purpose of being on the table for tomorrow’s dinner. Over the past several months, I have heard the excited calls from these birds . I have grown accustom to these gobblers’ shrill throaty jumbling calls. However, as the hours close in and night is about to fall, I grow even more anxious for these two. I am sad to think that these two will be no longer in just a few hours.

I wonder if part of the turkey prep for live fowl is to have a quick sit down next to their pen and explain the situation. I imagine I would lead with the positives. I would recap the last few months expressing gratitude and thanks for their company and then let them know of their true purpose. I think this is the least I could do in this situation. Most people go through their entire lives without ever finding or knowing why they have been placed on the planet. These two birds might just be ahead of the curve.

Whether you might be wrapping your turkey in a heated blanket for a cuddle, sitting beside the pen to have one last conversation, or setting up your smoker or deep fryer. I am thinking of all the family and friends I will not be sitting down with this year and wishing all a wonderful hope filled Thanksgiving.

Underwear and Career Achievements

I recall the packs of underwear with the days of the week spelled out in various styles that I’m sure I wore at some point while growing up. I remember from the movie, When Harry Met Sally, Sally discussed a breakup related to the absence over a pair of Sunday underwear. She stated her then boyfriend was paranoid about why she never wore Sunday, thinking they were missing somehow by nefarious activities .

Sally reasoned the underwear companies could not bear printing the Lord’s day on the seventh pair because of God. If this was really the case then I can only assume that on Sundays these companies felt that because of God, going commando was justified. Or it was assumed that the owner of the underwear would either recycle and wear another “day of the week” (wearing them out of sequence) or pick a random pair with no assigned day to wear on Sunday. I have to admit, I am a rule follower. I would have been bugged beyond belief to wear my “day of the week” underwear out of order.

However, this appears to be more of a myth and Sunday was actually printed on most packs of the “days of the week” underwear. This fact begs another alternative that might be unpopular. It could be those with certain beliefs were the ones that could not fathom wearing underwear with the Lord’s day printed on them. With this in mind, I think about Sunday parishioners sitting in the pews without their delicates underneath their clothes…seems un-Christian-like. I can’t tell if the un-Christian-like part is targeted at me for thinking about all or parts of the congregation going commando during Sunday service or the amount of time these thoughts spent bouncing around in my head before they spill out on paper and eventually freed to perhaps infect you.

These types of underwear ponderings surprisingly bring me to think of where I have been and where I am at the present. I have fumbled my way though most of my life without much of a thoughtful path. I did not have a map or instructions and most times I did not trust my guts. Regardless, I seem to have found my way. Retracing the routes from years before until the present, there aren’t any real surprises. The common thread that linked the years has been my passion to advocate for those individuals who happen to be diagnosed with certain concerns and who have landed in some type of unsavory system that was supposed to either support or punish. Although, it seems both systems appeared to be more adept at following through on the latter.

I have been thinking a lot about my years of service and the fight for the betterment of of others. I have been reflecting on the amazing legacy of John Lewis and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I am in no way comparing myself to either of these amazing leaders. I only mention Mr. Lewis and the notorious RGB, because I can only aspire to hang in there and keep challenging the oppressive structures that still remain. Perhaps, I want to be like both of these icons when I grow up.

I have to admit I have grown tired over the last two years and find myself thinking of a way to exit this exhausting process I have battled. I dream of gaining citizenship to a lonely island where I can start over with an appreciation of knowing I have done my best and leave the fight for others. I fantasize about doing simple things, where my one task is to ask one question, “Do you want cream or sugar?”

In this time of consideration, I have been thinking about the battles I have won and lost. I made small but meaningful changes in big systems that provided some comfort to those who lived within the walls. My work was to make those days inside a bit more humane, less demoralizing, and hopefully less scary. I provided a voice to those who were not able to speak for themselves. Sometimes I provided the nudge for those that could find their voice and courage to stand up to those in power to demand something different.

On many occasions, I would drive to my place of work for that particular day and park. I would sit in the parking lot, stare though my car windshield at the buildings I would eventually enter. Instead of rushing through those doors, I would drink coffee in my car for a little bit longer. I would drink coffee not only because it was a normal morning ritual, but because I read that caffeine was supposed to make people more agreeable. It was supposed to make me more agreeable. I can’t say that I was the most pleasant person, but I’m sure the caffeine helped.

