Unsolicited

So I was approached by Rosetta Stone to author a set of DVDs that will teach people how to become fluent in Sarcasm. I guess they heard about how my sister and I were voted “Most Sarcastic” in college by our peers—i.e., Boone’s Farm-chugging sorority girls—and they’ve been keeping an eye on me ever since. Below is an excerpt from one of the training sessions I’m working on, a section called “Self-Deprecating Sarcasm: How to Falsify Ego to Your Advantage”, which I have tailored into a column for you, beloved Wheelhouse readers. Enjoy.

One of my favorite activities in the world is to provide people with advice. Often, I am compelled to do this when they haven’t asked for help, but are clearly in desperate need of it. “I know a better way for you to live your life,” my guidance suggests, because it’s true: who better to render judgment than an outsider, a person whose objectivity is sustained by an absence of complicating information (petty details) on your particular circumstances? If only the world were more like Wikipedia, where everyone can chime in without fear of reprisal!

Malcolm Gladwell (who really needs to work on his hair, just saying) posits that ten thousand hours of working in a field makes a person an expert in said field. Which makes me an expert in the following fields (an incomplete list):

–dating assholes
–drinking wine
–forgetting to wear deodorant
–judging
–writing unpublished manuscripts
–Sex and the City
–flossing

That ‘do has reached a tipping point. Just saying.

So I am obviously a font of information, and since we here at The Wheelhouse Review already have one “advice” column based on real questions, I thought I’d create my own based on all the questions no one has actually asked me, but were dying to have the answers to.  So don’t bother sending any letters—I’m just going to look around and identify people’s obvious flaws, then offer thoughtful advice.

In case you find yourself questioning my credentials (even after the above list, and come to mention it, who do you think you are, you Forever 21-wearing slut? Just saying), allow me to provide them in summation by telling you that I am a person who has ARRIVED. I am living in suburbia with my husband and six-month-old son. Any baby weight I still carry was left there intentionally to provide cushioning for the baby (considerate, right?).  When I forget to wear deodorant, I do so on purpose, to benefit the environment. I occasionally wear my nursing bra to the gym, again on purpose, to promote milk flow. But now I’m weaning my son because the AAP recommends nursing until age one and I’m beating them to the punch. Basically, everything I’ve ever done has been an act of perfection that helped bring me to a place from which I can help others. I’m so grateful for my knowledge.

Okay, let’s jump right in. My first piece of advice concerns something so many of you ask yourselves on a regular basis: Why am I still single? Well, I can’t answer that for all of you (except the dude wearing the silk shirt and reeking of Drakkar Noir—you’re a douche, just saying), but I can offer some tips based on my own experience that will help you snag that perfect soul mate for whom you’ve been pining.

Travel with me to New York City, circa 2007. It’s a Saturday night, and yours truly is ready to celebrate: I’ve just landed a new job (I was let go from my old one because my bosses were clearly racist and sexist against white females).  As people do, I consume a bottle of Prosecco entirely on my own and forget to pay the tab at the bar (it’s overpriced anyway, just saying). Some more of my myriad friends show up, including a good guy friend upon whom I’ve developed a crush (what I call it in public; only my diary knows I’m actually in love with him). After my bottomless glass is topped off, I inform my girlfriends that I’m going to admit my feelings to Guy Friend. In their own bubbly haze, they advise me against this strategy. Like I ASKED, right?! They are idiots and obviously wrong, just saying. As they attempt to grab my hair and throw out legs to block my path, I stumble up to Guy and pour some verbal diarrhea at his feet about how I feel. Deep, meaningful, appealing stuff. I turn to shoot my friends my best “I told you so” face and when I turn back to Guy, he has disappeared. All that’s left hanging in the air is the memory of his deer-in-the-headlights face, which I’m certain is the way he expresses elation.

“How awkward for him,” I think, proceeding to text and call him repeatedly because apparently his cell has lost its signal or battery or something and we have to finish this conversation and start our relationship. And that is exactly what happens: one short year later, almost to the day. And a year after that, we are engaged. And now we have the only perfect marriage in history, so I guess what I’m saying is that if you’re not with The One, then it’s probably your own fault for not forcing that door open.

BOTTOM LINE: Honesty is always the best policy, especially when it’s drenched in liquid bravery. Truth + champagne = happiness.

Note: This article is printed despite the protests of my husband (who isn’t the boss of me, just saying). The Rosetta Stone part is, sadly, untrue (their loss). Stay tuned for my next column, in which I let you all in on the secrets to being a perfect wife. You’re welcome!

Powered By DT Author Box

Written by Stephanie Phillips

Stephanie is a pediatric dentist by trade, writer by desire; unfortunately only paid for one of these roles. She lives in Atlanta with her husband and son and constantly defies the proclamations of other parents who tell her that people with kids never get to watch TV. Read more of her musings at www.plansinpencil.com.

Print or email