Once inside, I would do a bunch of listening between my scheduled appointments. On one particular day, a man told me he had no underwear when he arrived. He explained that when he was arrested he was not wearing any and he had no family to bring him the needed items. He said he alerted staff he had no underwear and was led to a spot that contained a plethora of used and otherwise discarded unmentionables. I asked only one clarifying question, “How did you know the underwear was used?” It was a silly question, but he politely answered and stated that some of the underwear available for selection were stained.

Disgusted by this news, I scheduled a meeting with the person responsible for managing this particular section of the facility. When questioned she responded that the selection of used underwear was washed. Her tone suggested that since the underwear was washed, it should be absolutely acceptable. I asked her if she would wear washed, used, stained underwear. I’m surprised I don’t remember her answer. Eventually, after moderate nudging from me, the institution agreed to provide all incoming humans who arrived without their own underwear, 5 brand spanking new pairs. I shared this story with a fellow advocate and I was quickly reminded that there are 7 days in a week, not five.

In my world of almost and good enough, I still considered this a win. In my mind, I imagine that these packs of underwear were 5 plain pairs of “tighty whities” with no days of the weeks printed on them. No organization needed to ensure that the pair was worn on any particular day or the stress of wearing them out of order. My hope was that a mid-week trip to the washing machine would not force any person to make a decision to go without due to not having access to a clean pair, even on Sundays.

Next time you all reach into your underwear drawer, please consider the following: 1. Designate that person in your life that knows where you store your underwear and who can get your unmentionables to you in your time of need. If you have this type of person in your life, you might be ahead of the game. 2. Not everybody has an drawer devoted to just underwear nor is it stuffed full of countless choices for your behind to inhabit. 3. Regardless of what type of underwear you own, if you have Sunday spelled out or a picture of your Lord printed on them. It is A-OK to wear these underwear to your weekly worship. Satan’s criteria for a spot in Hell does not appear to have a category for underwear. I am certain there are a abundance of activities that will get you a reservices spot for the afterlife.

The Awkward Conversation

In the not so distance past, I received a phone call that begun with the caller asking me, ” Do you know what happened to me today?” Innocently, I replied, “No.” How could I guess, really? The caller then reported, “I shit my pants!” The person on the other end of the call appeared to be just as surprised about this news as I was as I held the phone to my ear. My first thought, if this had happened to me (and I was alone) this incident would have been taken to my grave unreported. However, it felt surprisingly consequential to be the “chosen one” bestowed with this terribly sensitive information.

I feel incidents like these should also have a greeting card option. The cards could highlight various events. An example of one such card could read something like this on the cover, ” I had a sneezing fit the other day and peed my pants.” On the inside, “You are the first and only person I have told. Welcome to my inner circle. This is a big achievement! In a few days you will receive a second card with a key to my house and instructions to cull all my belongings I don’t want my daughter to ever see or find, in case I meet an early demise. Congratulations!”

These self disclosures offered up voluntarily might be awkward, but they require little prep, effort and the response can be minimal. Having a difficult conversation is something I’m often paid to do and I have been having them for the past 20 years. Sometimes before 9 am, I am composing emails that contains the word anal. I have sat down with professionals to discuss the value of adding a picture as an exhibit to my work. The picture was of a penis. I did not want to show this expert the picture, because it already burned a pretty distinctive image in my brain and I wanted to protect this person and others who would view my work. We pondered this picture. We discussed how remarkable this member looked in the photo and I was asked questions about how it looked and if there was anything about it that made it remarkable. There wasn’t. I determined if there was a hypothetical line up of sorts there would be no disguising marking or characteristics that would link this particular penis back to its owner. In the end, this picture was not included. It was a win I thought for not causing any more harm to others, this picture, but the damage was already done, at least to my eyes and brain.

I thought my ability to have a awkward discussion could be my super power. However, I do understand I do much better with these conversations when I am not emotionally attached to the person on the other end. In spite of emotional connection, I still believe I have been able to present myself in a calm, non-judgmental and non-reactive manner throughout these discussions, at least on the outside. One the inside, I’m certain my organs do a full dry heave of raw emotions hidden somehow between slow breathing and thoughts of retreating to my happy place.

Presently, I have been engaged in an ongoing awkward discussions with my daughter. This is lead me to go from her being a big fan of mine to answering me with one word answers. I am used to being the most unpopular person in the room when it comes to my career, but this is a extremely uneasy feeling with it comes to my daughter. Regardless, I will continue my efforts because somethings are too important not to discuss. However, if I could pick between the discussion I had about the value of a penis picture over these awkward conversations with my daughter. I would pick long deliberations over peckers every time.